Page 44 of Demon On Deck

My laugh was hollow. As hollow as the gaping hole in my chest.

“Been a bad week. How are you doing? I feel like I haven’t seen you ages.”

Augustus surveys me a moment, clearly wanting to press the issue of my haggard appearance, but respects the change of topic.

“Not bad. Been on a steady rotation at the new arena. Between the hockey team moving here and concerts in the off-season, it’s been constant.”

“That’s great, man,” I said as the to-go counter attendant handed me my order. “When you’re free, gimme a call, figure out when we can catch up.”

“Sounds good,” he says.

I bade him goodbye and headed home to drown my sorrows in an extra-large carnivore pizza, beer, and terrible reality TV, just like I had every night for the past three days.

It’s now day four, and I finally catch a break. When I drove by her house on my way to work, her house being nowhere near work or on the route to it, her car was gone. During lunch, I drove by Bloomhaus and saw it parked in her usual spot. I practically sprinted out of the building when I was done for the day to race here before closing just to see her.

She’s wearing her typical workwear today. Jeans that hug every curve in just the right places, showcasing two perfectly round globes. My hands flex around the steering wheel on instinct, remembering the feel of her ass as I gripped it firmly. Her black t-shirt has risen up just a fraction in the back, exposing the small of her back and a sliver of creamy-smooth skin. There’s a small cluster of freckles there that I loved to trace when she lay on her stomach.

Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head. It’s fallen to the side, a clear sign she had a busy day and didn’t have time to readjust it the way she likes. When she turns, my heart, or the space it used to be in, clenches. With my demon eyes, I can see her perfectly, even from a distance. The enhanced eyesight is both a blessing and a curse in this moment. I see her clear as day, but I also see the dark circles under her eyes, how bloodshot they are, how tired she looks. Even so, she’s the most breathtaking vision I’ve ever seen.

I watch her head back into the shop as tears stream down my face. The lights go off, and a moment later she emerges through the front door, locking up before climbing into her car. Now that I’ve seen her, I should go home. Cling to that glimmer of light in my world of darkness and savor it until I can do it again.

But I don’t.

I count to ten, then pull out behind her and follow her home. I keep my distance, though I’d rather do anything but. I park in my normal spot down the street and watch her park her car. She sits there for a few minutes, and I wonder if she’s spotted me. When her door opens, I see she’s on the phone. Jealousy roars to life like flames from the pit.

Who is she talking to? What are they talking about? Why will she talk to them and not me?

She stands at the edge of her driveway looking up and down the street. She’s not looking at me, for me. She hasn’t seen me. She’s looking for someone else. Jealousy morphs to rage as the car stops and a man steps out.

Kallie hangs up her phone and reaches for the man. It’s then that I notice the delivery box he hands her. She turns and heads inside as the man climbs back into his car and takes off.

I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and relax my grip on the steering wheel.

“Motherfucker” I exclaim, scrubbing a hand down my face as I survey the indented imprints on my steering wheel. I bang my head on the headrest before exhaling deeply and putting the car in drive. I fight every instinct to pull into the driveway and ring her doorbell. Instead, I forced myself to drive home.

But it’s not home anymore. Not without Kallie in it.

I go through the motions. Park the car, ride the elevator, unlock the door, and step inside. Setting my keys down, I pull out my phone. I should call my mom. After I left Kallie’s, I called her and told her what happened. She’s been worried sick ever since, texting me every day. I keep saying I’ll call, but I’m just not ready to talk again. I’m still wallowing.

As I walk towards the kitchen, a familiar smell hits me. Dolmas. My pace quickens as I march down the hallway. When I reach the kitchen, I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or be mad.

“There’s my sweet boy,” My mother says, standing in front of the stove.

“Mom?” I ask, perplexed.

“I’m here too, son,” my Dad says, walking in from the guest room hallway.

My mom pauses her stirring to come wrap me in what is arguably the best mom hug of my life.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper, on the verge of tears.

“My baby is hurting. There was no way I was staying away.”

I hug my mom tight and just soak in the safety that only a mom can give. “Thanks, Mom,” I say softly.

Mom releases me and heads back to the kitchen, while Dad slings an arm around my shoulders, guiding me to the kitchen table.

Once I’m seated, he goes to the bar in the sunken living room and pours two healthy glasses of bourbon. Returning to the table, he hands one to me, then takes a seat. I take a much-needed sip of my drink, letting the smooth alcohol burn its way down my throat, the familiar sensation grounding my rioting emotions. Dad takes a sip of his as well, his watchful eyes taking in every expression and microexpression that passes over my face.