“She technically died of an overdose, but it’s not like what most people think when they hear about a young model ODing. She got hurt on a photo shoot about a year before she died when a piece of the set fell on her and crushed her leg. She had to have multiple surgeries just to be able to walk again, and she got addicted to pain pills. Her doctor switched her to a different type of meds to try and wean off the opioids he had no issues prescribing to her like candy for almost a year, and she had a reaction to them that caused her to have a heart attack. It was his fault,” he says, his tone bitter and angry as he squeezes his water bottle so hard the plastic cracks under his fingers.“He miscalculated her dose and she ended up taking more than double what she should have been prescribed even though she followed his directions and did what she was supposed to do. I lost my mom because that fucker couldn’t be bothered to check his math, and her pharmacist didn’t catch the error, either. Two medical professionals made careless mistakes because they wrote her off as a junkie when she was just trying to recover from a horrific injury that left her in constant pain, and my mom paid with her life.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, not sure what else I can, or should, say.
He stops squeezing the bottle and taps it against his thigh in a steady 4/4 beat. “I’ll never forgive either of them. And the only thing that gives me any sort of comfort is the fact that her doctor died a few months after my grandparents won a multimillion-dollar malpractice suit against him.”
“And your mom’s family? Would any of them want to hurt you?” I ask.
Jace already looked into them, but there’s always a chance that Damon could have some insight that Jace wouldn’t find online.
He huffs out a laugh and uncaps his water again. “Pretty sure most of them would love to see me get offed if it meant they’d get some of my money, but I doubt any of them are involved. They don’t have the connections or the capital to hire people to take me out. And none of them would get anything anyway. I have things set up so everything goes to into a trust for my sisters if something happens to me, and it’s been like that since I turned eighteen.” He drinks some of his water, but I can see that he’s shutting down, both physically and mentally.
“How about we go to bed?” I suggest. “It’s getting late, and I think it’s about time for today to be over.”
“Couldn’t agree more.” He tips his head back and finishes his water.
I drink down the rest of what’s left in my bottle, and we both stand.
“I’ll get rid of these,” I hold my hand out for his empty water.
He gives it to me, and I meet him at the bottom of the stairs after I’ve tossed them in the recycling bin.
“How many bedrooms does this place have?” he asks as we climb the stairs together.
“Three,” I tell him as we reach the top of the stairs. “We’re sleeping in that one.” I point to the far room.
“I have to warn you,” he says sheepishly. “I don’t really sleep with people, ever, and I’m not just a blanket hog, I’m also a pillow thief. So you might change your mind about sleeping with me after tonight.”
I laugh. “Not gonna happen. I don’t sleep with people either, but I did enough sleepovers with my cousins when I was a kid that there’s literally nothing you could do that would change my mind about sleeping with you.” I push the door to the far bedroom open. “I remember this one time when I was around ten when I stayed over at the twins’ house and fell asleep before they did. Jace literally glued me into the sheets, and when I was trapped, Jax dropped a mouse on me. They laughed their asses off while I flailed and tried to get free.”
“He glued you into your sheets?” Damon asks, tossing me an amused look. “How did he do that?”
“He used super glue to glue my sheets together so they made a coffin shape around me.”
“And Jax just happened to have a mouse handy?”
“They were resourceful, even at eight.”
“Eight?” He sits on the edge of the bed and unzips his boots. “Aren’t you guys a year apart?”
I pull off my hoodie and toss it onto the dresser. “I’m two years older than them.”
“But you’re only a year ahead of them in school.” He tosses his boots aside. “Did they skip a grade?”
“Nope. The twins easily could have, but I repeated the sixth grade.”
He pauses pulling his shirt off and shoots me a confused look.
I strip off my own t-shirt. “I didn’t fail sixth grade, but I got to repeat it because that’s what everyone decided was best.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It didn’t take long for everyone to realize that the twins are different, but they didn’t get diagnosed until they were nine. Our family thought it would be best if I was only a year ahead of them in school so it would be easier for me to keep an eye on them and help them stay in line.”
“How did you repeat a grade if you didn’t fail?” he asks and undoes his pants.
“One of the reasons the twins got diagnosed so young is because of all the trouble they got into. Our family decided it was best to move us to a different school after they were officially diagnosed to give us all a fresh start. The only difference is they got to move on to fifth grade, and I got to repeat sixth grade.”
“That sounds like a lot of responsibility,” he says sympathetically as I strip off my pants. “Especially for a kid.”
