I ignore the salt in his words. "Exactly. Plus, you can always fuck her in the backroom if you get bored.”
Damon smirks, his eyes lighting up. "Now that’s an idea.”
"Then it's settled. Finish your breakfast, freshen up, and get going. I’ll…” My gaze sweeps across the room. “I’ll stay here, and uh, tidy up a little.”
Damon snorts. “You’re going to clean?”
I hold up a finger. “Not clean. Tidy. Big difference.”
“Fine, but don’ttidytoo well, otherwise I might have to let Josie go,” Damon quips and starts eating, his mood seeming to improve.
As he finishes his food, I clear the island and clean up the kitchen, making sure everything is back in its place. Damon heads to the bathroom to shower and change while I tidy up the rest of the living room, organizing the scattered art supplies and sports equipment.
When Damon emerges from the bathroom, looking more like a regular human and not like a sad goblin, I give him a knowing smirk. "Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
He tosses me a wink. "That doesn’t leave much off the table.”
As Damon enters the elevator, I wave my fingers at him. “Toodles.”
Once the doors close, I stagger back and sink into his couch. Tomorrow. I’ll tell him tomorrow that I found Alison’s remains. Her ashes.
I pull my cell out of my trouser pocket and dial a number. It rings, and then a gruff voice on the other end answers. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Quinton. I sent you an email earlier today about a headstone. Alison Perry.”
I know where he wants to put her.
Beside everyone else he’s lost.
THE ART GALLERY
EMERY
As I standin Winnoa Gallery, surrounded by renowned eighteenth century paintings, I can’t seem to focus on the art. I catch my mother tilting her head, assessing the portraits and landscapes with a scrutinizing eye, while my father yawns discreetly as he pretends to enjoy this little excursion.
I keep a forced smile on my face, hoping that my feigned contentment will somehow turn into genuine joy. But deep down, I can't stop thinking about the fact my parents don't entirely approve of Quinton, or Damon for that matter.
A part of me understands their reservations. They’re from a small town. Power and prestige were never very important to my parents. Not that they’re a big selling point for me either, but they come with thetwo packages I refuse to return. Middle-class comfort—that’s what my parents wanted. And eventually, after I helped pay off their debt, they got it. After years of stress and worry, the only thing my parents wanted was simplicity and peace.
I get it. I get their hesitations. Now that I’m with Quinton, and unbeknownst to them, Damon, I can see why they might be wary. They're unsure of how to handle Quinton, how to interact with him, and how to feel about him. There’s nothing simple about these two men.
As my mind drifts, a smoky voice interrupts my weary thoughts.
"A personal favorite of mine. At least from this particular decade."
I gasp and spin around, both of my parents following suit. My heart skips a beat as I blink, attempting to steel my surprise.
"Good morning, Miss Jones," Damon hums with a crooked smile. His eyes briefly flicker toward my parents. "Your parents, I presume?"
I struggle to find my tongue. What is Damon doing here? How did he know where we were?
"Yes," I stammer, stealing a glance at my parents. "This is Susan and Richard Jones."
My gaze flits between my guarded parents as I introduce them. "Mom, Dad, this is Damon Cavanaugh...my, uh…" I pause, considering my words carefully. "My former boss and, uh," I decide to dive in, "myfriend."
I tilt my head slightly, trying to gauge my parents'reactions. They’d make fine poker players because they’re giving me zip. Nada. Zero.
"I wasn’t expecting to see you here today," I say to Damon, hoping to shift the focus away from any potential tension.
