DAMON

The road ahead is dark. Endless. No lights. No lines. Nothingness. Silhouettes of jagged trees whip past me, the speed of the car accelerating, my foot on the gas peddle pressed all the way down. I can't take it off. Wind snaps against the air, whipping against the vehicle. Loud. Destructive. But I keep driving. Keep going. Further. Faster. There must be an end. There—

The high beams turn on by themselves, the system controls blinking rapidly as the car speeds up, the force jerking me backward against the seat. No. Clinking glass sounds from where my feet are placed. I look down. A bottle. And another. And another. No. Multiplying. Expanding. Restricting the movements of my feet, my legs. I glance up, eyes widening as I stare out into the road. A person. In the distance. Arms open. Like an angel. Not moving. Move!

I grip the steering wheel, panting, screaming, using all my strength to twist the wheel but it's stuck. The bottles keep piling up, on my lap, around my waist, spilling over to the driver's seat. Too fast. I'm going too fast. Move! You need to move! Her hair flows in the violent wind, arms raised to the heavens. She can see me. She has to see me. Move! Fucking move! Sweat drips down my temples, tears down my cheek. Her chin is tipped towards the sky. Serene. Calm. Like she's waiting for ascension. Move! My heart seizes, zapping my spine, my bones, the tears freezing into icicles on my face as the car approaches the woman.

Please! Move, you need to move! You need to—

Her head snaps down, greens eyes locked on mine as I'm seconds away from taking her life.

No... Emery...

No!

With a ragged gasp, I jerk up, holding my chest, beads of sweat dripping from my forehead. Moonlight seeps through the cracks in the blinds, illuminating my bedroom. It's not real. It wasn't real. My gaze floats to the empty space beside me. Empty. I reach over, closing my eyes, begging the gods to make her appear. As if with only my mind, I could will her into existence. As if they'd listen to my screams. To my desperate need for company. For a body to lie next to me. Not any body. Hers. Squeezing my eyes shut, I rewind the hours, reliving the five precious minutes she spent in the safety of my arms, and me in hers.

Anger stews inside of me. How is it that I feel more alone now than when she wasn't in my life? How is that possible? When I'm with her, next to her, talking to her, touching her, smelling the sweet scent of her perfume, the void that's eating away at me, is full. Non–existent. But the moment she leaves, the moment she shuts me out, the moment she draws a line between our hearts, the void is back. Larger than ever.

Like a phantom, a lifeless corpse, I float into the living room. Dozens of half-painted canvases greet me, each a half-finished mess of my attempts at therapy. I run my fingers along the thick and bumpy dried paint, following the incoherent lines, and chaotic curves. It's nonsensical. A soul dump of color and grief. I stare at the painting and it stares back, showing me my inner turmoil, my demons, my inability to forget. A visual representation of my internal scars. Emery has them too.

The microwave flashes 6 am as I pour myself a cup of coffee. Grabbing a book that's taken me two years to finish off the kitchen counter, I slip on an overcoat and head to my private rooftop. A gust of November wind nips at my skin as the elevator doors open and the bright cityscape of towers appears before my eyes. It's fitting. To live in a city that never sleeps.

"Hope you're not up here to jump." Startled, I whip my head to the firepit. Emery sets a mug down on the side table next to an ornate wooden box. "Did I scare you?"

My chest warms, the void shrinking by the second. "I see you're putting your fob to good use," I say, sitting down beside her. I glance down at the thermos beside her chair. "How long have you been up here?"

"Since three," she says with a yawn, draping the corner of the throw blanket on her lap over mine. "Couldn't sleep."

"You should've called me," I say, dropping the book on the table. "I could've kept you company."

"I'm too sore for company." Emery flashes me a wily smile, the soft flames of the firepit dancing across her face. "But maybe tomorrow night."

I sigh. "I didn't mean that type of company."

She tilts her head. "I'm an adult, Damon, I don't need a human night light. I'm used to being alone." She takes a deep breath. "I enjoy the quiet."

"I can be quiet," I whisper, a pang of despair aching my heart. "Call me next time. I'll show you."

"Maybe," she hums, tilting her head up toward the whirring of a passing helicopter. Unease stirs in my guy as she sighs. "It's never really quiet in the city, though, is it? I've always wondered what it would be like to see New York from so high up. It probably looks less scary." She looks at me, face paling as she notices my reaction. "Sorry," she says quickly, swallowing. "I forgot you—" She shakes her head, changing the subject as she glances down at the table. "What are you reading?"

I sigh, handing her the book. She can see right through me sometimes. "El amor en los tiempos del cólera." The irony isn't lost on me. Life truly does imitate art. "It was... It was my mother's favorite."

"Love in a Time of Cholera," she says, translating the title. "I hear it's a classic." Her curious gaze flicks up at me. "You don't strike me as the type of person who enjoys reading romantic fiction."

I chuckle lightly. "No, but my mother was a big fan. She... She was born in the same city as Gabriel García Márquez. She even named my sister after him—" I pause, fighting the nostalgia. "Gabriella."

Emery gives me a soft smile. "We don't have to talk about your family, Damon. I don't need to—"

"It's fine," I swallow. "They deserve to be talked about."

