Pretty Little Promises

Ch. 15: The Hobby

QUINTON

Everyone knows that Damon Cavanaugh is a minimalist. He prefers his surroundings to be sleek, clean, clutter-free. His furniture. His decor. His office. Less is more. He's always been like this. Demanded perfection. He has this incessant need to control his surroundings. Clinically, I could equate this type of behavior to the loss of his family, but even as a college snob, he couldn't handle a film of dust.

The elevator doors to Damon's penthouse ping open, and my jaw nearly slams against the dirty hardwood. My surprise morphs into concern as I take in the hectic scene before me. The contrast between the pristine, minimalist Damon I know and this whirlwind of disarray is staggering. Art supplies. Sports equipment. The kitchen... a mess. Flour. Cutter cookers. My gaze flits briefly to a pile of empty energy drinks, and then toward the hall as Damon emerges, kicking a football, his movements a blend of athleticism and nervous energy.

"Mate...?" My voice is laced with both amusement and worry.

Damon startles, the football bouncing away as he turns to face me. "Jesus Christ, Quin!" He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to appear nonchalant. "What are you doing here?"

"I came here to check in on you and talk..." I walk slowly through the various delivery boxes. "What... What's going on here, D?"

Damon's speech is jittery and neurotic, an uneasy shift from his usual semi-composed demeanor. "Nothing, just you know... Trying to keep myself busy."

My gaze flits around the room again, taking in the chaos. "It looks like an Amazon tornado blew through here."

Damon chuckles awkwardly, a nervous tic evident as he rubs the nape of his neck. "Oh, relax. It's not that bad. Just a few deliveries." He nods to the kitchen. "Coffee?"

I narrow my eyes, not buying the facade. "No, we're not sidestepping this, D. What the hell is going on? Why do you have—" I point to a large stand-alone furnace. "Is that a kiln?"

Damon's jaw tenses, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features before he masks it. "Yes."

I gesture to the other side of the room. "And those are?"

"Batons," Damon admits, his voice softer now. "For juggling."

I raise an eyebrow. "Juggling?"

Damon's frustration bubbles to the surface as he brushes past me toward the kitchen and slumps down a bar stool. "Yes, juggling, okay?! I also have fucking knitting needles and yarn somewhere around here." He drops his face into his hands. "I'm fucking losing it, man. I'm losing it."

I weave through the mess and stop on the other side of him, rolling up my sleeves. He needs food. I have a feeling his blood is currently a mix of caffeine and chemicals. "Talk to me, D. What's going on?"

Damon hesitates, his mask slipping further. "I was..." He swallows as I pull out a pan and put it on a burner. "I was trying to find a hobby, okay?"

"A hobby?" I turn my back to him, and head to the fridge. If memory serves me right, Damon tends to be more forthcoming if not approached directly. Casual. My questions must be casual. Not accusatory. Not clinical. Not like a doctor. A shrink.

He groans. "Well, apparently, I need to find a hobby otherwise I'm going to ruin everything."

I remove a carton of eggs, turkey bacon, and butter from the fridge, checking the expiration date. Bless Josie for keeping the essentials stocked. She knows Damon better than anyone. "Ruin everything? What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing," he mutters. "Never mind."

I begin cooking breakfast, keeping my gaze glued to the pan but my attention is solely on Damon. "Don't do that, D. Don't ice me out. Talk to me."