Broken, p.7
Broken, page 7
“And what do you think about when you play?” I ask him, trying to get a feel of the motives behind his melody.
“Erm…” He thinks for a minute, strumming away. “I tend to think about the friends I lost in the Army.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer, my heart melting a little. “Can’t have been easy.”
“It’s the risk you take.” He shrugs, but I can see the sorrow in his eyes. I don’t prod any further. I know what it’s like to face loss and pain, I can empathise, but I also know what it’s like to not want to talk about it. “The Army was like a second family.” I obviously misread the situation as Damien appears content to keep sharing. “And the guys I served with were my brothers.”
“That explains the tattoo,” I muse aloud.
“I thought I clocked you checking it out,” Damien says, taking me back to Damien’s second visit to Dave’s.
“It’s a nice tattoo.” I shrug.
“So’s yours.”
I instinctively bring a hand to my neck. I keep forgetting I have a tattoo of my own, mostly because it’s usually hidden by my hair, but it’s nothing like the size of Damien’s. Sitting on the side of my neck, between my ear and my shoulder, is a detailed design of a heart, not a love heart, but an actual scientific depiction, wearing headphones. It’s only about as big as a tangerine, but I like it. Not entirely sure when I got it, but that’s a story for another day.
“The tattoo’s my way of paying tribute,” Damien shares.
“Writing is a good way to do that too,” I state. “But since you claim to be unable to write, I’ll try my best to pay tribute on your behalf.”
I let inspiration take over, flitting between scribbling and playing, pulling some funny concentration faces along the way, no doubt. Patience is obviously Damien’s strong suit as he merely sits and watches without saying a word.
“Okay,” I eventually say. “Let’s give this a whirl.”
I play my keyboard and sing the lyrics I’ve created. I don’t look at Damien, but I can feel his lingering gaze. Interestingly though, I don’t feel self-conscious. Funny how music has a way of making the tension disappear. Or maybe it’s the company I’m keeping. Either way, I feel strangely at ease.
I fiddle around with a few words, replaying and re-singing a few times over until I’m satisfied enough to ask for Damien’s opinion. “What do you think?”
Damien is staring at me, and if I was a little more confident, I’d go as far as to say he’s staring in awe. His gorgeous sky-blue eyes are wide, and his pale lips are parted slightly. He looks a little dumbfounded, and I shuffle uncomfortably at his prolonged silence.
“I think,” he starts, finding his voice, “that you’re amazing.” The blood rushes directly to my cheeks, and I tear my gaze away. “Your voice really is beautiful,” he praises.
“I meant,” I say, chuckling, “what do you think of the lyrics?”
“Right, those,” Damien says, fake coughing for dramatic effect, drawing a smile to my face. “I think you’ve hit the nail on the head.”
“Okay,” I say. “Polite ain’t gonna cut it here. There’s no way you ain’t got one single criticism.”
“I have no right to criticise. I can’t write.”
“It’s still your melody,” I remind him. “You’re entitled to an opinion.” Damien looks at me warily. “I promise I won’t be offended.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’m a big girl.”
“Okay,” he says with a tinge of caution. “The only part I’m not feeling is the ‘take me by the hand’. It feels a little girly.”
I laugh. “Girly?”
Damien fails to hide his smile. “It doesn’t quite fit with the Army vibe.”
“You are aware that girls can join the Army, right?” I tease, gaining me a slight smirk from my guest.
“They’re usually women,” he corrects, purely in jest. “But you said it was my melody, and it just so happens I’m a guy.”
“No,” I say overdramatically and with a sarcastic emphasis. “I hadn’t realised.”
“It’s the hair, right?” he jokes.
I burst out laughing. “Yeah, ’cause a buzz cut is totally the new trend.”
The image of Jess sporting a buzz cut pops in my head, and it only makes me laugh harder. I take a minute to compose myself, turning my attention back to the lyrics at hand, and my concentration returns.
“Okay, so…” I stop to think. “Instead of ‘take me by the hand’, how about ‘follow my command’?”
