I’ve been sprinting for the front door as he speaks, ready to go look at her parking space. I yank it open—and freeze at the site of Jamie standing there, her clothes askew, her hair a mess, but otherwise looking none the worse for the wear.
“James!” I pull her into my embrace, then back off long enough to inspect her for hidden injuries. “Are you okay? Where were you?”
She shrugs, but for just a second her eyes dart to the wall we share with Douglas.
“Oh, James,” I say, but she looks so damned miserable that I don’t say anything else. The lecture can wait. Right now, I need to put my very drunk, very upset best friend to bed.
“I’m going to go help her,” I tell Damien. I hesitate for a moment, then add, “I’ll be right back.”
He nods, and I help Jamie to her room, then out of her clothes. She slides into bed in her bra and panties. “I fucked up, didn’t I?” she asks.
“Bryan Raine is the fuck-up,” I say. “You just need to sleep.”
“Sleep,” she repeats, as if it’s the most wonderful thing in the world.
“Night, James,” I whisper. I start to leave, but she grabs my hand. “You’re lucky,” she says. “He loves you.”
I close my eyes tight to keep the tears at bay. I want to tell her everything, but my best friend is only half-conscious, and the man who might love me—but who has most definitely lied to me—is waiting for me in the living room.
I’m not ready for this, but I leave Jamie’s room and return to Damien.
He’s ending a call as I return. “That was Edward,” he says. “I’m sending him home. I’m staying here tonight.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’m staying,” he says. “In your bed, on the couch, in the goddamn bathtub. I don’t care, but you’re not getting rid of me. Not tonight.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I can hear the exhaustion in my voice. “But I’m going to bed.” I eye the bed that fills the living room—our bed—and the sadness that washes over me is almost enough to bring me to my knees. “The bed in my room,” I clarify. “There’s a spare blanket in the hall cabinet. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.”
And then I turn around, go to my room, and shut the door behind me.
Five minutes later I’m in bed, eyes wide open, when there is a soft tap at my door. I could pretend to be asleep. For a moment, I consider it. But while part of me is still hurt and angry, the other part craves Damien.
It’s that other part that wins. “Come in,” I say.
He enters with two mugs of hot chocolate. I can’t help but smile. “Where did you find that?”
“Your cupboard,” he said. “Okay?”
I nod. I am not in the mood for wine or liquor, but chocolate comfort is definitely welcome.
He puts mine on the bedside table, then sits on the edge of the bed. Silence hangs heavy between us. “It’s Richter,” he finally says, breaking the stillness. “I’m being charged with Richter’s murder.”
I try to process this information, fitting it in with what I know of Damien and what I know about Richter’s death. “But it was suicide,” I say. “And years ago.”
“They’re relying in part on the fact that I inherited his money.”
“You did?”
He nods. “My first million. It was kept out of the press. I paid Charles a good portion of that money to make sure it stayed out of the press. My enemies will argue that a million dollars is a strong motive.”
“That’s what they’re arguing? But you were just a kid.” Everyone in the world heard the story at the time it happened. Young tennis superstar Damien Stark’s coach committed suicide by leaping to his death from a Munich-based tennis center. “And you were already making money.”
“Most people with money want more.”
“It’s still a ridiculous argument,” I say. “He probably left you the money for the same reason he killed himself. He felt guilty for being an abusive slimebag.”
“I’m not sure Richter ever felt a moment of guilt in his life,” Damien says. “At any rate, I believe they’re putting more stock in the witness than into the money.”