Chapter 3
Double Booked
Damian
I almost have a second panic attack the moment we step inside the restaurant.
The noise hits first. Silverware clinking, voices overlapping, laughter too loud, too sharp.
The smell of food, garlic, butter, something sweet, twists my stomach.
Bodies everywhere. Too many of them. Too close.
People brushing past, bumping chairs, existing without any regard for my personal survival.
The lighting is dim but somehow still too bright, reflecting off glass and mirrors and polished surfaces until it feels like the room is watching me back.
I fight the urge to turn around. To bolt. To drag Hannah with me and lock us both safely behind my front door where the world makes sense again.
Instead, I straighten my spine and breathe through my nose like a man who belongs in public places. Like a man who hasn’t just realized he’d happily burn this entire building down if it meant keeping Hannah safe.
In my dismay, I hesitated by the doorway.
Hannah didn’t.
She’s moved ahead, a few steps in front of me, her head swiveling as she scans the room. I see the exact second she spots Marco, how her shoulders snap rigid, how a flush crawls up the back of her neck.
I open my mouth to say something, a word of caution or comfort, but she’s already gone. In what’s becoming an all-too-familiar pattern this evening, Hannah stomps across the room and I try to keep up.
Marco is sprawled in a plush booth along the far wall, a curvy redhead practically draped over him.
Brenda, I assume. I don’t think Hannah notices how the woman’s hands are under the table, moving in a rather suggestive way.
No, Hannah completely misses that little detail. She rushes up to the table.
A flushed and slightly breathless Marco, who I recognize from the photos he sent Hannah, lifts his head as she approaches.
“I need another martini, dry,” he tells her distractedly, then drops his eyes to whatever is going on in his lap.
“Excuse me?” Hannah asks, her voice high and tight. “I’m not the waitress.”
That gets his attention.
Marco looks up at her, his eyes widening. “Hannah?”
“Oh, nice of you to remember my name, Marco,” she fires back, hands clenched at her sides. “Since you apparently forgot we were supposed to have dinner here tonight. You know, Valentine’s Day?”
“Babe,” Brenda says, not looking at Hannah. She’s looking at Marco. “What’s going on?”
“Well, babe,” Hannah answers sweetly, dangerously, “what’s happening is this piece of shit you’re giving a hand job to—”
She did notice.
“—double-booked us,” Hannah continues without missing a beat. “He told both of us he was taking us here for a special Valentine’s dinner. So congrats. He picked you.”
Brenda jerks back, confusion flashing across her face as she looks at Marco, then Hannah, then back to Marco again.
“Is this true?” she asks him.
Marco doesn’t answer.
That’s when I step closer, just enough that Marco finally notices me.
For the first time tonight, he looks afraid.
Good.
“Well?” Brenda demands, staring at Marco, who opens his mouth but nothing comes out.
That silence is all Brenda needs.
She laughs once, sharp, disbelieving. “Wow,” she says, pulling her hand fully into view and wiping it on a napkin like she’s touched something sticky. “You didn’t even deny it.”
“Honey, I can explain—” Marco starts.
“Oh, please,” Brenda snaps, standing so fast the table rattles. Glasses clink. Heads turn. A nearby couple pauses mid-bite.
“You told me I was special,” she says, loudly now. “You said you don’t usually do Valentine’s Day. That you hated how commercial it was.”
Hannah crosses her arms, watching with something close to glee written on her face.
“You told me,” Brenda continues, her voice climbing, “that you were tired of games. That you were looking for something real.”
Marco reaches for her wrist. “Brenda, keep your voice down—”
She yanks her arm away like he burned her. “Don’t touch me.”
The restaurant has gone quiet. Forks hover. A waiter freezes near the bar.
“Let me get this straight,” Brenda says, turning in a slow circle, making sure everyone can hear her. “You invited two women to the same restaurant. On the same night. For Valentine’s Day.”
“That’s not what happened,” Marco insists weakly.
Brenda laughs again, louder this time. “You’re right. That would require planning. You’re not that smart.”
A few people snort. Someone actually claps before stopping themselves.
Brenda grabs her purse and slings it over her shoulder. “Enjoy your sad little life, Marco. Just so you know?” She leans down, right in his face. “You’re not even good in bed.”
That one lands.
Marco’s face goes red. Then pale.
