Playing With Fire (Previously Burning The Bad Boy) (UNDER RECONSTRUCTION)

{22} A Game of Cat and Mouse

The possibility of me getting sleep that night was non-existent. Even with the slight ease I felt with Damon spending the night, I couldn't fall asleep. He sat upright at the end of the bed, hands clenching and unclenching on his lap, eyelids fluttering rapidly. He looked as if he were forcing himself to stay awake, eyes occasionally finding my bedroom window. At one point, he rose and peered out through the blinds, licking his chapped lips.

"Damon." I whispered, outstretching my hand and grasping his wrist. His head whipped down in my direction, blue eyes wide.

I pushed up from my bed and circled my arms around his waist. He hesitated for a few seconds before hugging me back, burying his face in the crook of my neck. I could hear his abnormal heartbeat, the sound of his ragged breathing. It took me a moment to tilt my head back and gaze up at him. What I saw was a sight I knew would never be presented before me again.

Damon was crying in my arms.

It was as if every ounce of his bad boy facade had crumbled to the ground, leaving a guilt ridden teenage boy in his wake. The cocky smirks, the winks, sideways glances were nothing now. He was falling apart, piece by piece, tear after tear, in my arms. Rather than step away and allow him to recollect himself, I hugged him tighter, burying my face in his chest. I had no doubt the tears had been building for years, a long time before what he witnessed a year ago.

Damon had finally reached his breaking point.

"I'm sorry." he turned his face away. "I'm sorry, I'm not usually this weak. I do-"

"Damon." I brushed my fingers against his cheek and forced him to look down at me with glossy blue eyes. "Crying doesn't make you weak. Men can cry too, it doesn't make you any less of a man to reach your breaking point."

He huffed out angrily, avoiding my eyes. "Just stop it, Micky! Do you not understand what I've done? I put you in danger, I might as well of handed you over to Craig myself."

"Damon." I snapped. "You didn't do anything wrong. I could have stayed away too. If anyone is to blame, it's me. I'm going to be the one that ends up getting you killed."

He laughed hysterically, wiping at the red rims around his eyes. "I'd much rather that be the case, McKenzie. If you were the last face I saw before I died, I'd be happy. But Craig isn't going to just kill me. He'll force me to watch him torture you."

I fell back a step, dropping my head into my hands with a sigh.

"When I was ten I saw a boy sitting alone on the playground. He was sad, so much so that my mother told me to keep my distance out of worry I'd get myself involved with something I wouldn't be able to get myself out of. I saw him every day after that, and each morning, he would be wearing the same forced smile." I said. "He never showed any sign of emotion again after that day on the playground. And I thought that he was the strongest kid out there, no matter how much I disliked him. Where is that kid, Damon? I know he's in there somewhere."

Damon buried his hands in his hair, shaking his head. "No amount of strength is going to get out of this mess, Micky. I've dug our own graves on my own."

"Maybe it's just a scare tactic, what Craig's doing. Maybe he-"

"Micky, stop." Damon's voice was so soft that I couldn't bring myself to fight back.

I sat back down on my bed and stared at him instead, awaiting his next move. The broken bad boy eventually collapsed beside me and stared at the carpet between his feet, a tortured look in his eyes.