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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1984831-In-The-Cards
by beetle
Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Gay/Lesbian · #1984831
"Your single main gay character is desperate for love and goes to a psychic for advice."
March 30th - April 5th; Prompt #5: Your single main gay/lesbian character is desperate for love and goes to a psychic for advice.
Word count: 4,997


One Night


“Hmm. . . .”

Camela put down the next card and I held my breath. But only after I’d demanded: “Hmm? What does that mean?”

Biting her lip and making the scrunched-up annoyed-face she’d always made, at least since I’ve known her—since we were four, and she’d punched me in the arm for stealing her Ken doll and forcing him to marry my He-Man action figure—Camela didn’t even glance at me while shushing me with a wave of her elegant, be-ringed hand.

“If you gimme a hot second, I’ll be able to tell you what hmm means, love.” She waved her hand over the cards already laid out in what she called a “Celtic Cross” and blew her blonde, rainbow-streaked bangs out of her eyes. “Okay . . . the Lovers card, in conjunction with the Devil card here—” she pointed to the two aforementioned cards. “That indicates that you will meet and fall in love with a handsome stranger—”

Who is Satan?!”

Now, Camela glanced up at me, annoyed. “No.Not Satan, dunce. You don’t even believe in Satan. Or the Goddess. Or anything else, for that matter. In fact—” she paused in the midst of placing another card in the spread. “Remind me why I’m giving you, of all people, a reading in the first place?”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I pulled a lofty sort of face. “Because I’m . . . curious.”

“You mean desperate?”

I squared my shoulders and stared her down for long moments. Of course she won. She always won our stare-downs . . . to say nothing of our arguments. “I mean curious. You do readings for all our friends, but never for me, and my curiosity finally got the better of me.”

Camela’s eyebrows shot up under the bangs. “Love, I do readings for you all the time, you’re just never there when I do them. And curiosity I can work with. Curiosity is the first step to enlightenment.”

“And enlightenment is the first step to bullshit.” I rolled my eyes, but smiled at the same time she did. A moment later, she laid down the next card. It was a crazy looking thing, on which coins seemed to be a theme.

“That’s interesting. . . .”

“Dare I ask why? Will Satan and I be moving in together? Adopting shih tzus, perhaps?”

Camela rolled her eyes again. “For your edu-tainment, smart-ass, Nine of Pentacles—in conjunction with two Major Arcana cards, The Lovers and The Devil—means that you’re gonna meet this dark, handsome, wealthy—”

“Now he’s wealthy, too? Satan’s got it goin’ on!”

“—stranger and he’ll sweep you off your feet. Literally.”

Literally? Like, Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara-style, sweeping me up into his arms and carrying me up the mile-long staircase—”

“Okay, maybe not literally. But, yeah, kinda literally.”

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means,” I muttered, and Camela smacked the side of my head, occasioning an: “Ow!”

“You deserved that, douche. Okay, so, yeah. Dark, handsome, wealthy. Very into you.”

“Would that be literally, too? Because I wouldn’t be averse to some dark, handsome guy getting very into me sometime very soon. . . .” I said, aiming for lascivious, but ending up sounding pathetic instead. Camela and I shared a look of total commiseration.

It’d been a while for us both.

“Well, according to the cards, it’s gonna happen for you, at least. And pretty soon. Within the next week, I’d say. Maybe sooner.” Camela frowned, placing down another card. Her eyes lit up and she squealed, tapping the picture thereon—a brightly rendered star took up most of the card—with one long, black-lacquered nail.

“The Star,” she trilled happily, unnecessarily, licking her lips and blowing a bubble with her purple gum. I rolled my eyes.

“Meaning . . . he’ll be famous?”

“Nope. Meaning that he—Mister Dark, Handsome, and Wealthy—will help guide you to where you need to be.” Camela sat back proudly, staring at her spread like a mother gazing down at a prodigious child.

Then she snatched up her glass of Sangria and took a gigantic slurp. “Yep. The cards have spoken. You’re for it, love: Mr. Right is coming your way, and fast.”

I made a face, wishing I could believe her, but I remembered that I didn’t believe in . . . well, anything, really.

“Well, hopefully he’ll be coming along slowly enough that I can lose five pounds before he knocks on my door. Or fifty-five,” I sighed, running my hands over the mini-keg that I had in place of a six pack. The less said about the rest of me, the better. “Do another reading,” I commanded, and Camela’s eyebrows shot up again. “Tell me the odds of me looking half-way attractive sometime in the near future.”

