“Mr. Stark’s assistant is on the phone,” she says, as cold fingers of dread trail up my spine. “Apparently a Ms. Archer has been trying to reach you. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

Chapter Seventeen

I release Damien’s hand and burst through the door to Jamie’s tiny room on the third floor of the San Bernadino hospital, then sag with relief when I see her sitting up in bed watching SpongeBob. There’s a nasty bruise rising on her left cheek, and a white bandage taped across her forehead. Other than that, though, she looks intact, and for the first time since Sylvia called, I breathe easily.

“I’m sorry!” she says the second she sees us. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“But are you okay?” Thanks to Damien’s helicopter, it didn’t take us that long to get here, but I still spent the entire flight imagining the worst. Now I rush to her side and wince at the bruise that covers one arm, then disappears under her hospital gown.

“I’m banged up, but I’ll be fine. Really. But—I mean—oh, shit.” She glances Damien’s way. “Oh, God, Damien. The Ferrari’s toast. I totally fucked up.”

“You’re not badly hurt,” he says, moving to my side. He twines the fingers of one hand with mine, then takes Jamie’s hand in his other. “That’s all that matters.”

“Is the other driver okay?” I ask.

“It was just me,” she says, her voice as anguished as I’ve ever heard it. “I’m such a fucking loser.”

I am fighting hard not to cry. “You’re not, and you know it. It was an accident,” I say, but Jamie just shakes her head and doesn’t meet my eyes.

I frown and glance at Damien, who looks at least as concerned as I feel.

“So tell me what happened,” I say gently. I ease up to sit on the edge of the bed and Damien pulls up a chair. I put my foot on the seat cushion beside his leg, and he rests his hand on my ankle, just below the platinum and emerald bracelet. I focus on his touch, grateful for his strength and so desperately relieved that he is here with me.

Jamie sniffles and drags the back of her hand under her nose. “I went down the mountain to go check out some happy hours,” she says. “I mean, I had this frigging awesome car, so why not, right? And I met this guy and he was so totally hot.” She looks toward Damien and shrugs almost apologetically.

“Would you like me to step out?”

Her eyes widen. “No! I mean, you deserve to know how I totaled your car. And it’s not like my reputation doesn’t precede me, right?”

Damien, wisely, stays silent.

“Go on,” I prompt.

“Well, there were sparks, you know? And I haven’t banged anyone since Raine except for that one time with Douglas,” she says, referring to our horndog of a neighbor. “Honest,” she adds, holding her hand up in a Boy Scout salute. “I was practically a nun while you two were in Germany. Anyway, he needed a ride home, and I was happy to oblige because, well, why wouldn’t I be? And that part was great. And the part after was great, too,” she adds, cutting her eyes toward Damien.

I get it. For that matter, I’m sure Damien gets it, too. She fucked the guy. A perfect stranger. But this isn’t the time for yet another lecture, and I bite back my reprimands and instead say simply, “Go on.”

“So I’m lying there, right? And it’s nice. I mean he’s nice. Or at least, I think he is. Until this alarm clock beside the bed goes off. Then he sits up and starts pulling on his clothes.”

I catch Damien’s eye. I do not like the direction this is heading, and I already know that it ends badly.

“I ask him why he’s getting dressed, and he snaps at me to hurry. Because his wife—his fucking wife—is going to be home soon and I need to get the hell out of there.”

“Oh, Jamie . . .”

“I know, I know. Believe me, I know. But right then I was just pissed. And scared, because he tells me his wife’s a cop. I mean, seriously, it’s like a goddamned movie of the week or something.” She draws in a deep breath. “So I’m hurrying, right? And he’s pushing me to move faster, and he’s basically turned into this total asshole. And I swear, if she wasn’t a woman who carried a gun I would have stayed and told her that her fucktard of a husband screwed around. But I’m not keen on getting shot and he’s practically screaming at me by now.”

“And somehow the wife caused the accident?”

Jamie shakes her head. “Other than by coming home and scaring the crap out of me? No. But I pull out of his house and I head down the street to get out of the subdivision and back to the main road. I’m distracted, and I know I’m driving faster than I should, and—oh, Damien—I’m so, so sorry. But that was it. Just too fast. I wasn’t being reckless, I swear to God. But when I turn the corner, this other car is pulling out. They couldn’t have planned the timing better if they tried. I mean, it was like they were just waiting for me to come, which is stupid, right, but that’s just the kind of day I was having. So I swerve, and I lose control and I wrap the car around this huge stone fence that marks the edge of the development. The airbags did their thing, but I still managed to bang my head.” She presses her fingertips to the bandage on her forehead. “I’m not even sure what I hit it on.”

Her shoulders rise and fall as she takes a deep breath. “So that’s it. The whole thing was my fault. I was pissed off and driving too fast and the whole goddamn thing is because I spread my legs for some fucking stranger who only wanted a quick lay while his wife was off catching bad guys.”

I know she wants me to console her. To tell her it wasn’t her fault at all. And sure, that kind of accident can happen to anyone. But Jamie has fucked around for too long, with me and everyone else telling her that it can only end in trouble. I’m not about to say “I told you so,” but I’m also not going to tell her it’s no big deal and that it could have happened to anyone.

“You scared the shit out of me, James,” I finally say, and feel the tears well in my eyes again. “What would I do if something happened to you?”

Jamie got lucky—that’s the basic, bottom-line, absolute fact. A few inches in another direction, a few miles per hour faster, a little bit of oil on the road—just one tiny change and things could have been much, much worse.

I shiver, unnerved by the direction of my thoughts. By the knowledge that I could not stand to lose my friend. And by the certainty that if the worst happens, it is the sharp steel of a blade that I will crave—and if Damien is not beside me, then it is a blade that I will turn to.

Unnerved, I squeeze my hands tight, feeling my nails dig into my palms. Damien’s hand tightens around my ankle.

I sigh and savor the connection. For right then, it is enough.

When the nurse comes in to take Jamie’s vitals, Damien goes out into the hallway to find someone who can bring pillows and extra blankets. There is a hideously uncomfortable chair in the room that pulls out into a hideously uncomfortable bed, and that is where I am sleeping tonight, curled up tight against Damien’s side.

Despite the uncomfortable bed and the nurse visits that wake us every three hours or so, I am actually somewhat refreshed when I’m awakened the next morning by the smell of strong, slightly burned coffee.