Page 21 of Damon

“Together,” he says simply, then leads me out of the kitchen and toward the hospital to have our baby—which will never be mine.

Chapter nine

The London Maternity Centre

Damon

We drive another lap around the parking area, looking for a space. Why do hospitals never have enough parking? The architects that design these fucking places need to go back to university and relearn what’s important when designing a public service facility. As we turn down yet another insanely narrow row, I notice a large SUV drive out. My foot presses down on the accelerator, and my banged-up car speeds up somewhat. The engine revs loudly with the increase in speed.

Emma is sitting beside me, her fingers wrapped around the door handle. I’ve noticed she’s a nervous passenger. Whenever she’s been in my car, if we drive too close to the car in front or take a corner fast, a breath catches in her throat. Speed and close proximity to other vehicles makes her uncomfortable. She always holds the handle—her hands are never relaxed on her lap. I wonder if there’s a reason behind the tension, but I’ve never been brave enough to ask. Showing too much interest in her is something I want to avoid, though there is so much I want to know.

As we approach the free space, another vehicle, a small red sports car, pulls onto the row from the wrong direction. The single male driver cuts in front of us and parks without as much as a look in our direction.

“Asshole,” I mutter. “The prick isn’t getting away with that.” Emma glances at me but doesn’t make a comment. I drive on, then park directly behind the dickhead’s car. He’s still sitting in the driver’s seat. The windows are down, and he’s speaking on his phone—laughing jovially with whoever is on the other end of the line. “I’ll only be a moment,” I say, then push the door open and step out.

I approach the driver’s window, and his eyes meet mine in the side mirror. I smile, he grimaces. It’s obvious my appearance makes him uneasy. “I need to go,” he says to the person he’s speaking to. “I think someone wants to talk to me.” He disconnects the call and pushes his phone into his jeans pocket before opening his door and climbing out to face me. His nervous expression tightens as we focus on each other. He’s a tall man, thin with rounded spectacles on the end of his nose. The shirt he wears is pressed with crisp seams on the arms. His slightly-too-short jeans expose bare ankles with sockless feet stuffed into suede shoes. It’s hard to tell what age he is, but most likely similar to myself.

“Can I help you?” he asks, fake confidence clear in his tone.

“I would appreciate if you would move your car,” I say simply, twirling my keys on my index finger. “You took our space, you see. Simple mistake.”

He glances over my shoulder to the silent car behind me, blocking him in. “I was here first,” he replies with a shrug.

“No, you traveled up a one-way row the wrong way and stole my space before I could get to it.”

“Finders keepers.” He moves to step past me, and my hand shoots out to stop him, connecting with his vehicle.

“It wasn’t a question or a request,” I tell him. “You see that woman.” I signal over my shoulder with my chin. He nods. “She’s nine months pregnant, and we are about to go into that hospital so a doctor can bring on her labor. We have been driving around looking for a space, and with every second that passes she is becoming more anxious. It would be gentlemanly for you to do this selfless act today and move.”

“That woman isn’t my responsibility,” he says. “Anyway, if she walks a bit farther, it will help her lose the baby weight quicker.”

I step forward, invading his space, then turn so he automatically moves so his back is against his car. I drop my other hand to the opposite side of him, pinning him in, and lean forward some more. “Do you like your car?” I ask darkly.

“Are you threatening me?”

“No, I’m suggesting if you don’t move this.” I tap the metalwork with my left hand. “It may not look the same when you return. Call it neighborly concern.” My keys are sitting between the palm of my hand and the shiny red paintwork. I gently move the metal across the gloss. It squeaks beneath it. “Oops.”

“Bastard,” he hisses.

Just then I hear my name. “Damon,” Emma calls, having opened her door and stepped out of the car, “is there a problem?”

“No, darling,” I reply, smiling reassuringly and ignoring the fact I called her darling so naturally. “This kind gentleman was about to move so we can park closer to the front door. Weren’t you?” I turn back to my captive, and he glares at me but nods. “Thank you,” I tell him. “A pleasure negotiating with you.”

“Asshole.”

“Guilty as charged. Now, get the fuck out of my parking spot so I can go and have my daughter.”

When I return to my own vehicle, Emma is back sitting in the passenger seat, twisting nervous fingers in her lap. Her eyes flit to mine and she gives me a curious look. “Did you threaten him?” she asks, her voice soft.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Your conversation didn’t look particularly friendly.” I laugh out loud. “He looked afraid of you.”

“I merely pointed out that driving up a one-way street the wrong way, then stealing a space from a heavily pregnant woman was perhaps not the most gentlemanly conduct.” She narrows her eyes. “And I suggested if he didn’t move his car may look a bit different when he returned.”

“You didn’t!” she squeaks. “Damon, that’s so fucking bad.”

“Don’t complain, we got a parking space. That idiot will be driving around for hours.”

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