unForgivable (An inCapable World Novel Book 2) Read online

  When he breaks away, his breath is in my face and I can still taste him on my lips. I lick my lips and struggle to find my way through the fog I find myself in. No one has ever kissed me like he just did, like our lives depend on it. Like his soul is speaking to mine.

  “Who are you?” I say softly, more to myself than to him. His familiarity hits me again. I can’t shake it. I know him. He knows me. He has to. There’s no other way to explain that kiss.

  He takes a few steps back. His cheeks are rosy and there’s ample strain in his jeans. I try not to stare, though I’m sure he’s caught me, and my cheeks start to burn.

  He turns from me and saunters to the closet, snatching a stray shirt off the recliner along the way. I want him to come back and answer me but I fear if he does, we’ll be doing a lot more than talking.

  He pulls the shirt down over his chest before grabbing a leather jacket and sliding his arms through the sleeves. The hem of his shirt inches up just enough to see the faint line of hair leading from his navel to below the belt of his perfectly fitted faded jeans. I lick my lips and clench my thighs.

  Then he pulls me from my burning desire as he snatches his keys.

  “Where are you going?” I say before I can stop myself.”

  “I need some air.”

  “Air?”

  He nods, his expression solemn.

  “How can I be sure you’re not going to talk to someone about Mickey and me?” As soon as I say it, I feel like an asshole. I fidget with my fingers, looking at my feet.

  “Try not to miss me,” he says.

  “I won’t.”

  A confident smile curls along his full lips, showcasing a small dimple in his left cheek.

  “I know you, don’t I?”

  He shrugs. “Do you?”

  Yes. Every inch of me feels it, and yet, I can’t place him Why can’t I place him?

  “Try to get some rest while I’m gone. You’re safe—for now.”

  With that, he walks out the door, closing it gently behind him.

  Chapter Six

  Two minutes after Damien leaves—when I’m sure he’s gone—I start searching for my phone.

  I need to talk to Carrie.

  Damien wants to avoid my questions? Fine. I’ll get my answers the old-fashioned way. I’ll ask Carrie, then I’ll Google him and…wait…what’s his last name? I don’t even know his last name. How have I not asked him that already? Better yet, why hasn’t he volunteered it? There’s a better question.

  Is he trying to be mysterious? No, that’s ridiculous.

  The only reason that makes any sense is that he’s hiding something from me. Something unforgivable. And if I could just remember him, I would have my answers. But I have nothing. No memories at all, just a nagging feeling in my gut.

  I check under cushions, in my clothes, under Mickey’s bed, in the bathroom. Where the hell did I put it?

  “Not everyone is out to get you,” he said. Hah! And I’m supposed to take his word for it? Trust him because he’s so open and honest. He’s already admitted to lying to me and playing games with me in the bar. I should have punched him in the nuts for that.

  Where the hell is my phone? I pick up cushions and toss them back down on the couch.

  I should hope he has nothing to hide. That would make life easier—for both Mickey and me, but I don’t hope for that. Not even a little. I want him to prove me right, to be the asshole I expect him to be because then I’ll know how to deal with him. Otherwise, I’ll feel lost and vulnerable and completely out of my depth.

  “Ah ha!” I say when I find my phone under the radiator by the chair I slept on. Then I cringe when I glance at Mickey and worry I’ve gone and woken him up. He moans in his sleep but continues to snore, puffing air out through his pursed lips. I tense and hold my breath while I try to turn my phone on, like it will make the action quieter. I don’t know why. It doesn’t surprise me when the screen remains blank.

  Fantastic. Cursing under my breath, I toss it on top of my folded, dirty clothes and bite my nails as I search the room and find no landline. There isn’t one in the living room either, or the kitchen, or his bedroom.

  He must have a cell phone. But he didn’t look for it before he left or have it in hand. It’s got to be here somewhere. I search the kitchen countertops and the coffee table and end tables. I come up empty and have to widen my search. Then it dawns on me. Why am I looking for just his phone? Why do I need information from Carrie? I mean, blood is thicker than water and if Damien’s her blood, she might hold out on me when I drill her about him. No. I need to do some digging on my own.

