I went down the stairs and out the glass doors of the little entryway. Jean-Claude let me know without words, or if with words, it was too quick to register, like a kind of telepathic shorthand, that he would guard me from Richard. I looked back down at a picture of Stevie in eighth grade, his first year on the football team. Damian plunged his mouth low in my neck, just above the shoulder.
He did it without being asked twice. I leaned back in line and tried not to embarrass anyone. It was bold and discreet at the same time. Before that one movement, I'd wondered what the hell he was doing here.
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