22. Daemon

A rcher Gray is asleep in my bed, and not just asleep, but fucking passed out like he owns the damn thing. What is it with him and treating my bed like it’s fucking his? The party is still in full swing downstairs, and I know I should wake him up, kick him out and not blur these lines between us any more than I already have, but for some reason I can’t. Instead, I find myself gently pulling up his pants to cover him up, taking off his shoes, and repositioning him until he is laying flat against one of my pillows.

Then I stumble to my door in a daze, not quite sure how we got here, but turning the lock on it anyway. I never lock my door, knowing that Josh needs to be able to access my room whenever my nightmares get too bad, but something tells me I won’t be having that problem tonight. I flatten my back against the door, as if the lock isn’t enough to stop someone from coming inside and finding him here, and what would I even say? How the hell would I explain Archer Gray’s presence in my bed? I don’t even know the answer myself, let alone have the ability to summarize it for someone else.

Shaking my head in confusion, I turn off my light, heading back towards my bed until I reach the side that isn’t occupied by a six foot blond asshole, and gently sit down. My eyes never leave him, watching him like a hawk to ensure I don’t disturb him, which is fucking ironic since all he does is disturb me every chance he gets. Yet for some reason, seeing him lying peacefully against my sheets, spreads a warmth through my chest like never before.

I know this isn’t real, that he isn’t mine, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy one night of him sleeping soundly in my bed and pretending like he is. I mean, what would it be like if he were? What if I wasn’t fucked in the head and didn’t jolt in pain at someone’s touch against me? What if he were here every night for me to breathe him in? I can see us fucking endlessly, never getting enough of one another, but that would mean letting him in, and that would mean hurting him. No, people like me don’t get people like him, we don’t deserve them.

Letting the fantasy disappear from my brain, I reach over and cover him with my blanket, savoring the warmth of him in my bed, before I lean back against my headboard and sigh. There’s no way I am going to be able to sleep, not with the party still going, and definitely not with Archer in my bed, so I do the same thing as always when I can’t sleep. I grab my sketchbook and pencils and get to work.

Under the glow of my bedside lamp, I do my best to ignore his presence, focusing on my blank page as I start to draw. I’m not really sure what I’m doing, or where I am pulling inspiration from, until I have half a man on his knees drawn, and I groan internally. Fuck . When was the last time someone sucked me off? When was the last time I was that desperate for them, too? It seems Archer is getting closer than anyone ever has before, which isn’t surprising given how hard he’s trying. The real question is, why aren’t I trying harder to push him away? I already know I can’t have him, but why does that make me want him even more?

I spend the next few hours drawing sketch after sketch of him, until my hands start to ache and my eyes begin to burn, and only then do I realize the sun is starting to come up. Archer is still completely passed out beside me, and is no doubt going to wake up with one hell of a hangover. So I find myself slipping out of bed and heading down to the kitchen. I make quick work of whipping up pancakes, bacon, and some coffee, before heading back up to my room.

When I push inside, I’m surprised to find him half awake, eyes scanning around the room like he is trying to piece together last night, and I mildly wonder how many times he has found himself in this position. Ignoring the stab of pain that thought sends through my chest, I trail my eyes over his dirty blond hair, that is completely ruffled from sleep. How is it that he still looks perfect?

“I made you breakfast,” I say by way of greeting, and his tired eyes meet mine in question, as I place down the plate of food and cup of coffee on the bedside table next to him.

His eyes glance to the plate, before he smiles shyly and looks back at me. “You made me pancakes?” he asks, sitting up and cracking his neck, his morning voice hoarse, and I grit my teeth, as I nod. “I knew you liked me, Forbes,” he adds, shoveling some of the bacon into his mouth with a wink.

“If by like, you you mean not wanting you to throw up and pass out when we have to be at practice in less than thirty minutes, then yeah, sure I like you,” I reply sarcastically, heading to my drawers to pull out a fresh base layer and jersey, as he curses.

“Fuck, is it really that late?” He reluctantly gets out of bed, choking down some more of the bacon before starting on the pancakes. Tossing my stuff in my bag, I grab some clothes for the day and head to the bathroom to get changed, and when I come out, Archer is still sitting on my bed drinking his coffee. “So how are we doing this?”

I pause, meeting his stare in confusion, as I grab my bag. “Doing what?”

