by J. Kenner
After a moment, I hear his footsteps again, this time coming closer. I wait for him to kiss me or rub his hand over my arm, anything to gently wake me. But instead, he simply takes the folded blanket from the foot of the bed and pulls it over me. Then he runs a soft hand over my hair before turning back toward the door.
For the briefest moment, I consider calling him back. But then the lights go off and the door snicks softly closed, and I'm left alone in the dark with my thoughts and my fears.
16
I'm still on top of the bedspread and under the thin blanket when I wake in the morning. Damien isn't beside me, and a horrible loneliness washes over me. Except when one of us is traveling, we've always slept together. And I hate that it's secrets and lies pushing us apart now. Especially since we'd fought so hard to shine a light on the gray areas between us before we'd walked down the aisle.
I push the blanket away and sit up, and only then do I notice the dent in the pillow beside me and the afghan crumpled at the foot of the bed. I close my eyes, fighting tears that I tell myself are from a morning rush of hormones, but that I know very well are tears of relief.
As I pad into the kitchen, wishing for coffee, I remember that Damien mentioned an early-morning teleconference this week. That explains why he's gone when it's not even seven yet.
He's left bagels out for me, but that doesn't sound good at all. I open the refrigerator and stare inside, as if some amazing gourmet breakfast will fly off the shelves and onto a plate. When that miracle doesn't happen, I open the freezer with the hope of finding frozen waffles, then gasp with delight at the bags of Milky Ways and boxes of Thin Mints that confront me.
I grab a Milky Way and sigh with pleasure. I really do love that man.
I've peeled the wrapper back and am half-gnawing and half-sucking on the candy bar as I step out of the kitchen to see if Damien left the paper for me on the coffee table.
But it's not the paper that I find, it's the man himself. He's sitting on the sofa in sweatpants and a ratty white T-shirt. And perched on his lap, eating cheese puffs from a purple bowl, is our nephew, Jeffery.
And in that moment, it's as if the entire world has turned inside out. Before, I had no trouble believing the theory that Damien could be a dad. Now, though, I see it in practice. And I press my fingertips to my lips to stave off a fresh wave of tears.
Damien hasn't noticed me yet--his head is down, and there are papers scattered on the couch beside him. He's holding one sheet in his hand and talking in a low voice, as if he's running down a list of project specs for Jeffery.
As for the kiddo, he's clearly having a blast. His mouth is bright orange, and his fingers are, too. He keeps saying "re-re"-- which is Jeffery-speak for "read"--and grabbing for the paper with his orange-stained fingers.
Damien manages to keep the sheet away from him--at least until he looks up, sees me, and goes still. Which, of course, is when Jeffery grabs the paper and starts to chew on it.
"Nikki," Damien says, deftly rescuing the slightly stained corporate document. "Good morning."
"To you, too." I move into the room and sit on the opposite end of the couch, so as not to crumple the papers. "Looks like we have company this morning," I add, waving at Jeffery, who grins back at me and shouts, "Ni-Ni!"
"Stella has a doctor's appointment," Damien explains, referring to Jeffery's nanny. "Syl brought the baby to work with her, but then she had a crisis come up on a project in Glendale that she has to handle before you three head out."
"And there was no one else in the whole of Stark International who could watch this little guy," I tease.
"I might have specifically requested the job," he admits. "Get in a little practice on someone else's kid."
"I understand that," I say, switching to a baby voice and bending over to play peek-a-boo, which makes Jeffery giggle. After a second, I glance back up at Damien. "Did you say three? There are four of us going to the spa."
Tonight's the premiere for The Price of Ransom, and Sylvia, Jane, Jamie, and I are all going to the spa for hair, makeup, and mani-pedis.
"According to Syl, Jamie's being prepped and primped at the studio, and then being whisked to the theater in a network news van."
"Of course, she is," I say, and though I'm disappointed about missing Jamie today, I'm excited for her. "We're giving her an exclusive," I tell Damien. "I forgot to tell you."
"Courting the press are we?" he teases, and I roll my eyes.