Damien’s eyes light up. “I like it.”
I grab the paper and replace the lyric. As soon as I pop the paper back on the stand in front of my keyboard, Damien starts to strum the melody, and I’m taken aback when he opens his mouth to sing. A gorgeous, husky Kings of Leon sound delights my ears, enveloping me like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s night, comforting and soothing. Holy hell, Damien’s voice is mesmerising.
“I did not see that coming,” I state once Damien wraps the song up.
“You’re not the only one who’s multitalented around here,” Damien jokes.
“Your voice is gorgeous,” I tell him, a little delirious from the hypnotising effect he’s just had on me.
“Pot kettle black,” he states.
“I’m obviously not the only one who can’t take compliments.”
“Oh, no.” He grins. “Please, keep them coming. What’ve we had so far? Good-looking, good guitarist, gorgeous…”
“I said your voice was gorgeous,” I remind him, but he merely laughs. I try to hide the ridiculous grin on my face by turning away from him, but I have no doubt Damien is fully aware of the effect he’s having on me. My blushing cheeks tend to be a bit of a giveaway. “You ain’t gonna be able to fit through my door if your head gets any bigger.”
Damien laughs again, and it’s such a beautiful laugh, almost like a childish giggle but with a deep, manly tone to it. Like his singing voice, it’s such an infectious sound.
Damien and I continue to play for a while, chiming in with sarcastic comments along the way and laughing harder than I’ve ever laughed. Unfortunately, our playing is halted by the sound of the spare bedroom’s door creaking open and Jess bolting out of it in the direction of the bathroom. I notice Damien reluctantly replacing my guitar in its stand with a frown. Something tells me he’s going to miss spending so much time with my Gibson. It’s a little adorable, but as an avid guitarist, it’s understandable. It’s a bloody good guitar.
Jess returns to the living room moments later, groaning, yet upon seeing Damien, she manages an extra bright smile. “I think I should be thanking you.”
“It’s all right,” Damien says casually. “Are you all right?”
Jess suddenly heaves, and in a flash, she’s back in the bathroom. I sigh. Something tells me Jess might be at that for a while, and the chances of me sleeping through it are slim-to-nothing. I’m suddenly wishing Damien wasn’t planning on making his exit. As it turns out, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed making music together. Damien’s good company, not that I shall be telling Jess that should she decide to interrogate me, which we all know she will.
“Does she usually drink herself into oblivion?” Damien asks.
“Yep,” I answer bluntly. “It’s just not usually my problem. Remind me again why I thanked you for bringing Jess home?”
Damien shakes his head. “That’s cold.”
“I’m kidding,” I insist. “Well, half kidding.”
“You two have an interesting relationship.”
I shrug. “That’s one way to describe it.”
“She thinks a lot of you,” Damien tells me.
“I’m going to assume you two did some talking before you showed up here.”
“Your name may have dropped into conversation.”
“Whatever she said,” I urge, “do not believe a word of it.”
Damien laughs. “Give her a little more credit. She said some really nice things. Threw in a few other less complimentary details too.”
Jess barely knows any details, although I’m sure my continuous antisocial behaviour was a hot topic of conversation with a few choice words from dear Jess too.
“Such as?” I ask.
Damien glances at his watch. “Look at the time. I should be getting going. I’ve got an early PT session.”
Nicely played, leaving me hanging in anticipation. I guess karma does exist since I plan on doing the exact same thing to Jess when she initiates her interrogation. Unlike Jess though, it won’t eat away at me. Nothing Jess could say about me is a cause for worry or concern; she doesn’t know enough.
Damien smiles and heads for the door, and I’ll admit, I can feel a pang of disappointment. Ignoring the drunk guy fiasco and my brief encounter with James, tonight has turned out to be one of the most relaxed and fun nights I’ve had in, well, as far as I know, forever. Damien’s got a great sense of humour, and my cheeks are stinging a little from all the laughing. I started the night tense and on edge, but now I feel relaxed to the point where I almost feel normal. My issues, scars and anxieties exited the building tonight, and it’s exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
“I had a lot of fun tonight,” Damien says, stopping to stand by the front door.
