Page 87 of Loss and Damages
My nerves are jittery, and I can’t stop my feet from tapping on the floorboards.
A cell phone rings, and he pulls a sleek black iPhone out of his jacket pocket.
The streets are packed, made even more so because of the fire, and the driver maneuvers around vehicles inching forward. Either he knows a way out, or his GPS is directing him to an open road.
“I have her.” He pauses then asks me, “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. I want to grab the phone, demand Dominic tells me he’s okay, his raspy voice proof that he’s alive. Instead I sit, my fingers twisted in my lap.
“She says she’s not.”
Another pause.
“About fifteen minutes. Roads are shit.”
Pause.
“Will do.”
I stare past him out the window at the buildings as we slowly roll by them. “You followed me into the city. Are you one of the men Dominic said would be watching me?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“You can call me Anderson.”
“Thank you.”
His face is blank. “Just doin’ my job.”
The driver turns onto a residential street, apartment buildings that have fire escapes attached to the sides. The trees along the sidewalks are tall and lush, brilliant green leaves covering their branches. The street feels untouched by the tragedy I just saw.
“The driver of that truck—”
“Is fine. He was prepared for something like that. We all are, Miss Ferrell.”
Anderson is a man of few words but tells me what I need to hear.
We stop in front of a distinguished older building, but I can’t picture Dominic living here. I’ve always taken him for chrome and black leather, diamonds and satin sheets. Stark penthouses and crystal lowballs of the best whiskey money can buy.
This building represents families and nannies pushing children in strollers to the park we passed a few blocks away. This building speaks of neighbors who know each other, who are willing to lend eggs and sugar.
There isn’t a doorman, and Anderson unlocks and opens the door for me.
“Thanks,” I say, my mouth dry. I’m nervous.
The elevator carries us up twenty floors, and Anderson leads me to a corner unit. He raps once on the door and steps back.
The door flies open a second later, and Dominic is there, his hair framing his face, his suit rumpled, his complexion pure white, sweat glistening on his skin.
“Jemma.”
I throw myself into his hard chest, and he lifts me up and hugs me so tightly I can’t breathe.
Burying my face in his neck, I hang on for dear life.
But I don’t know if it’s his life or mine.