He looks at me completely bewildered, as he laughs, “Getting me out of here without being seen?”

Rolling my eyes, I almost laugh as I walk away from him. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re seen, Gray, you knew the risk when you came up here last night, so figure it the fuck out.” I toss over my shoulder, before ripping open my door and heading downstairs to fill my water bottle.

I don’t bother waiting to see if he follows, knowing he needs to go home first and grab his stuff anyway, so I just make my way to the rink. I’m already on the ice warming up by the time he catches up to me, tossing me a knowing smirk, which I promptly ignore, focusing on practice.

Cap has us rerunning plays from last night’s game, until we are all sweating and breathless, and by the time Coach calls time, I want nothing more than a hot shower and some sleep. My legs are shaking as I skate off the ice towards the locker room, when a familiar voice slams into me.

“You looked good out there, kid.”

My spine stiffens at the sound, turning to find Jasper leaning against one of the posts, watching me, as the rest of my team eyes him as they make their way to the locker room. Which, why wouldn’t they? At 6’5” he towers over most people, with a lean, broad frame, which of course it’s covered in his fucking leather cut to signify the family he left me for. My brother is a fully patched member of the Hades MC, the place he called home once he left Ryan and I behind, and the sight of it, and him, make me sick.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I spit in anger, trying to recall the last time I laid eyes on him. It’s been two, maybe three years, at least.

That’s not to say I haven’t spoken to him. He tries to call and text me all the time, I just barely respond, but apparently he’s not getting the hint that I want nothing to do with him.

At my anger, he sighs, pushing up off the post and taking a slow measured step toward me. “I wouldn’t be here if you’d just answer the phone when I call, little brother.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” I warn in a low, lethal tone, his eyes widening a little, as he takes me in.

“You’ve grown up since I last saw you,” he starts, as if he doesn’t know what to say, before he straightens his shoulders and adds, “Dad is up for parole, they are giving him a hearing in February.”

My mind processes his words in slow motion, and I almost laugh, because I could have guessed what he was here to say a thousand times over, and those words never would have crossed my mind, not even once.

My heart begins to thunder in my chest, as I force out, “How is that even possible?” I think about the night he was arrested, the evidence they took, the statement I gave, the witnesses that came forward, all of it was considered a slam dunk to put him away for life. So why the fuck would they be considering him for parole after four fucking years?

Fuck . I can’t breathe.

“Come on, D, he has friends everywhere, and I guess he’s tired of sitting in a fucking cell.” Jasper says, some of his cold and emotionless demeanor slipping, as he uses my old nickname. “Did you forget how powerful he is?” He questions, as I fight to catch my breath, the memory of Ryan, lying motionless on the floor, flooding my mind.

I scrunch my eyes closed to try to wash the memories away, as I gasp, “I’m not like you, Jasper, I don’t forget anything.”

“Daemon,” he says, my name sounding so familiar and foreign at the same time, as I hear him take a step toward me. My eyes snap open instantly, holding up my hands and stepping back.

“Why are you even here?” I ask again, still trying to process the news he delivered, but like everything else, I will deal with it later, when I’m alone. “As far as I’m concerned, I stopped being your brother the day you left me in that house,” I tell him, staring him down, and I swear I see a flash of regret in his eyes, before he quickly hides it.

“I had to get out, kid, I was dying in there,” he whispers, emotion clinging to every inch of him, but it means nothing to me.

“You don’t think I know that?” I ask in outrage. “Who do you think took your fucking place after you left?”

I think about that first night when I realized he wasn’t coming home. It was his 18th birthday, and Ryan and I had spent all afternoon in my room making him a present. I was only eleven, Ryan was almost seven, and as usual Dad was drunk, and when Jasper didn’t come home, his fist found me instead. I remember the shock, the pain, the anger, the heartbreak, but most of all, I remember the fear in Ryan’s eyes, and I knew right in that moment that as long as I kept him safe, nothing else mattered.

“But you made it out, look at you, look how far you’ve come,” Jasper gestures to my jersey and the rink, as if he thinks those things hold space in my life, and I almost scream.

“And what about Ryan?” I ask, and he recoils at the sound of our little brother’s name, as if it pains him. “He didn’t make it out, did he? No, he died on our fucking kitchen floor, and you didn’t even bother coming to his fucking funeral.” I snap, losing the hold on my anger, and Jasper takes another step toward me.