Brenda turns to Hannah. “I’m sorry,” she says genuinely. “You didn’t deserve this either.”
Hannah blinks, caught off-guard. “Uh—thanks?”
Brenda nods once. Then she looks at me, her eyes trailing up and down. Her brows lift. “At least you got a major upgrade,” she mutters to Hannah before she storms toward the exit, heels slamming against the floor.
The door bangs shut behind her.
Silence floods the room.
Marco slumps back into the booth with a soft groan.
All the fight leaves Hannah at once, probably her adrenaline crashing. She drops into a chair across from Marco.
“That was really awful,” she tells him, leaning her elbows on the table. “What you did to me. Not even calling.”
“Look, Hannah.” He straightens and gives her a salesman’s grin. “I just got a little confused on the dates, that’s all. Got my schedule a bit mixed up.” His eyes slide over her, calculating.
“Maybe we could pick up where we left off,” he adds smoothly. “I’m still hungry. We could eat now—”
I take a menacing step forward, not hiding the growl in my throat.
“You don’t get to eat with her.”
My voice is low. Steady. Dangerous.
Marco freezes.
“Hannah’s good,” I continue, the words spilling out sharper than I intend. “She actually gives a shit about people. She stays on the phone with her friends for hours when they’re hurting. She shows up. She doesn’t lie. She doesn’t treat people like placeholders.”
Hannah turns to stare at me, her brows knitting together, clearly confused.
I stop before I say something worse. Something that would give me away completely.
Marco swallows hard, color draining from his face. “I—I mean, I was wrong,” he stammers. “You’re right. I should’ve called. Let you know I wasn’t coming.”
“That’s better,” I mutter, my hands still balled into fists. I take a spot standing right behind Hannah’s chair, like I’m her personal bodyguard, which, honestly, I am.
Hannah’s not buying it either.
“I’d rather eat with the devil himself,” she says, eyeing Marco like he’s something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
Then she snorts and reaches across the table, spearing a leaf of lettuce from his plate.
“Since you wasted my night,” she says coolly, popping it into her mouth, “I’m stealing your dinner.”
It’s a petty move, taking his food, but when I see the triumph in her eyes, the satisfied way she chews, I almost smile.
Marco opens his mouth to protest, then stops when his phone buzzes. He pulls it out, glancing down as Hannah keeps talking.
“Now you’ve lost both Brenda and me,” she says, pointing her fork at Marco like it’s a weapon. “Not a very happy Valentine’s Day for you.”
Marco stares at the screen. The color drains from his face.
“Really?” she adds when he doesn’t respond, tugging at her collar. “You’re going to sit on your phone and ignore us? Rude.” Hannah waves him off and shifts in her chair. She scratches absently at the bare skin of her forearm, leaving faint red streaks behind.
My stomach tightens.
Marco mutters to himself, something unintelligible. His mouth pulls down at the edges, a deep frown. He lifts a shaking hand to his forehead.
My attention splits in two directions.
Marco, reading something that is clearly ruining his night.
And Hannah.
Her throat moves as she clears it. Again. She shifts in her chair, rolling her shoulders and then her neck like the room has suddenly gotten too warm.
“Here’s the thing,” she says to Marco, leaning forward, her voice a little hoarser. “Men like you always think the worst part is getting caught. Being embarrassed. Exposed.”
Marco’s phone vibrates again. He looks at it, and his gaze darts to the entrance. Then the bar. Then the corners of the room.
I don’t miss it.
“It’s not,” Hannah continues. “The worst part is what you do to women when you pull this crap.”
Her lips look redder than they did a minute ago. She rubs them together absently.
I don’t like that.
“You make us doubt ourselves,” she says. Her breathing has changed. Just a little. Shallower. Faster.
I lean closer without meaning to.
Hannah clears her throat. “You make us replay every text, every conversation, wondering what we did wrong.”
Marco swallows hard. His eyes flick to me. Then away. His phone buzzes again, longer this time. He flinches at the sound.
“I work hard to be okay on my own,” Hannah says. “And you made me feel stupid for trying.”
She coughs into her hand, a sharp jagged noise.
My jaw tightens.
“The worst part?” she adds, her voice raspy. “You’ll probably do this again. To some other woman. Because no one ever actually tells you how shitty it is.”
Another bout of coughing. Her fingers curl against the tablecloth like she needs to hold on.
