Panic

Damon takes his sunglasses off, setting them on his head as I approach him, slower than I normally would. A week without leaving the house let me heal enough to be able to walk without crying, although not enough for it to be painless. I had a brief look at my legs in the mirror this morning and cried. They're disgusting. Inflammed, white, blistered and I wouldn't be surprised if they were infected as well. But I needed to come back to school and to work.

"Hey," Damon greets me. I missed him more than I thought I would, though I'd never admit it to him. So seeing him now immediately lifts my mood, just that little bit.

He opens the passenger door of his car and I say hello to him as I get in. I don't miss his look of confusion at how slowly I get in, but I ignore it. The door gently shuts as he walks around to the driver's side. As we get going I notice him looking back and forth between me and the road. I ignore that too. It's not like I can explain to him why I left his house so abruptly, and then why I was absent for a week. There's no point. However, while he steals glances at me, I do the same. With just those few glances, I notice some semi-interesting things. My attention, however, turns to my phone as it buzzes. Opening the text message from Emily reveals a picture of Lily smiling without restraint into the camera. She wears a crown of flowers on her head and streaks of different coloured paint are smeared through her hair and across her face. Immediately, I save the picture, biting my lip to keep from smiling. Turning off my phone, I look back out the window to see we're pulling up at his place. He cuts the ignition but doesn't get out, instead he looks at me. He stares in silence and I stare back, just as quiet.

Eventually, he asks, "What's going on?"

My heart skips a beat, "What do you mean?"

His lips form a frown, "I mean what I said. What's going on?"

"With what?"

"You," he responds, taking off his seatbelt.

"What about you?"

His brows raise and his lip twitches upwards.

No, I hadn't failed to notice his slight limp and even if he was wearing his sunglasses they'd do fuck all to hide the fresh bruising cut beneath his eye. There's even a bruise peeking out from his shirt neckline.

"You tell me, I'll tell you."

I shake my head, not going to happen. Opening the door, I try not to cringe at the pain in my legs as I slowly get out. Half my body is numb and the other half is in pain. I don't know what to do about it anymore. Nothing helps.

Inside the house, Damon asks me if I'd like food or drink, which I again politely decline. I ate yesterday.

Unlike the last time I was here, Damon's laptop and novel are already on the coffee table by the couch.

"Do you want to get straight into it?" I nod in response, placing my bag by the couch after grabbing my novel out of it. I've translated the whole scene by now. A benefit of having a week with nothing to do I guess.

"We'll save the actual role-play for another time, we should probably just get to lines down pat first. I translated a few of my lines but not all of them, sorry. I was going to ask you to help me with the rest." After I nod, he looks down at his book and then up at me, beginning the scene.

"Your hand is a holy place that my own is unworthy to visit. If you're offended by the touch of my hand, my lips are standing here like blushing pilgrims, ready to make it better with a kiss." I swallow hard, my chest aching as my heart accelerates and my hands become clammy.

I speak before I can chicken out, "Good pilgrim, you don't give your hand enough credit. By holding my hand you show me your lasting loyalty. After all, pilgrims touch the hands of saint statues. Holding one palm against another is like a kiss."

Looking up from the piece of paper in my novel, I see Damon staring at me.

Why? Why does he stare like that? He doesn't stare as Joshua does, nor how other men do when I'm servicing them. What does it mean? What does he want with me?

He asks me again, "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

He throws the novel down onto the table without breaking eye contact with me.

"I'm serious. I know there is something. What is going on, Amaya?"

I hate that name. I hate when people use it. With him though . . . Hearing the way my name slips off his tongue with his incredibly attractive drawl . . It makes me want to melt into him.

"Nothing. Stop, Damon. Please."

My palms go from clammy to sick with sweat. How does he know there's something going on? Why does he want to know? Why won't he just leave it alone and leave me alone? I just want to be left alone!

"You okay?"

I have to blink twice before I can answer him.

"Please, Damon. You can't. Stop. Please."

The room starts to sway, my heart beating a hundred miles an hour right in my ears. I take a step away, tears welling as I try to breath, to steady myself. But my heart feels like it's going to jump out of my chest.

"I'm fine," I say, though I'm not sure who to. It almost sounds true.

"No, I don't think yo-"

"Stop!"

My chest aches with every heave. The cars outside driving past the house come faster. Damon's footsteps are heavy enough that I can feel them through the floor. Every tick and tock of his watch seems to reverberate against my eardrums. The chime of his phone mixes with it. His voice as he speaks is loud, so so loud. Everything is too loud. My head aches as if it's on the verge of exploding, my eyes ringing like an old telephone. His voice continues to just get louder and louder.

"Stop it! Just stop! Stop! Shut up!"

Everything is going cold, my feet are tingling or numb, I can't tell which. A metallic taste lingers in the back of my mouth. The ticking clock gets louder and louder and Damon's voice is silent. I can see his mouth moving, but I can't hear his smooth accent.

That is until my face warms and I feel his fingers, gentle but firm.

"Look at me." I stare into his face, a few inches away from mine, seeing double through my tears.