Camela made that face. The one that meant she was about to cover my hand with her own and actually call me by my first name—something she almost never did. It was always “love” or “babe” or, “honey.” Or—more often as we’d gotten older and less careful of each other’s jaded feelings—“douche.”

“Damien, honey,” she sighed, and her hand was cool and gentle on my own. “You are attractive. And more than just half-way. You’re a total hottie.”

I snorted, pulling my hand away. The last thing I wanted was pity, even if it was nattied up as compassion. The fact was, Camela had always been gorgeous. She’d never had an awkward stage, let alone one that’d lasted from twelve, till . . . well, whenever mine decided to end. “Maybe on opposite day. On another planet. That’s in another dimension. Where nerdy big-boned guys who are not rich are considered hot.”

Camela bit her lip again, her big blue eyes round and stricken—sympathetic. “The cards—” she began brightly. But I grabbed my own Sangria and stood up, not at all steadily, and not meeting her kindly gaze. It was unbearable to be pitied by one’s lifelong bestie.

“Let’s forget about the cards for tonight, huh? It’s Friday night, and I don’t have to be back at that viper-pit I call a job for another two and a half days. I wanna party!”

Camela sighed. “You? Party? Is there a Firefly marathon on that I don’t know about. . . ?”

No,” I said, drawing my dignity up around me like a cloak. I flopped on the couch. “First off, the marathon isn’t till Sunday afternoon. Read the T.V. Guide and learn yourself some knowledge. Second, I mean I wanna go out to party! To a club, or a—place! Where people drink overpriced alcoholic beverages and shake their asses to shitty house music!”

“That sounds like a club, alright,” Camela said tentatively, looking confused, now. “But you hate clubs. Whenver I wanna go to one, you whine for, like, ever about having to come with me as my pseudo-date.”

“That’s because you pick skeevy clubs to go to!”

“No, I pick clubs that will let us in,” Camela corrected primly, and I opened my mouth to contradict her . . . only to close it.

“You make a good point.” I took a healthy sip of my Sangria as she sat daintily next to me. “Okay, so what’s the least skeevy club you know of that we can actually get into?”

“Gay or mixed?”

“Does it matter?”

“If I wanna maybe meet my Mr. Right, too, it does.”

I glanced at her, surprised when I realized she wasn’t joking. “You really think I’m gonna meet this dark, handsome, wealthy, non-Satan guy, don’t you?”

“Possibly even as soon as tonight.” She glanced back at me and smiled. “Honey, it’s practically fated.”

“I don’t believe in fate,” I said automatically, but shivered when I said it, like Donald Duck watusied over my grave.

“Doesn’t matter. Fate believes in you, love.” Camela winked and I shivered again, gulping my Sangria.

Later That Night. . . .


I’d been sitting in a corner booth, nursing a tequila shooter and playing with the light-fob on my T.A.R.D.I.S. keychain—a lovely game of How Many Times Can I Shine This Directly Into My Eye Before I Go Blind?—for about forty-minutes. My head ached, I was bored, and the table—the entire booth—was sticky. I was certain when I stood up to leave I’d wind up leaving the soles of my shoes stuck to the floor.

Not to mention that I’d have to get my clothes dry-cleaned before I was satisfied they were wearable again.

Whose damn idea was this clubbing-thing, anyway? I asked myself miserably.

I looked up at the dance floor. When the crowd shifted a little, I got glimpses of Camela’s frantically flinging body, and wild, rainbow hair as she danced with whomever would dance with her, guy or girl. She looked kinetic and sexy, and I knew I wasn’t the only one staring enviously, if not lustfully. Not that I wanted to be Camela, but if I had been a guy version of Camela—or at least a hotter version of myself—that would’ve been . . . pretty neat. . . .

I rubbed my eyes—the damned contacts, which I never wore—were starting to irritate them and my vision was all wonky, anyway, because of the flashing lights and fake smoke.

“This place blows,” I told my keychain as I flicked the light on and off. On and off. On and—

“Tell me about it,” a voice said, and, starting, I found myself looking up and up . . . and up a little more.