I lean forward and hand her a glass of water. “Drink.”
“You’re not charming,” she says, after a sip. “You’re not misunderstood. You’re selfish. Cowardly. You leave messes for other people to clean up.”
There’s a sheen of sweat across Marco’s brow. He wipes his hands on his pants. Checks the door again. His phone vibrates, and he nearly drops it grabbing for it.
Hannah inhales with an audible wheeze. Her chest lifts too fast. Her swallow is strained.
“Damian?” she says faintly.
“I’m here.” I put a hand on her shoulder, then almost pull it away.
She’s burning up. I can feel the heat roll off her.
“I don’t feel so good…” She trails off, swaying in her chair.
Alarm bells ring in the back of my mind, getting louder by the second.
Something is wrong. It’s in the scarlet flush of her skin. The labored way she’s breathing. How she keeps clearing her throat. Hacking into her fist.
Hannah’s in danger, I know it, but why? How?
“What you need to do,” Hannah tells Marco, stubborn even now, with her voice wavering, “is remember this feeling and not do it again.”
Marco’s phone buzzes again. He glances at it and goes pale. He stands so abruptly that the table pushes out with a screech.
For the second time tonight, the restaurant turns to look at him.
His eyes are wild and rolling. “I—I’ve gotta go. Get out of here.” Maybe there’s some drop of decency left in him because Marco pauses, looks me dead in the eye, and says, “You gotta go too.” His eyes flick to Hannah. “Take her. Leave now.”
I believe him.
I turn to tell Hannah it’s time to go.
Before the words leave my mouth, Hannah slips sideways off her chair, slumping boneless onto the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Her chest heaves as if she can’t get enough air. Her lips are blue at the edges.
A waiter rushes over, yelling, “Miss! Miss! Are you okay?”
I scoop her up, her weight terrifyingly light, her breathing barely there at all.
One look at her face, and the final piece slams into place.
“Are there peanuts in that salad?” I bark at the waiter.
He pales, stammers, “Y—yes. It’s our Thai salad. Peanut vinaigrette.”
I don’t answer.
I shove past Marco and lay Hannah on the bench seat behind the table, shaking her harder than I mean to.
“Hannah,” I say. “Did you bring your EpiPen?”
Her lashes flutter.
Then nothing.
She’s completely unconscious.
I swear, my pulse roaring in my ears.
“What’s wrong with her?” Marco asks distantly, like he’s underwater.
“Peanuts,” I snap. “She’s allergic. Anaphylaxis.”
Where’s her fucking purse?
I can’t see it. Can’t remember if she even brought it in.
Her chest barely moves. Her skin is pale. Too pale.
“Don’t you dare die on me, Hannah Johnson,” I whisper, voice shaking. “Don’t you dare.”
I’m not thinking. I’m pleading.
“What about Morty and Jane?” I ramble, naming her parents, who live in rural Ohio. “You call them every Sunday. You die, and they’ll be destroyed.”
“Here.” Marco shoves something into my hands.
Her purse.
Red leather straps.
A zipper.
“Thanks,” I say, but he’s already looking away, body coiled like he’s ready to bolt.
I dig through the purse with shaking hands. Wallet. Keys. Lip balm. Receipts.
Please.
Please.
I will burn down churches. I will make deals with gods I don’t believe in.
My fingers close around plastic.
The EpiPen.
I don’t hesitate.
Cap off. Needle in. I jab it into the smooth skin of her thigh and press hard.
Hannah doesn’t move.
I rub the injection site like I can force the medicine to hurry. To spread through her bloodstream and fix whatever is broken inside of her.
“Mr. Wiggles needs you,” I choke out. “He thinks you’re his mom. He won’t survive without you.”
Nothing.
“What about me?” I whisper, voice breaking. “How am I supposed to live without you? You remind me the world can be good, full of color. That people can be kind.”
A long pause…
Then—
Hannah gasps.
Her eyes snap open.
She rolls toward me and vomits all over my limited-edition sneakers.
I laugh. A broken, hysterical sound.
And pull her into my arms like I might never let go again.
“Damian?” Her voice is muffled against my shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry about your shoes.”
I’m laughing again, burying my face in her hair. “It’s okay.”
Behind me, Marco whispers a strained, “Oh, shit.”
That’s when a gunshot rings out.