Hopefully sooner rather than later.
* * *
Damon has beenasleep for two days.
The doctor assures me this is normal for trauma patients. The body just has to heal at its own pace. As long as he’s alive and breathing, I can wait for as long as I need to.
It’s early morning, and I’m perusing the cafeteria for breakfast. I know they say hospital food is gross, but I believe that just pertains to the patients, ’cause the café down here is amazing.
Just after ordering a skinny cinnamon almond latte and chocolate scone, my shiny new phone beeps.
I read the hospital notification, and my heart flutters faster than hummingbird wings. Damon is finally awake. Like an impatient child on an amusement park line, I wait for my latte.
As soon as the barista hands it to me, I take off, nearly running to the lobby elevators, spilling hot coffee all over my hand.
I can’t get to the third floor fast enough.
Power walking down the hall, I all but break down his hospital room door to find him sitting up, looking into a hand mirror with a nurse standing next to his bed.
“Hey.” Tears instantly well in my eyes from elation.
“Hey.” His response is flat, but I guess that’s expected after all he’s been through.
I drop my latte and scone on the rolling table and rush to his side. “How are you feeling?” I lean in to kiss him, but his response to me is lukewarm. An unnerving feeling tells me something isn't right.
“I’ll give you two a minute to talk,” the nurse politely excuses herself.
Once she’s gone, I stare down at Damon, unsure what to say. His head is wrapped in a bandage, with a huge pad covering his wounded eye. The energy is off in the sunny room. It’s dark and gloomy instead of cheerful and joyous. This reunion is supposed to be a happy one, but the look on his face is anything but.
“Can I get you anything? Water? Food? Scone?” I try to make light, but Damon is not amused by me one bit.
“Are you okay?” he asks but doesn’t look directly at me. He just keeps his head down.
“I’m fine. We match now.” I point to my black-and-blue cheek.
Crickets. Nothing, not even a smirk.
“That’s not even funny.” He broods, and I realize the man I know is deeply wounded. Way beyond what happened to his face or his body.
“Damon.” I sit on the edge of the bed. “Can you please look at me?”
“No.” He turns his head, shielding his bad eye.
“Please, talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling,” I beseech him. “I just want to be here for you. For whatever you need.”
“What I fucking need—” He swings his head toward me, stopping when he notices something on the television behind me. I turn to see what he’s looking at. On the screen is a picture of Pony’s weathered face with the news caption “Beverly Hills kingpin arrested.”
As soon as Gerard put that burner phone in my hand, the first phone call I made was to Agent Harris. I gave him the address just like I was instructed to. And he was very happy to squeeze every drop of information out of me as he could. Not that I had much. I never gave him my name, and the call lasted barely more than three minutes. He must have been waiting for that info for a long time, because little did I know the bust was going to happen so quickly.
“They found over a thousand automatic weapons in his house, along with hundreds of thousands of dollars in drugs, and millions in cash,” I explain. “They got Lev and Dima, too. Now all that's left is to find Knuckles, and Ky is working on that. He has Tempest, Vet, and Bone looking for him. Not that I know who the two other guys are, but I’m hoping you’ll introduce me when we get home.” I slide my hand into his.
Damon barely registers the gesture, and I’m left feeling completely empty inside.
“Liv, you should go.” He pulls away from me. Just shuts down right in front of my eyes.
“Go? Go where?” I answer preposterously.
“Home. Get out of here, and don't look back. You were right. We don’t belong together. I’m no good for you.”
