Before she can answer, headlights sweep across the garage. A black Escalade pulls in too fast, the engine cutting off with aggressive finality.
Damon stumbles out, and I know immediately he’s drunk. Not falling-down wasted, but loose-limbed and loud in a manner that means he’s been at it for hours.
“Well, well.” He spots us and grins, but there’s nothing friendly about it. “Isn’t this cozy? Working late together?”
“Her car died. I fixed it.” I move between him and Remy without thinking. “What are you doing here?”
“I left my laptop. Big presentation Monday.” He sways slightly, squinting past me at Remy. “But it looks like I’m interrupting.”
“You’re not.” Remy’s shoulders tense. “I was leaving.”
“Sure you were.” Damon’s smile turns ugly. “That’s what you do, right? Play innocent while you sink your claws in? How long before you’re fucking all three of them, Remy? Going for all three triplets?”
Unexpected anger courses through my nerves. “Shut the fuck up, Damon. You’re drunk.” I step toward him with my fists balled up, and he backs up instinctively.
“What?” He laughs, but there’s fear in his eyes now. “You’re going to hit me?”
My fist is already cocked back before his words register. I freeze, muscles locked, realizing I was about to deck my best friend of thirteen years in a parking garage.
I lower my fist. “You’re drunk. Go home. I’ll even drive you.”
For a second, I think he’s going to push it. Then he must see whatever is in my expression, because he raises his hands in surrender.
“Fine. Whatever.” Damon straightens his shirt, anger and hurt warring on his face. He stares at me for a long moment, then heads for the elevator.
The elevator doors close, leaving Remy and me in silence.
I don’t turn around immediately. My hands are shaking from adrenaline and anger, and I need a second to get myself under control.
She studies me, and I can feel the weight of her gaze. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” I pull out my phone and open my contacts. “Give me your number.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to text you, so you have my number. Then you’ll text me when you get home safely.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“Humor me.” I hold out the phone.
She takes it, types in her number, and hands it back. Our fingers brush. The contact lasts half a second, but I feel it everywhere.
“There.” She moves toward her car door. “Happy?”
“Just text me when you get home.”
She slides into her car, and I watch her drive away, taillights disappearing up the ramp.
The elevator dings, and Damon emerges with his laptop bag, his earlier aggression replaced by sullen silence. He doesn’t look at me as we walk to my car.
The drive to his apartment is quiet except for the city sounds filtering through the windows. I keep my eyes on the road, hands tight on the wheel, because if I look at him, I might say something I can’t take back.
When I pull up to his building, he finally speaks. “She’s going to fuck everything up. You know that, right?”
I don’t answer.
He climbs out, slams the door, and disappears into his building without looking back.