“I think about him every day, but I was a mess back then kid, I needed…” he starts, but I cut off whatever excuse he is about to feed me, I have no interest in hearing anything else he has to say.

“You know, my entire body is covered in scars, but none of them compare to the pain of losing him, so excuse me if I don’t give a fuck about what you need.”

Again my words seem to cause him pain, as his eyes trail over my body, as if he can see through the fabric of my clothes. “Scars? What scars?” he asks, sounding confused, and all I can do is think about how many times he ignored my calls.

“Oh, that’s right, dear old Dad only used his fists with you,” I laugh, without a trace of humor, as I shake my head. “Let’s just say he got more inventive after his favorite son left,” I mock, and for once I see the brother I remember, and not the coward who left me behind.

“What scars, Daemon?” His voice breaks as he says my name, and I know my words are hurting him, and I’m glad, I want him to hurt. I want him to feel even a fraction of the pain I did when I lost Ryan.

“You know I felt him die,” I whisper, the memory still so fresh in my mind that bile rises up the back of my throat. “I called him and he didn’t answer, and I knew something was wrong, even though I told myself everything was fine. I drove as fast as I could, and when I got home I could hear him screaming. He screamed so loud that I felt it in my bones, but it was the silence that followed that almost killed me.” Jasper is frozen silent as I talk, tears gathering in his eyes, but I don’t feel anything as I relay the story to him. “I remember wondering how a child could have so much blood, then when my hands pressed to his neck I felt his final breath, and I swear something inside of me died right along with him.”

My fingers flex, the phantom feeling of the warm liquid still there now, even as I recall scrubbing my hands clean in the police station bathroom, after they took pictures of them. “I felt him die, and just for a moment I was jealous, because he was finally free, because every hit and kick, and slice of our father’s blade was all pointless, because even though I never left Ryan to fight alone, even though I took every fucking hit just to protect him, it still wasn’t enough, because I failed him anyway.”

Tears stain my brother’s face now, and most people would probably find it heartfelt to see a monster of a biker like him crying over the loss of his little brother, but Ryan didn’t need his tears, he needed his protection. And now? Well, dead people don’t need anything.

“It’s not your fault, Daemon, Dad was always so…” he trails off, not able to think of a word to describe our father, before he quietly adds, “You were just a kid, it wasn’t your job to protect him.”

I shake my head, because I was all Ryan had, he was just a kid, but he could have had so much more. “You’re right, it wasn’t my job to protect him,” I agree with him, eyeing his leather cut and knowing the rumors that surround his found family. “It was your job to protect him, to protect us both, and you failed, you left and found yourself a new family, so run back to them and stop fucking calling me. The only brother I have is buried in the fucking ground, and I hope the other rots in hell.”

Turning on my skates, I stomp towards the locker room, I ignore him as he calls my name and I focus on trying to catch my breath. My dad is up for parole . The thought plays on repeat in my head, as I shove through the door and find Josh waiting for me on the other side, eyeing me with worry.

“Everything okay?” he asks, looking in the direction I just left Jasper, and all I can do is shake my head as I make my way inside.

I can’t be here, I need to get home.

Josh is hot on my heels, as I rip open my locker door, ignoring the intrigued glances from the other guys on the team, no doubt all wondering who that was. My heart is slamming against my ribcage, my breaths coming in too fast for me to control, and I can feel the rising panic taking over, as my best friend closes in on my left side.

“What did Jasper want?” he asks, as Archer rounds the bank of lockers, his stare instantly zeroing in on me with a smirk.

“Oh, that’s Jasper, is it?” he purrs, brushing against me as he passes, but with the memory of that night still fighting to take control in my mind, my skin crawls at the contact.

“Not now, Gray,” I snap, ignoring my best friend, who is now looking between me and Archer in wonder, as I rip off my jersey, tossing it to the floor.

“Hope you took my advice and told him to fuck off,” Archer replies sweetly, not reading the room at all, and why would he? He’s probably never known a day of panic in his goddamn life.

Josh is still holding firm at my side, watching me like I am ready to blow, and it doesn’t go unnoticed, as Cap steps towards us and asks, “Is everything okay?”