  I return to the kitchen, yanking on every door and moving around junk and utensils and random lighters from like fifty states, looking for… I really don’t know what, but I’ll know it when I see it. Another drawer searched and nothing stands out. Keys, lots and lots of keys. Some loose change, some rank insignia. A faded black case with a trio of medals inside. I hold the open case in my hand, guess what each one is for, but in truth I know nothing about that stuff so I can only imagine he was good at his job. Though I have no idea why he left the military. For all I know, he could have been dishonorably discharged.

  Time ticks away on the digital clock above the stove and I begin to panic, unsure when I’ll get another opportunity like this. I all but jog down the hall, desperate to go through his room before he gets back. He never said where he was going or how long he’d be gone, but something tells me my time is limited. He’s left strangers in his home after all—but then I’m not exactly a stranger to him.

  His room is practically bare. Some clothes in the closet, some underwear in the drawer—boxers, not briefs—and socks. All his other drawers are empty. He did say he just moved here, so I guess that makes sense, or maybe he’s a liar and I can’t check his story. Maybe he doesn’t really live here at all. Maybe it’s a cover. My nerves are firing; panic is building inside of me. What will he do if he catches me? I’ve already discovered how easily he can overpower me.

  What if he has a temper like Uncle Ralph?

  The thought takes me away, back to the last night I saw Mona’s husband. He and Mona were yelling at each other, as they often did. I was in my room, trying to get through my homework, and not very successfully. Their angry voices were like an awful song stuck on repeat, one that I could tune out after a while no matter how much I didn’t like it. Monotonous. I guess that’s how I’d describe it. It was only when it got quiet that I stilled and worried about my aunt. She was a strong woman with one hell of a right hook, but when it got quiet, I knew Ralph was trying to assert his dominance. I debated creeping out of my room to check on her, knowing that as awful as Ralph was, he never put his hands on me. Perhaps even he had his limits and that meant at fourteen I was somehow safe from him.

  When I got to the stairs, I peeked down and saw his hands tightening around Mona’s neck while she tried to slap them away. I wanted to scream and run and get the phone and dial 911. But I was paralyzed. When she finally broke free from his chokehold, she fell forward, coughing and sputtering. Ralph looked up and met my eyes. The coldness inside of him shined through. He was a devil if I ever saw one. I believe it to this day. This image of him is permanently etched in my brain—the look of evil. The look of hatred, of unchecked rage.

  This is the image that haunts me when I witness a man’s anger.

  And that image looks nothing like Damien. But I don’t know him, and this is just another reason why I need to.

  If I were Damien, where would I hide something? Definitely not in plain sight. I look up in the corners of the room, then the floor. A hidden floor board? I tap my foot on random boards. This place is too clean and I don’t believe for a second he doesn’t have something hidden here. The bed? Why am I so stupid? I get on all fours and lift up his sheets, checking underneath, but all I see are rabbit-sized dust bunnies. Hmm. But wait…his mattress lies just a little uneven. I lift it up and jackpot. A .40 caliber handgun. A Browning. I tip i
t to the side and notice the serial number is shaved off. Huh. You don’t get a gun like this unless you intend to hurt someone and not get caught. I press the button on the side and let the magazine slide down and into my hand. One hundred percent loaded and there’s one in the chamber.

  I sit cross-legged on the floor, Damien’s gun in my lap, staring up and out the window as the sun finally reaches the clouds. The stream of light funneling in through the blinds warms me, but it does little to soothe me. This gun could mean nothing. He might just have one for protection…but then why shave off the serial number? I considered getting one not so long ago when I got roughed up outside a club. Stupid me got so blind drunk that I couldn’t take care of myself and I had to call for help—as usual. Declan came to my aid that night.

