Damien says in the taxi on the way back to the Hôtel Margaritte. “For not stopping? For breaking his camera?” I make a face. “It’s okay, really. I don’t give a fuck about him. I just don’t want you to get in trouble.” “Not for that,” Damien says. “For bringing you here.” It takes me a moment to understand what he’s talking about. “You mean to Paris? To the club?” I tighten my grip on his hand. “Damien, that’s ridiculous.” “Is it?” His words are tight. Clipped. “I almost canceled this entire trip after I saw your face in Mexico. How much you enjoyed the beach, the solitude.” I remember the shadows I had seen on his face when we had talked about leaving the resort, and everything falls into place. “And then to bring you to a city crawling with press—to put you back in that spotlight,” he continues. “And worse, to take you to that club. It was like opening a damn door for every lowlife asshole—” “No.” I press a finger over his lips.