A tall, insanely good-looking guy in a brown leather jacket that was worth more than I made in a month, was leaning over the top of the booth seat from the other side. He was grinning the most . . . gorgeous grin I’d ever seen. The kind that only years of head-gear and dental appointments could possibly produce. He had slicked-back dark hair, eyes the color of melting milk chocolate, and a jawline like Scott “Cyclops” Summers, as illustrated by the late, great Jack Kirby . . . it was that fucking perfect a jawline. The rest of his face was a photographer’s dream: aquiline nose, full, sensual mouth, cheekbones so high, 747s must have crashed into them on a daily basis. . . .

Holy moly, but this guy. . . .

Was staring at my keychain.

More specifically, at the T.A.R.D.I.S light fob on it.

“Wow,” he said, his milk chocolate eyes lighting up as they met mine, twinkling like brown dwarf stars . . . or maybe The Star. “Is that a miniature Time and Relative Dimension in Space replica?”

I blinked and my jaw dropped—literally—to my collar bone.

“Yes, yes it is,” I breathed, and the guy’s grin widened, and he stepped around the booth. (The rest of his outfit was easily worth more than the leather jacket, if I was any judge. And I wasn’t, not really, but even I could spot expensive duds when I saw them.)

Then I was holding out my own warm, sweaty hand for shaking and it got engulfed in the guy’s hand—Big hands equals big feet, and big feet equals big other stuff, too! Not that I even have a chance of finding out what else is big on him, but still, I can dream, can’t I? I thought—which was warm, but not overly so, like mine. And it was dry, too.

“I don’t mean to be forward, but just based on that keychain, you’re the most interesting person in this place,” the guy said, holding my hand a bit longer than was necessary while I blinked up at him again, like some village’s missing idiot. “And I wanted to introduce myself before someone else came along and monopolized your time.”

“Me? Time? Monopolize? Someone else?” I stammered then stopped myself before I repeated his entire sentence back at him completely out of order. I tried on a nonchalant laugh that merely sounded fake and creepy. “I mean . . . yeah, ‘cuz . . . that was happening, just a little while ago. Just, uh . . . nonstop, with the monopolizing of my time. It was like, ‘no, guys, back off . . . just go away . . . you’re monopolizing me,’” I lied, laughing again. And to my absolute horror, I hiccupped in the middle of it.

The guy’s eyebrows quirked just a bit, but he didn’t stop grinning. Nor did he let go of my hand.

“The name’s Jason. Jason Cambion.”

I tried to grin and was glad when I didn’t hiccup, this time. Damned Sangria. “And I’m Damien Camb—I mean Foster! Damien Foster!” By that time, I was vermillion, but thankfully blushes didn’t show up on my complexion. Much.

“May I join you?” Jason asked, already sliding into the booth, still holding my hand. My eyes felt like saucers. Like balled bearings about to fall out of their . . . balled bearing-holder.

“Yeah, sure, um.” I looked out at the dance floor but couldn’t see Camela anymore. Ah, well. Turning back to Jason, I tried on another smile. This one felt more natural. I’ve been told my smile is quite nice, so I turned it on full force. “I could do with some company.”

Jason returned my smile and my hand, but only reluctantly for the latter, and . . . it wouldn’t stop tingling.

And I couldn’t stop staring at it till Jason cleared his throat and laughed. But it wasn’t a mean laugh. It actually seemed like he was laughing with me rather than at me . . . even though I wasn’t actually laughing.

Though, after a few seconds, I did wind up chuckling, too.

“You’re awfully cute to be sitting in a place like this alone,” he said, under the beat and boom of the shitty house music, and I blushed again. “I mean, I noticed you before, with that girl with the rainbow hair, and I thought you were a nice couple. . . ?”

There was a question in that last statement and I shook my head fervently. “No. She and I are friends and roomies. Nothing more. I, uh, like g-guys,” I stuttered, trying not to put too fine a point on it. And Jason grinned, leaning closer.

“What a coincidence,” he murmured, his hand covering my own on the sticky, gross table. His eyes were almost hypnotic, the way they held mine. “So do I.”

I was so red, complexion bedamned, he had to be able to see it. “Okay, I’m not really good at reading people, but . . . are you f-flirting with me, Mr. Cambion?”

“Shamelessly.”

I was blinking and gaping again. “Uh . . . why?”

Now, Jason was the one to blink, as if no one had ever asked him that before, and I, for one, was quite mortified that I had. But it had just slipped out. “Why? Why am I flirting with you?”

“Well . . . yeah. . . .” too late to take it back, may as well own it. “Why me?”