"Yeah, that's me. Anything to get into the tabloids."
One of the promotional flyers for tonight's premiere and fundraiser is open on the coffee table, and I reach for it. The Stark Children's Foundation is sponsoring the screening and the red carpet pre-party, which includes cocktail and food stations, photo booths, and a silent auction. All of the proceeds go to fund the foundation's scholarships.
"It's going to be a great event," I say, looking at the flyer and the sweet faces of some of the younger kids the foundation has helped. I know how much the organization means to Damien--how much he both gave up and gained when he went public with his own history of abuse. Now, I trace my fingertip over the face of a little girl with inquisitive green eyes, and the thought that anyone ever hurt this poor child makes me sick.
I rest my hands protectively over my belly and then turn to Damien, only to find him already looking at me. "I'm sorry about last night," I say, even as he says the exact same thing.
We both laugh, and though I wait for him to tell me what he's been hiding, the words don't come. My disappointment must show on my face because he stands up, Jeffery propped on his hip. He moves to sit on the table in front of me, then leans forward and tilts my head up for a kiss.
"Don't stop trusting me, Nikki. Everything I am. Everything I do, it's with you in mind. With us in mind." He puts his hand over mine. "There is no moment when I'm not thinking of you, and I would destroy myself before I'd risk hurting you."
"I know," I say. "I do. But trust isn't a panacea any more than it's a curtain to hide behind."
"It's not, you're right. But I'm not trying to hide things from you--I swear. I just need time."
I reach for Jeffery, who's starting to fuss, then bounce him on my knee. "Time for what?" I demand. "What is this about? I mean, are you--oh." I hug Jeffery closer. "This is about the text messages."
I lean back against the couch with a heavy sigh. I should have realized last night. Of course, he was out chasing answers.
"You should have just told me," I say. "What have you learned? Who is it? Is it my mother?"
"I don't know. I thought--" He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. "I don't know yet." He leans forward, one hand on my knee and the other on my cheek. "I'm going to find out, though. I promise you that."
I draw a deep breath, then nod. "Last night was horrible," I say. "I don't like it when there's a chasm between us."
"Neither do I, baby. But there's always a bridge."
"You're remarkably calm for someone with a movie opening in just a few hours," I say to Jane, who's sitting between Sylvia and me. Our feet are in the warm, swirling water, our heads are wrapped in towels to cover the conditioning goop, and we're each about to get our pedicures.
"It's all an act," she says with a smile that shows off her incredible cheekbones. "Actually, I think it just hasn't set in. I've been living the book and the script for so long, that I can't believe it's finally, really a movie." Her brown eyes shine as she smiles, and she brushes a lock of dark hair off her face. "It's pretty amazing, though, isn't it?"
"Are you kidding?" Syl asks. "It's incredible." She reaches over and squeezes Jane's hand. "I'm so thrilled for you."
I've become pretty good friends with Jane, but Syl knows her much better because Jane's husband, Dallas, is one of the investors in The Resort at Cortez. Both Jane and Dallas both come from old money, and I think it's fair to say that they've had the most unconventional and controversial relationship I've ever heard of. It certainly garnered more press cover
age than me, Damien, Jackson, and Sylvia combined.
But as far as I can tell, Jane and Dallas are blissfully happy. So I guess it was worth all the drama.
"I'm bummed Jamie's not here," Jane says, glancing in my direction. "And I'm especially sorry that neither Lyle nor I can do an interview with her. The studio paid us both well, but the paycheck comes with a variety of brightly colored leashes."
"She understands, I promise."
"But you can make it up to us by giving Nikki and I a mini-interview right now," Syl says.
"What? About me?"
Sylvia makes a dismissive motion. "Oh, please. What's there to talk about with you?"
Jane laughs, because, of course, there's a hell of a lot. And all of it juicy.
"No," Syl continues. "Tell us about Lyle. He plays everything so close to the vest. Even Nikki hasn't really gotten to know him." She glances at me. "And you and Damien have had dinner or drinks with him dozens of times for foundation business, right?"
