“After Laura’s accident,” I start, then stop. Fuck. This is harder than I thought. “He told me… I mean, not right away. It was months later. The last time I ever visited him.”
Bridger blinks. “You visited him?”
I nod. “He said he had someone cut her brake line. Said he did it to remind me what it looks like when people try and walk away from him.” The words feel like acid scraping my throat onthe way out. “I was already trying to pull out. Stop working for him. Make the shop legit. He knew it. He told me if I didn’t stay loyal, he’d force my hand.”
Bridger takes a step back. His face is pale. Horrified. “That’s why you’re so fucking scared of him finding Marlowe,” he says. “You think he’ll do to her what he did to Laura. You’re really afraid he’ll punish her to get to you.”
I shake my head slowly. “No,” I say, voice flat, empty. “I think he’ll do a hell of a lot more than punish her—for everything we took from him.”
“This is worse than I thought,” Bridger says.
“I need to make a few calls,” I mutter, already moving toward the car. “Get my head on straight. I don’t want Marlowe hearing any of this.”
Bridger falls into step beside me, his voice low but pressing. “But Damian… you’re messing shit up with her.”
I stop walking. Turn to him, sharp. “She stays in the dark until it’s over,” I say. “You have no idea how bad her panic attacks can get. I’ve seen them. I know what sets them off. If she knows someone worse than Joel is after us, it’s over. So no, I’m not dumping this on her.”
He shakes his head, teeth clenched. “And once Clay is taken care of?” he asks, voice hard. “You think everything’s just going to fall into place?”
“It’ll be fine,” I snap.
Bridger scoffs. “Is that what you keep telling yourself?”
I glare at him, but he keeps going.
“Shit might be fine, Damian. You might get it handled. But by the time you do, she’s not going to want anything to do with the psychopath she seems to be dating.”
“It’ll work out,” I say, more to myself than to him.
Bridger snorts. “Maybe it’s time you thought about leaving her for good.”
I turn my head slowly. “What?”
“That’ll keep her the safest?—”
“Never,” I growl, cutting him off, the word snapping like a whip in the space between us. “I’m not going to live without her.”
He watches me for a beat, expression unreadable. I’m the one who looks away first. “Let’s just go to your place,” I mutter. “I’ll make the calls there. She’ll be fine tonight. Neve’s with her. She’ll cool off. It'll be fine.”
Bridger walks around to the passenger side and yanks the door open. “You are the biggest idiot I know,” he mutters. “Really.” He slams the door shut, and I follow a second later, jaw tight, pulse hammering. I don’t respond, because I already know I’m too far gone to be anything else.
Chapter Thirteen
MARLOWE
The second the front door clicks shut behind Bridger, I move. I rush to the window like I’m being pulled by a string, push aside the curtain, and peer down just in time to see them hit the street. Damian’s moving fast, body rigid with whatever fury’s still riding him, and Bridger grabs his shoulder to stop him.
They start arguing. I can’t hear them.
I fumble with the window latch, fingers trembling, and push it open fast, the night air rushing in, sharp and salty. Neve looks up from the kitchen, eyes narrowing when she sees what I’m doing.
“What are you?—”
“Shh.” I motion her over without looking away.
Neve walks over slowly, joins me at the window, and we both stand there, half-hidden behind the curtain. We strain to catch even one word of what they’re saying. All I hear is the occasional sharp syllable, the tension in their body language doing most of the talking.
He said he was doing this to keep me safe. But from what? And why won’t he just tell me?