Jason sighed, but was still smiling a bit. “So, I see an adorkable guy, by himself, playing with a T.A.R.D.I.S. keychain, in a club that’s got a surprising dearth of personality and I say to myself, ‘Jason’—I call myself Jason—‘Jason,’ I say, grow a pair and go over. Introduce yourself. See if he really likes Doctor Who, or if that keychain was a gift from some well-meaning friend.’

“And so I nonchalantly ambled over.” Jason shook his head a bit wryly, glancing up at the flashing, twirling lights in the rafters. “Heard you making the T.A.R.D.I.S. sound and whistling the Doctor Who theme song and thought . . . ‘Okay, Jason, talk to him before the so-called ambience of this place scares him off. Allons-y.’”

Melted chocolate-eyes met my own once more. “Was I right to nonchalantly amble over, or should I have kept nursing my Sapporo and eating my heart out?”

And despite the fact that I couldn’t quite believe that he was interested in me, of all people, I found myself smiling for real again. I couldn’t not smile, looking at him. He was easily the most beautiful man I’d ever seen and he was a big geek!

He was seemingly perfect.

And he was interested in me. . . .

Which made me wonder . . . what was wrong with him?

It could be anything, I thought with almost detached fascination. He could just be neurotic and annoying, or he could have bodies buried in his mother’s backyard . . . he could run the gamut from mild crazy to full-on Ted Bundy sociopathy, for all I know.

But whatever it was, no sane guy who was this hot could want anything to do with me, right? I mean, as fucked in the head as that kind of thinking was, it made a certain kind of sense.

Why would a perfect ten settle for a five, at best?

I wasn’t sure it was in my best interest to find out. And I opened my mouth to say just that, ready to slide out of the booth, grab Camela, and make tracks.

What came out of my mouth was:

“So, what other sci-fi do you like?”

Jason’s returning smile was slow and warm, like heated honey.

“Well, I’m probably dating myself when I say . . . Babylon 5 is one of my favorite shows of all time.” And he looked down, laughing a little. But I found myself turning my hand under his so that I was grasping his hand, and he looked up at me questioningly.

“Will you marry me?” I asked, and he laughed again, squeezing my hand, little knowing that in that moment, I was serious.

In that moment, he could’ve killed six orphans with a rusty metal spork right in front of me and I would’ve turned a blind eye.

A Few Hours After That. . . .


“ . . . then Ronny pointed and said: ‘Shit, Abilene is five hundred miles thataway!’ And he started running!”

Jason finished his story with a flourish, laughing, and I joined him, taking a sip of my hot cocoa and blushing as he watched me with those melty-chocolate eyes of his. Then he was glancing down at his cappuccino. Around us, the mostly empty café was silent but for the melancholy strains of some Chopin nocturne or other.

“Okay, so, I’ve told you my life story . . . now you tell me something about yourself, Damien Foster . . . are you originally from Lenape Landing?”

I blushed again and watched him turn my hand over, palm up, and continue stroking the underside of my wrist, where my pulse beat. “Yep. Born and raised. I’m distantly related on my father’s side to the duBarres—you know, the duBarres—and the original Lenape tribe, like so many mutts in the ‘Landing.” I snorted. “But my mom was from Pittsburgh.”

Jason’s face was solemn when I chanced a look at it. “’Was’?”

“Well . . . she passed away when I was nineteen.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jason said, squeezing my hand, and I smiled, though it felt a bit wooden.

“She was sick . . . by the time she passed on, I think she was glad to go.” And I was glad to see her go . . . glad her pain was over. Even though her death nearly killed me, too, it was for the best. . . . “Anyway—abrupt change of subject! I wanna hear more about you, Mr. Cambion—I’m boring,” I added when Jason began to protest. “Tell me what brings you to Lenape Landing: business or pleasure?”

“Business, of a sort,” Jason said a bit evasively. “Personal business. Something I’ve been putting off for a long time.” And with a distinctly charming smile, he squeezed my hand again. “Another abrupt subject change—are you seeing anyone, Damien Foster of Lenape Landing?”

Filing away the evasiveness for later consideration, I found myself blushing yet again. I could only imagine the blood was getting sick of rushing to my face, by now. “Me? Seeing someone? Uh, no.” I snorted again, and Jason eyed me curiously.

“You say that like it’s a foregone conclusion that you wouldn’t be.”

“It kinda is.”