  The door swings open and I hear a sweet, “Hellooooo.” A woman. Shit. I stand and pad to the door, hiding behind it. The gun is heavy as I clutch it in my left hand.

  “Damien? Are you up yet? Damien?”

  Her high heels click on the hardwood as she approaches his room. She’s going to see me.

  “Damien? Where the hell are you?” I hear the musical sound of her pressing buttons on a phone. Then silence. “Damien, it’s your mother.”

  I know her voice.

  Why is it so familiar to me?

  “I swear you could at least pretend to sound happy to talk to me,” she says. “Where the hell are you?” Pause. “No you’re not, because I’m at your apartment.” She’s quiet for another moment. “Hello? Damien? Are you there?” The woman mutters curse words under her breath and I let out a quiet sigh while I anxiously wait for her to leave. She doesn’t give up easily. She clicks her way back to the living room and I hear her puttering around in the kitchen. I peek through the crack of the door where it meets the hinges, trying to see her as she moves about the apartment, but I only get a view of her back. Dark hair. Long legs.

  I lower myself to the floor and wait. Holy shit, woman. When will you leave?

  I don’t know how long I wait. It seems like forever has passed when the door flings open and Damien appears. I perk up, leaning in closer to see and hear what transpires next, hoping to glean some information.

  “Mother? Seriously? What are you doing?”

  “I’m making coffee.” Annoyed. “Would you like some?”

  “No. How did you get in?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Actually, it does. Because obviously, I need a bigger lock.”

  “I could pick any lock you throw at me, son.”

  He runs his hands through his hair and his eyes train down the hallway to meet mine. Or I think they do and I lean back. Though I’m probably imagining it, he seems to want to keep my presence as quiet as I do, because he hasn’t ratted me out. I have to give him points for that, at least. He wants to keep me hidden.

  He sighs and takes a seat at one of the bar stools at the counter. “This isn’t right. You have to know that?”

  “Oh, get over it. I needed to see you. I’ve had the worst night of my life and I needed someone to talk to that isn’t…well, you know.”

  “No, I really don’t.” He folds his arms over his chest.

  “Jimmy is still in jail. That bitch Mona Bilski was working with the cops. And because of the wire she wore, he won’t make bail.”

  What the hell?

  I sit up a little straighter and Damien’s head turns just enough to meet my eyes. Mother fucker. Liar! He knows them! He’s with them. I clutch the gun a little tighter, waiting to spring at any minute. Carrie had to know. How could she not? The wretched ache of betrayal consumes me and it takes all my self-control to not pull the trigger right here and now.

  Bitch! I’ll give you bitch!

  “George is trying to get him out, but it seems his voice on tape is pretty compelling evidence.” I hear a loud bang and it startles me, making me jump enough to knock the door. A small creak echoes through the space.

  “What was that?”

  Damian shrugs. “Radiator.”

  “Damien, I need you right now. I’m so depressed. I had to take an extra Valium last night to get some sleep, and you know how I function without sleep. I’m just a mess.”

  “I don’t want to hear any of this. It was only a matter of time before he ended up in jail. He’s a crook.”

  “Don’t say that about your father!”

  “Jesus, Mom, stepfather. And I made it clear when you married him I want nothing to do with him.”

  Damien Mendes. The name hits me like a punch to the gut. Oh my fuck. I was right. I did know him. Or…I knew of him, maybe met him a couple of times before he left for the military. We were in the same grade, though our high school was so big I don’t remember seeing much of him. Maybe in a few classes, but that’s it.

  Carrie brought me to Jimmy’s stepson’s house.

  Realization sinks in and memories flash through my mind. First of Jocelyn, and her voice and the different tone she used when speaking to me—or not speaking to me. I’ve only met her a few times and each time she’s looked down on me with snide comments and sideways glances.