I've been a bad son. A bad brother. For two years, I didn't utter their names. Their memories were forbidden. Remembering hurt too much. But it's time. It's time to remember them. Emery bites her lip, tapping her fingers against a book my mother held in her hands, and that connection, despite how small, makes me smile.

"How did your parents meet?" she asks slowly. "In Colombia? Or?"

"No, they met in the States. My mother came here for college," I say, stifling a laugh as I recall the story. "My dad was visiting a friend at the University of Austin and he met my mom at a bar one night. She was a waitress and I guess she spilled an entire tray of beer on his lap." I grin. "She didn't work a day after that."

"Love at first spill," Emery muses. "Cute."

"They eloped to Vegas shortly after," I continue. "My grandparents were pissed. I think my father knew they wouldn't approve of him marrying outside the appropriate social circle, but he didn't give a shit. Despite all my father's shortcomings, the one thing he did right was love my mother."

Emery's gaze flicks to the fire, her expression solemn, distant. "I've always wondered what it would feel like to be raised by parents who loved each other." She brings her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on the caps. "I bet you had a happy childhood."

I snort. "I wouldn't say I had a happy childhood."

Emery turns toward me, frowning. "No?"

"My father was a busy man," I elaborate. "He was barely ever home, and when he was, he spent that time with my mother. Gabriella and I were raised by a nanny until we were shipped off to a boarding school in Sweden."

"Sounds happy to me," Emery sighs. "My parents were always around. I don't remember a day that they weren't hovering over me. I know they had a reason to stay so close but—" She shrugs. "I guess the grass is always greener."

"I take it you're not close with your parents?" I ask, discreetly inching closer to Emery on the couch. She squirms beside me but doesn't move away.

"We have a..." She pauses. "We have a difficult relationship. I'm grateful for them, for everything they've sacrificed for me. Having a sick kid isn't cheap." She swallows. "By the time I was done high school, they were six figures in debt. So I— So I studied even harder when I got to university. I mean, being bedridden so often, I didn't have much else to do. So I finished school, got a good job, paid off most of their debt, and now—" She flashes me a cheeky smile. "And now I work for you."

"Yes, you do," I say, cocking my head. "And how are you enjoying it, Miss Jones?"

"So far, so good," she smirks. "The benefits at impeccable."

"Are you referring to our comprehensive health plan?" I ask, grinning. "Or something else?"

"Definitely the health plan." Her playful eyes travel down to my lap, and she bites her lip. "I anticipate using all the perks available to me."

"We have a couple of hours before we're due in the office," I muse as the sun peeks out, warming the sky with melting colors. "Would you care for an early morning perk?"

Emery lifts an amused brow. "I thought perks were confined to the... office. Are we changing the rules, Mr. Cavanaugh?"

"They're your rules, Miss Jones," I say, peering down at her with hooded eyes. "Do you wish to amend the amendment?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

I cock my head, smirking. "Let's not pretend there's nothing in it for you, Miss Jones." I arch over, whispering in her ear. "Need I remind you just how hard you came last night?" Releasing a hushed whimper, Emery lowers her legs, spreading her thighs open for me. "I thought you were still sore, mami? Are we suddenly healed?"

"Guess we'll find out," she breathes, finding my hand under the blanket and guiding it past the waistband of her cotton leggings. My fingers glide against the budding wetness, her instant arousal to my touch assuring me of our undeniable connection. She closes her eyes, cheeks flushed as I massage her clit. "Gentle. You can be gentle, right, Mr Cavanaugh?"

"I can try." For you. Wrapping my arm around her shoulder, I pull her against my chest, nails digging into her jacket as she squirms around me. Flicking her tender clit with my thumb, I slide a finger deep into her soft pussy, being careful and controlled in my movements. "Like this?"

"Mhmm," she hums, moaning into my shoulder, her pussy clenching around my finger as I dip in and out of her. "More..." She flicks her eyelids open, staring at me with veiled innocence as she begs, "More." My cock hardens as her plea fills my ears, and I add a second finger, stretching her open, quickening my pace. "Yes... Don't stop. Don't—" Her legs quiver, a sharp, melodic moan echoing into the atmosphere. "Faster, Damon... I'm so—" I stop. "Wha—" She frowns, panting. "Why'd you—"

"If you want to finish, Miss Jones, I'll see you in my office at noon," I smirk, pulling my fingers out, her juices dripping down my hand. Frustration oozes from her but she can't conceal her intrigue. I lick my fingers. "Mmm... so sweet."

"For a man that doesn't like games," Emery says, glaring at me as she stands up in a huff, "you sure play a lot of them." She picks up her thermos and mug. "Well, guess what?" She shoots me a combative glare. "I can play games too."

"Is that so?"

"A certain someone sent me a gift last night." A sly grin spread on her face as she nods down to the small ornate wooden box with various square and rectangular shapes adorning the edges. "Can you guess who?" My expression hardens. "It came with a note." She tilts her head. "I guess I'll accept his invitation to lunch."

"The hell you will," I grunt, standing up. "He has no business contacting you."

"Well, I was going to ignore him but—" She shrugs. "I think I've changed my mind."

My lip twitches. "You will decline."

"Mmm... no, I don't think I will." She picks up the box, propping it under her arm. "Don't worry, Mr Cavanaugh. You can punish me later."

The void returns, expanding rapidly as she walks away, leaving me alone with the rising sun.