“I don’t see how it could be. I can’t imagine you don’t have guys pounding down your door,” Jason said simply, sincerely, and I shook my head, bemused.

“Are you for real, Jason Cambion?” I asked him, and he looked so confused, I laughed, a little uncomfortably. “Never mind. No, I’m not seeing anyone.”

Jason nodded, looking down and swallowing visibly, as if nervous for some reason. Then he looked back up at me, hopefully. “Would you like to be seeing someone?”

I blinked and gaped. “Whah?”

Now Jason was blushing. “Listen, I’ve done my share of dating around and sport-fucking, and it’s left me . . . hollow and hungry. I’m ready to settle down and find Mr. Right. A keeper. And I know I’ve only known you for a few hours, but I’m starting to think that I have.”

I let out a breath and a laugh. I felt like I was dizzy and going crazy. This whole night had been dizzy and crazy. “Okay, coming from me, this is gonna sound ridiculous, but . . . are you saying all of this to get in my pants? Because if so, lemme tell ya: you’re workin’ too hard, kid. Ya had me at Time and Relative Dimension in Space.”

Jason grinned and pulled my hand up to his face. He kissed the palm lightly and stood, pulling me up with him and into his arms. I’d be lying if I said being held by him didn’t feel . . . amazing.

“Let’s get outta here,” he murmured softly and I shivered.

“But I haven’t finished my cocoa and your cappuccino is still foamy,” I protested lamely.

Jason’s grin turned into a warm smile and he leaned in to kiss me, so teasing and quick it only registered as a tingling of my lips after the fact. “You’re adorable, Damien.”

“My place isn’t far,” I whispered unsteadily.

An Hour Later. . . .


“This is me. C’mon in,” I said anxiously, flicking the light switch as I waved Jason in, hoping my bedroom wasn’t too much of a disaster area.

It was, but Jason didn’t seem to notice, glancing around, his eyes lingering on the many, many paintings and drawings—all sci-fi and fantasy art, and graphic novel layout pages . . . signed—before returning to me.

“Please excuse the mess,” I said meaning the clothing, books, and papers everywhere, and not just in my bedroom. “My roommate and I aren’t exactly neat-frea—”

But Jason was pulling me into his arms and kissing me for the second time and I just . . . melted in his arms. My legs went wobbly, as if they couldn’t hold me upright anymore. I felt tingly and weak and hot-cold all over.

In moments, it seemed, we were on my bed, still kissing, and tugging at each other’s clothing. Jason’s hands were, respectively, cupping my face gently and squeezing my ass not at all gently. My hands were sweeping up and down his back which, even through his shirt, was quite hot. Like he’d been laying face-down in the sun for hours.

Or like he was running a fever.

“Are you okay?” I broke the kiss to whisper, and Jason grinned, stealing another kiss and hitching my body closer against his. He was hard in all the right places and I moaned desperately.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been better,” he murmured, his melting chocolate-eyes smiling into my own. Then we were wrestling with his shirt—popping off buttons in our haste—until it went sailing across the room to land on my R2D2 replica/wastepaper basket. Jason was kissing his way down my neck and I was just feeling him up—his muscles, his skin, the solidity of his bones—my head turned to the side, watching our shadow-selves as they writhed on the canvas of my bedroom wall: my pudgy, unflattering shadow gasped as Jason’s buff, beautiful shadow rolled on top of it and straddled it.

Fuck, I thought with chagrin and more than a little envy. Even his shadow’s hot. That’s so not fair. Sheesh, I think I can even make out his six-pack. And his delts. And glutes, for sure. And those biceps . . . and those wings . . . and horns. . . ?

Wait a minute—


Then I was whipping my head back to look at Jason, who loomed above me, as handsome as ever, no wings or horns evident. Confused, and uncertain of what I’d seen, I glanced quickly back at the wall. Six pack, delts. Glutes, biceps . . . and wings and horns.

This time, when I looked back at Jason, his smile was gone, replaced by an expression as serious as a churchyard on Sunday morning. His formerly melt-y brown eyes were slowly but surely turning a different color, altogether: a deep, crimson the exact shade of fresh blood. And his complexion was darkening from a café-au-lait color about twelve shades lighter than my own, to another color completely: a crimson that matched his eyes . . . and an alarming heat was baking off him.

“Please,” he said softly, his voice gone hoarse and rough, and I looked at his shadow again—the wings had spread out, like a hang-glider . . . but then they began to enclose his shadow . . . and my own. . . . “I need this, Damien. I need you.”

