Page 9 of Stutter

‘You should guard your drinks better. The bathroom is the first door on the right. – Jonas.’

Did the little fucker drug me? Better question is,whendid the fucker drug me?

I gently tug the IV out of my arm and squeeze my hand, wrapping the cord over the IV stand and make my way to the half bathroom in the grand house, relieve myself, wash my face and find a band aid in a first aid kit under the sink and place it where I’m bleeding. When I open the door, I’m handed a hot mug of coffee.

“Glad to see you’re up.”

“The kid drugged me.” I gripe, taking the mug, my mood dipping again at how delicious it is. Brewed to annoying perfection.

The prick.

“He just wanted you to see what he was capable of. And it wasn’t a lot. Barely a drop. You were already drunk as a skunk.” A shirtless, comfortable Damon says, taking a sip from his own mug.

“Was not.”

Damon chuckles and shakes his head.

“Where is she?”

“They flew to London with Jonas’ parents this morning for his mother’s birthday since it’s also Thanksgiving break.”

Of course they did. “And you?”

“I have patients to see on campus until midday Tuesday.”

“No family?”

“I’ll be headed to see my father in Stanford on Wednesday and then I’ll catch a red eye on Thursday to see my mother.”

“Where is she?”

“Paris. Jonas and Raven will be meeting me there. Would you like to come with?”

I scrunch my nose, feel my brows furrow. “To meet your parents?”

Damon shrugs as though this isn’t an issue. As if bringing me to meet his parents is second nature. “Why not? Do you prefer to spend the holiday alone? I assure you my father’s chef is the best on this side of the Mississippi.”

No, I’ve spent enough alone. Too many. I don’t say that. But also, “his chef?”

Damon chuckles again, “My father is the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery there. He doesn’t always have the time to cook for himself.”

Of course not. But learning about Damon feels… good. Like he’s finally letting me in after months of knowing him. I feel…acceptance. But it could be a trick. Right? Tricking me into knowing him, feeling accepted and wanted so I don’t talk to Detective Arlo. There’s only one way to find out. “I’ll need to collect my passport.”

He nods once. “Jonas drove your car back. It’s in the driveway. Your keys are hanging by the front door.”

“Why are you being kind to me?”

“Because she loves you, Harrington, and, you’ll find I have very little tolerance for anyone or anything else that doesn’t involve her.” He replies, walking away.

Because she loves me.

Simple as that.

_________

Damon’s father lives in an older, gorgeous, meticulously kept two-story colonial home with a picture-perfect manicured lawn. The interior is adorned with modern lighting, light oak hardwood flooring. It feels like walking into a museum. It makes me sick how much it resembles my own home; how much itscreamsof loneliness.

But the older gentleman that looks like Damon’s much older twin, except for the eyes that are green instead of silver. (He must get those from his mother.) He welcomes his son (and me) with open arms. He’s exceptionally in shape for an older man, lean with broad shoulders, muscular arms and lean hands. Hands that save lives.

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