“Yeah, me too,” I admit.
“We make a good songwriting team,” he adds. “We should do it again sometime.”
And in true Damien fashion, he doesn’t give me a chance to respond, probably out of fear of what I’ll say, and he’s out the door. He closes it for me, and I allow myself to sink into the sofa, a mixture of emotions taking me under.
Talk about sending mixed signals. What the hell am I doing? Nothing’s changed. I’m still me, and I can kid myself all I want, but deep down, I already know that Damien and I are dead in the water before we’ve even jumped.
Now, if someone could tell that to the ruthless, fluttering butterflies, I’d much appreciate it.
Chapter Six
My shift is dragging like hell. It’s Wednesday, and I’m about six hours into my seven-hour shift at Lloyd’s, on countdown as I’m on holiday from both Lloyd’s and Dave’s for the rest of the week. I’ve had maybe four customers all day, and with Dan ringing in sick and Lloyd busy, I’m manning the place solo.
So far, the only meal I’ve cooked is Black with One Sugar and Latte with Extra Cream’s breakfast. The other two customers, another couple, merely ordered drinks and a cake. I’ve pretty much spent the rest of the shift cleaning, but even a busy bee like me is running out of jobs to do at this point. I’ve cleaned everything I can think of, so I’m resigning myself to a coffee. Screw it. If Dan can get away with bogging off all day, I can get away with hovering behind the counter for a while. I sincerely doubt Pamela, the other waitress, does as much as I do anyway.
I make my coffee and just as I’m about to take my first sip, that godforsaken bell rings and in walks the only person I seem to talk or think about lately. Annoyingly, he looks as good as ever, and upon seeing me, his beautiful smile awakens. It’s a smile I return just as brightly.
“Hey, Dani,” Damien greets me, approaching the counter.
“Hi,” I reply. “Americano?”
Damien chuckles. “Are you calling me that or offering me the drink?” Ha-ha, very funny.
“Offering the drink.”
“Please.”
Damien takes a seat at the nearest table, his future regular spot, I’m thinking, as I quickly make his drink and move around to place it in front of him.
“Nice day off?” he asks as I retake my position behind the counter, reminding me it’s the first time I’ve seen Damien since Sunday.
“A day in front of my keyboard is always a good day,” I reply. “Although I unfortunately encountered my neighbour’s parents in the hallway.”
I chose the wrong moment to head out for my weekly shop, running into Mr and Mrs Holding. Interestingly though, I managed to learn that James is a barefaced liar since his parents believe he attends church every Sunday, which he doesn’t, and that he’s apparently saving himself for marriage. How I kept my face straight, I’ll never know, but when Mr Holding proceeded to give me a lecture on the benefits of devoting your life to the Lord, I made as swift an exit as possible.
“Interesting people?”
“Religious.” I grimace, and I probably should have checked if Damien is religious before revealing my contempt. “Not that I have anything against religious people, just the ones who try to force their beliefs on others.”
It’s not a lie. Despite being an atheist, I’m not against religion. In fact, I personally think it must be such a nice way to live, being able to attribute everything to God’s master plan, but I’m just not wired that way.
“Not religious then?” he asks, and I shake my head. “Me neither.” Good to know. “It’s James, right? Jess’s flatmate?” I nod, assuming Jess filled Damien in at the gig. “Good-looking guy?”
“If arrogant, egotistical, and a womaniser is a good-looking guy, then yeah.” I’m a little too blunt in my choice of words. “I sound like a right bitch.” Damien laughs but says nothing. “He’s not all bad. He’s down-to-earth and funny, but he’s not the kind of guy I could see myself with.”
“And what kind of guy do you see yourself with?” Damien asks, and I instinctively sigh at my idiocy. I just keep walking right on in.