Then Jason was turning my face to his own, leaning down till our mouths were millimeters apart, and inhaling sharply as I exhaled shakily. I felt my breath drawn swiftly out of me along with something else I couldn’t define. Some intangible that, with its departure, left me feeling suddenly weak and lethargic. Rudderless.

Above me, Jason began to glow red . . . and I began to struggle listlessly . . . but it was too late.

Far too late.

The Morning After


I was staring into my cup of coffee—perfectly made—and poking at my eggs—just the way I liked them, runny-side up—and trying to remember just what in the hell had happened last night, when Camela came yawning out of her bedroom, dressed in an oversized Mickey Mouse t-shirt and clearly nothing else. I was wearing its mate, the oversized Mini Mouse t-shirt—which wasn’t as oversized on me as I’d have liked—and my boxers.

“I smell a breakfast with aaaaaall the fixin’s,” Camela was saying sleepily, stretching her arms up and out. Her spine made little pops and cracks. “What’s the special occasion, hon? One of us finally get laid again after nearly a ye—eeee!”

She let out a little scream when she saw Jason, who was checking the flapjacks he’d made—from scratch—for signs of char before placing two on my plate. At Camela’s scream, he looked up and smiled. A ray of sunshine happened to slant across his handsome face just so and Camela’s mouth dropped open, just like mine had been and still was every time something drove home just how beautiful Jason Cambion was. How totally out of my league.

And yet . . . here he was, making me breakfast the Morning After. . . .

After the night I couldn’t quite remember.

“Hullo,” Jason said warmly, placing the pan back on the burner and stepping toward Camela: six-foot-two, two hundred pounds of perfection, dressed only in black silk boxer briefs that accentuated abs like WHOA—plus a package UPS would be proud to deliver—and that gorgeous smile. He held out his hand and Camela scurried back as if he’d offered to undress her.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she demurred hastily, looking like a deer caught in the headlights of a truck. “I haven’t even put my face on, yet.”

Jason glanced at me questioningly, and I shrugged, putting my fork and coffee down before I stood up and drifted toward him slowly, almost as if half asleep. Everything felt like a dream, and had since early this morning. I’d woken up in bed, not alone, and been suddenly afraid my bedmate would disappear in a flash of dawn-light. I’d forced myself to stay awake while he slept on soundly, occasionally touching him to make sure he was real. “What she means is, ‘good morning, handsome stranger in our kitchen.’”

“Ah,” Jason said, smiling again and nodding to Camela, who nodded back once, looking stricken and mesmerized. I knew the feeling. “And good morning to you, too, lovely lady whose kitchen I’ve wrecked. For which . . . sorry, by the way.”

“Uh. . . .” Camela looked around at the kitchen—which was actually slightly cleaner and neater than we’d left it yesterday—Jason had cleaned while breakfast was cooking. While I’d ogled his perfect body and tried to remember more of last night than just a blurry, but powerful orgasm and Jason’s dark eyes above my own, the only stable point in a shifting, amorphous surreality. “Wrecked?”

Jason held out his hand to me and when I was close enough, took mine, and pulled me close for a kiss. A long and minty one, since we’d both used my toothbrush not an hour ago. And even if we’d both still had morning breath, that kiss? Would’ve been so worth it. When it ended, my knees were so weak, I had to hold onto Jason to stay upright. His kisses—even his touch had a way of leaving me feeling . . . weak . . . and almost lost.

“Yeah . . . I got a little enthusiastic about breakfast.” Jason laughed, and glanced at Camela for a moment before looking back at me. He reached up and caressed my cheek so, so tenderly. “But I promise I’ll clean up when I’m done.”

And the staring went on until Camela cleared her throat and said: “Damien. Babe. Love. Explanation, please?!”

“He followed me home, Cam,” I said dreamily, blinking when I thought I saw a flash of crimson in Jason’s melty-chocolate eyes. But it was gone before I could be sure, and I glanced over at Camela—whose gaze darted between Jason and me—before looking back at Jason. I couldn’t help myself. He was so . . . beautiful. “Can I keep him?”

Another maybe-flash of crimson in those melty-chocolate eyes—Cambion! Cambion! Cambion! a voice in my head gibbered fearfully—and Jason grinned at me. And kept on grinning.

End


Cambion: http://www.paranormal-encyclopedia.com/c/cambion/
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