  But Damien…he’s so different from how I remember him. Like night and day. He used to be tall and lanky with pimples and messy, chin length hair. The first time I met him was at Jocelyn’s wedding. I was sitting on some tires in their garage, fooling around with a boy I liked, Craig Shaeffer. He’d hounded me for weeks before then until I let him see my boobs. He wanted in my pants and I considered it, but when it came down to it that day in the garage, I said no. He didn’t like that and he kept trying to sneak his hands down into my pants, even though I gripped his arm and told him to stop.

  Damien walked in on us and I’m not sure what would have happened if he didn’t. He gawked at us, but not in a way that made me feel as if he was judging me. I think he was just surprised to find us there and perhaps to see my chest. He stood there, gawking, before walking backward and stumbling over some golf clubs. Craig yelled at him and called him a loser, told him to fuck off.

  I elbowed Craig and called him a dick. When Damien took off running, I followed. I don’t even know why. Maybe to explain? I don’t know. I never felt the need to explain myself to anyone, but somehow I did to him. I never did find him that night, though. Not at the dinner, or the dance after. He just vanished.

  I’m conflicted as I watch him talk with his mother, because it’s hard not to identify him with the awkward, shy boy he used to be that never seemed to fit in with anyone at school. The boy who ate in a corner while studying.

  A big part of me wants to run out there and get in his face and scream at him for lying to me, while the other part of me feels a touch of gratitude and compassion. He couldn’t know what he walked in on that night of his mother’s wedding. He couldn’t know that he might have saved me from something ugly.

  But I can’t forgive a lie. He needs to answer for that.

  It doesn’t matter that he’s trying to keep me hidden. The truth is that Jocelyn almost found us. She would have turned us in without a second thought. He put us at risk, and this thought tips me over the edge between anger and compassion. So I bide my time, watch closely, pay attention to their conversation while I think about what I want to say to him and how I’ll say it.

  If only she’d fucking leave!

  I lean my head against the wall and roll my eyes. Jocelyn rapes my ears with talk of her emotional distress. I’ll give her fucking emotional distress. When the conversation shifts and Damien starts to talk about something other than her, she bores quickly and decides it’s time to leave. In one breath, she talks about how she can’t live without her husband, and the next she whines about needing a mani and pedi appointment because she desperately needs to be cheered up. All this while her husband rots in jail. I’m so thankful Jimmy has such an amazing wife. They deserve each other, and I hope she makes him as miserable as he’s made me.

  Jocelyn finally quits her whining and makes her way to Damien’s apartment door. He fo
llows her, his hands on his hips and his head bowed slightly. It seems I’m not the only one she exhausts. She kisses him good-bye, pecking each cheek like she’s some posh girl in a movie. No one does that shit around here. He practically pushes her out the door and when she’s gone, he shuts and locks it before heaving a sigh.

  I emerge from my hiding spot, creep down the hallway with the gun still in my hand and at my thigh. The floorboards creak, signaling my approach. His back is to me and he hesitates to turn. I can only imagine why. He’s a liar and he knows he’s been caught.

  I wait for him to explain.

  When he turns, he looks defeated. I’m a few feet away, sporting a scowl on my face. His eyes lower to the gun and he shakes his head. He surprises me by letting out a frustrated laugh. Then runs his hands down his face and groans.

  “You’re Jocelyn’s son?” I ask.

  He strolls to the kitchen, seemingly unfazed by the gun in my hand. Perhaps he knows I won’t shoot it.

  “Put the gun away, Beth. You’re not going to use it.”

  “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,” I say, keeping my chin up.

  He pulls a glass down from the cupboard and opens the freezer, bending the ice tray before picking up some cubes and dropping them in his glass. He raises it up to me. “You want one?” He pulls a bottle of whiskey out from the back of the counter.

  “What I want is a fucking explanation!”

  He pours himself a glass. “My mother married into that family. I didn’t really have a choice.”

  “You’re one of them.”

  He grimaces at me. “Really? You think I’m one of them? Do you even remember me?”

  I swallow a lump building in my throat. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Hmm.” He takes another drink after swirling the liquid around his glass, making the shrinking cubes clank together. “I don’t believe you. I was practically invisible in high school.”