“I don’t,” I say, although I’m pretty sure that isn’t the answer Damien is looking for. “I would love to find the right guy, settle down and all that jazz, but I don’t see that happening. I’m too…”
“Complicated?” Damien finishes my sentence. “Some guys like complicated.”
“I get what you’re doing,” I say. I’m not blind. “But if I was you –” I opt to casually let him down gently, knowing it has to be done “– I’d find yourself a nice lass who doesn’t have skeletons the size of China in her closet.”
“Everyone’s got skeletons.” He doesn’t back down. “Doesn’t mean we should end up alone because of them.”
“Some people like being alone.” I shrug.
“Do you?”
Damien’s hit the million-dollar question on the head. Do I? Or don’t I? I’m still not one-hundred percent certain of the answer.
Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of the bell and a young guy, I’d guess early twenties, looking very stylish in black skinny jeans, a flowery print silk shirt that falls to his thighs, and sporting one of those modern-day, fringe-across-the-face hairstyles that probably took hours to perfect, sashays his way in.
“There you are,” he says to Damien. “You do know what a phone is meant to be used for, right?”
He bypasses the counter completely and takes a seat facing Damien, who pulls out his phone from his jacket pocket.
“Silent.” Damien shrugs, holding his phone up in the air for dramatic effect, I’m assuming, before slipping it back into his pocket. “What’s up?”
I sip away at my coffee, contemplating looking busy, but I literally have nothing to do, so I resign myself to merely standing and trying not to earwig. I already know it’s impossible, and even though I said I let anything I hear go in one ear and out the other, it’s Damien, and let’s face it, Damien makes me curious.
“Nothing,” Damien’s friend says casually. “Just felt like making a dramatic entrance.”
I try not to laugh as I watch Damien slowly shake his head, an amused smirk sitting upon his lips. “You’re definitely dramatic, mate.”
“But since you chose to ignore my calls,” the friend says, “you can buy me a latte as an apology.”
Damien laughs at his mate’s cheekiness, but he turns his head in my direction, and I quickly pop down my brew, plastering on my customer service face. “Dani, could you get my mate here a latte, please?”
“Coming right up.”
“Dani?” The friend repeats my name with a hint of intrigue. “So, you’re Dani.”
I refrain from answering until I’ve made the latte, moving around the counter and setting it down in front of Damien’s friend. “That’s me, and you are?”
“Raif,” he says, holding out his hand.
I shake it politely. “Nice to meet you.”
“You have an amazing figure,” Raif compliments.
Not the typical first-meet conversation, but I manage an, “Erm, thanks.”
“Raif is our bass player,” Damien explains. “Hairdresser and beautician by day.”
The latter makes more sense than the former given Raif’s flair, and I can’t quite picture him standing behind a bass. I’m thinking he’s gay too, not that his sexuality is overly relevant. Although, you should never judge a book by its cover, and I could be way off the mark, so who knows?
“I would love to give you a makeover,” Raif adds as I shimmy back behind the counter. “You have beautiful hair. Do you style it?”
“I straighten it very occasionally,” I answer openly. “But mostly, I let it dry naturally.”
“I know so many women who would kill to be able to do that,” he admits.
The easier the better in my book. Some would say I don’t take pride in my appearance, but I am what I am, and I don’t see any point in trying to be something I’m not. That, and I could not be bothered to take the time to style my hair every single day. That’s far too much effort.
“I have a foundation that would work wonders for you,” he continues. “It’d hide the…” Raif waves his hand in front of his face, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what he’s referring to.
“Raif,” Damien scolds, and I’m thinking, thanks to the “ow” escaping Raif’s mouth, Damien’s booted Raif under the table. “Tact, mate.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Raif defends, rubbing his shin. “You know I have no filter.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not offended.”
At least Raif was polite about it. In so many ways, wearing make-up would probably be great for my confidence, but I’d still know it was there, and I’d always be wondering if people would change their mind about talking to me or whatever if they knew what was underneath. That, and I cannot be bothered with the hassle of piling make-up on any more than I can styling my hair every morning. I’d rather spend my time drinking coffee.