"Listen to me," he whispers, close enough that I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Look around. Three things you can see." I only move my eyes, blinking away blurriness whilst searching the room. A vague memory plays in the darkest depths of my mind, remembering the last time he did this for me, knowing what he's trying to do.

"Tell me them," he whispers. As his voice becomes louder everything else begins to quieten.

"The couch . . . table . . . laptop."

"Two you can touch or feel," he probes. The ringing stops. The ticking almost gone.

"The ground . . my shirt."

His voice becomes quieter again, as the cars continue to get louder. My heart jumps at the sounds, accelerating once again. I look away from him, my vision blurring again.

"Kitten," his voice whispers, hands cupping my cheeks.

That one word calms me. Everything goes silent as I then look back at him.

"One thing you can hear, Kitten."

"Your voice."

Blinking a few more times, my tears disperse and I can see him clearly. He lets go of me, though he doesn't move away. The alcohol on his breath still shoves itself up my nose.

"Better?"

I nod, looking away from his face in embarrassment. Damon could always tell when I was having a panic attack, the very few times he actually saw. But that pet name . . It's been years since I've heard him call me that. The name makes my insides melt and my core tingle.

"Is it Joshua?"

My heart stutters. Now is my chance. I can blame it all on them, every nit of it, and just leave it at that.

"Yes," I answer him. He takes a step closer to me and we end up being close enough that I could kiss him if I had the courage. I brace myself for anything that may come when I watch his hand raise, attempting to steady my ragged breathing. It surprises me when his thumb runs across the top of my forehead. The cut within my hairline stings as his thumb traces over it. How he even saw it through my bear hair is a miracle.

"They did this?" His voice is soft and quiet and he's staring at the cut on my head intently, although his eyes are glazed as if his mind is elsewhere.

"Yes," I breathe. Lying to him feels like a sin, it always has.

The sheer heat radiating off of him is enough to make me start sweating again. He's always had a high body temperature but since he hit puberty he's been like a furnace.

His fingers move down my pounding temple, and lower. His fingers graze my cheek as he reaches for one of my many dark curls, twirling it around his fingers before tucking it behind my ear.

Still, I don't understand the expression on his face. He's somewhere else, he isn't even here in the moment. He doesn't care. He knows that touch is a big thing for me. It has always been. He knows not to touch me unless he cares. And he doesn't. He's not even paying attention. He doesn't care.

"I've got to go," I say, stepping away from him. Only truly realizing how hot his temperature is as the warmth leaves and the cold enters me violently enough to make me shiver. Damon's mind comes back to the present and I watch him fumble for words as I put my novel in my bag.

I stop before leaving though, having enough courage left in me to tell him, "Don't pretend to care. Not after everything we've been through and done. Just leave me alone." I rush out the door quick enough that he allows me to leave without another word said.

*_*_*_*

"Alexis!"

I turn at the sound of my stage name, recognising who called it out. Smiling towards Amber, I stride into the backroom to see her. She hugs me gently, smiling broadly, with a slight bounce in her step. Her usual bubbly self.

"Are you okay? You were gone so long, I was starting to think the worst." Amber is the only person who knows everything. Every tiny aspect of my life. From Cassian to my Salem heritage. Even about Damon.

"I'm fine. I'll explain later." In private is what I don't need to add. Her sympathetic smile makes me sick to my stomach. She knows first hand the kind of things men do. Don is nowhere near as bad as my 'family' but he's definitely no prize bull either.

"Well, you're in luck. The last time we were at the fights we did amazingly, and they've invited us back tonight. They were seriously impressed with us apparently, so we're gonna be there quite a lot now." A massive weight lifts off my shoulders hearing that, knowing that when we're at the fights we get paid very well.

"That's awesome," I sigh, dropping my bag down by my vanity. Knowing we'll be leaving soon, I rush to get ready, with some help from Amber. She passes me the dress that Don picked out for me tonight and I quickly put it on behind the changing curtains, cursing once I'm wearing it. It's uncomfortable in every way humanly possible. It barely covers my ass, and it's meant for women with breasts. Years ago, I would have fit into this. Now it's almost huge on me. The only positive about the dress is that it's a lovely shade of blue. Blue, to match the fighter that wears blue. The fighter I'm designated for. The blue fighter owns me. Thankfully, I've always managed to avoid my fighter, so I have no clue who he is and I've never had to service him. For years I've been praying to the Goddess that it stays that way.

Knowing that my thighs, and the healing burns on them, are showing, I ask Amber, "Are there any stockings left? Black ones?"

"Um, I think so, hold on."

A moment of rustling and unzipping goes by and then a pair of used stockings appear. They don't look like they're too badly torn so I thank her and slip into them.

I'm only just finishing off applying concealer when I hear Don shouting, "We're leaving now ladies. Move your asses. In the bus, now!"

He pokes his head in and gestures for Amber and me to hurry up. Amber meets me on the bus with our heels. Black for her, as it's her assigned colour. Blue for me.

Once the bus starts rolling, I speak before I can chicken out, "I need someone to take Lily."

She frowns, "You can't think like that. She needs you."

"I know she does. I need her. But when it happens . . I can't leave her there alone." I stare at my best friend, a very clear question on my face.

She nods, "Say the word and I'll take her."