My mind is at war as I try to block them all out, as hit after hit plays on repeat, as I recall all the pain my father inflicted on me. Yet it isn’t the punches, the bruises, or the scars, it’s my little brother’s blood, it’s the sound of his screams and the feeling of his chest going still, all of it attacking me so fiercely I feel like I might throw up.

I’m sure Josh says my name again, but I can’t hear anything but those damn screams, and when something firm lands on my shoulder, I snap. Turning and slamming my fist into skin before I can stop myself, sending Archer stumbling back in surprise, as Cap curses in response.

“What the fuck, Forbes?” Nova commands, moving to his best friend’s side in an instant, as my mind finally comes back into focus.

Archer is staring at me with a look I have never seen before, a red mark already staining his left eye, and once again bile is climbing back up my throat. I open my mouth to say something in my defense, what, I’m not sure, but Coach beats me to it, his voice booming across the room.

“What the fuck is going on out here?” he shouts, storming towards us all, but my eyes never leave Archer’s, and the silence surrounding us is deafening. Coach looks between us all, and still when no one speaks, he yells, “Get changed and get the fuck out of here, we’ll talk on Monday.”

I don’t even take off my base layer, just grab my bag and leave the rink without looking back. I’m not even sure how I make it back to the house, but when I stumble to my room and spy the still messed up bed sheets from last night, I can’t hold it together anymore. I barely make it to the bathroom before throwing up, choking on my pain and regret, until I can’t fucking breathe, which is how Josh finds me.

He takes in the scene before him, dropping to his knees at my side and rubbing my back firmly. “You’re okay, I got you,” he whispers, and all it does is make me feel worse. He doesn’t move from my side, not even when I am gasping and retching, and collapsing onto the tiled floor with nothing left to give, still he doesn’t leave.

Instead, he flushes the toilet, cleaning it quickly, before grabbing a glass of water from the tap, and holding it to my lips until I drink it. Only then can I force out the words. “My father is up for parole,” I whisper, like if I say the words quietly enough they won’t actually be true, before I add, “I didn’t mean to hurt him, I just needed it all to stop.”

My admission hangs in the air, and Josh nods in understanding. “Don’t worry about anything, we’ll take care of it,” he promises, and even though I believe him, I still feel like my insides are being ripped apart. “Get in the shower, I’ll be back,” he commands, nodding towards it, before walking out and closing the door.

Standing on shaky legs, I rip off my base layer, and stare at myself in the mirror, at all the marks on my skin, some of them so big I don’t even know how I survived them, but I did. I think about Ryan, Jasper, my father, but then my thoughts stray to Archer and the look in his eyes as I hit him. He didn’t deserve it, I know that, I’m sure he knows that, but maybe now he will see why it could never work between us. Because while he was raised to thrive in the sun, I was forced to survive in the dark, and no matter how hard I try, I can never be free, not when I spend my days feeling like I might crumble beneath my loss and failures.

By the time I have showered and head back into my room, Josh is already there, changed into fresh, comfy clothes, and pouring me a whiskey. When I look at him in question, he only smiles softly. “Time to drown our sorrows to our shitty fathers again,” he muses, only half joking, and I can’t help but huff a humorless laugh, accepting the shot and knocking it back.

“Then we are going to need a lot more than this,” I reply, pouring myself another, and he nods, grabbing my sketchbook and tossing it onto my side of the bed. Yet again my eyes snag on the spot where Archer slept soundly last night, and Josh follows my stare silently.

“I’ll always have your back, no matter what, you know that right?” He asks, his friendship and loyalty always offered so freely, that sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps me afloat, and I nod, slamming back another shot. “Good, because guess what we are watching,” he beams, slumping into my chair and pulling up his favorite film on the TV.

I roll my eyes, climbing onto my bed, only to be assaulted by the scent of my teammate, and I find myself wishing I had never left my room this morning. That I would have forgotten all about practice, and stayed holed up here with him all day. There would have been no run in with Jasper, no reminder of what I lost, and no fucking punching the one thing that has been nothing but good to me.

At the thought, I discard my glass and grab the whiskey, drinking straight from the bottle, and Josh doesn’t even bat an eyelid. He’s more than used to me drinking to try and escape my trauma. Except for once, I’m not drinking to forget about the marks my father left on my skin, I’m drinking to forget the ones I left on Archer’s.

I guess I am my father’s son after all.