I nod. Lyle is the current celebrity sponsor for the Stark Children's Foundation, and Syl is right--I like him a lot. But I don't really know him.
"Honestly, I doubt I know him much better than you guys do," Jane says. "I mean, I wasn't on the set that much. But the times we did hang out, he seemed to live up to his press."
"You mean the generally accepted belief that he's the nicest guy in Hollywood?" Syl asks.
"Pretty much," Jane says, but there's a reticence to her words.
"But?" I press, even as I think that I've been hanging out with Jamie for far too long, because celebrity gossip was never my thing. And yet, here I am, a walking stereotype of a pampered LA woman gossiping in the spa.
"But," Jane concedes, "there's something under all that nice. I don't know what. It's just--you guys know about my childhood, right?"
I look at Syl, and we both nod. It had come out publicly not long before their wedding that Jane and Dallas were both kidnapped as children. Which means that my childhood drama with my mother is nothing by comparison.
"Yeah, well, the end result is that I'm not big on the whole trust thing," Jane says. "You never know what's inside people. What kind of monster might be hiding under their skin."
"You don't trust Lyle?" I ask, genuinely surprised.
"No, no. Lyle's great. Really. But I've gotten pretty good at looking deeper."
"And?"
"And there's more to him than meets the eye."
"So he has secrets," Syl says.
Jane nods. "Something that haunts him, I think."
"Something he wants to keep quiet," Syl adds, then sighs as the technician starts to massage her calves. "I can hardly fault him for that."
I think of my own secrets. "Amen," I say.
And then the three of us raise imaginary toasts in honor of Lyle and his secrets. Deep and dark though they might be, they're his own. And I hope that when his star power climbs after this movie--which everyone is saying will be a box office sensation--that his secrets will still be his own.
An hour later, we're all primped and ready. Jane's car has already whisked her away, and Sylvia and I are waiting for our drivers to arrive.
"Well?" she demands.
I blink. "Um?"
"Secrets," she says, in a tone that I'm sure she uses with Ronnie. "I saw the look on your face when we were talking with Jane. What's going on?"
"Nothing," I say.
"You're a terrible liar," she counters.
The truth is, I'm actually a pretty good liar. I've spent my life putting on and taking off a variety of masks. Social Nikki. Student Nikki. Pageant Nikki. And as a result, I'm adept at hiding my feelings.
Which means that Sylvia is either fishing--or I'm actually craving someone to talk to. In this case, there's really no question that it's the latter, and I explain to her my fear that Damien is keeping secrets because he thinks he's protecting me.
The corners of Syl's eyes crinkle as she smiles. "Well, then my advice to you is simple. Deal with it."
I laugh. "Seriously? That's the best you've got?"
She shrugs. "Certainly the simplest. Come on, Nik. He's always going to try to protect you. And now you're pregnant. That means all that protective male DNA is in overdrive. And you and I both know that Stark men got served an extra dose at birth."
I laugh because she's so damn right. "It's still annoying as hell."
"Not arguing," she says. "But it's sweet, too."
I have to grudgingly concede the point, although sweet and infuriating are not so often intertwined.
"Just go with it," she says, obviously reading my expression. "And by the way, you should come over this weekend. The entire spare closet is full of things that Jeffery's outgrown or doesn't play with anymore. We can dig through it and see what you want."
"Perfect," I say as my car pulls up. "Maybe I'll follow you back to your house after brunch on Sunday."
We plan on that, and I settle into the backseat for the ride from Beverly Hills to Malibu, feeling relaxed and pampered and guilty about having spent an entire day not even thinking about work.
At the very least, I can check my emails. I pull out the new phone that I'd found on the bathroom counter this morning, just casually waiting for me, thanks to my wonderful--and as Sylvia said, wonderfully protective--husband.
Now I open the email app and smile again, because not only did he replace my phone at the speed of light, but he also set up my email accounts.
I switch to the messaging app and send him a quick thank you.
His answer is swift and to the point: I'd do anything for you.
I know. I missed you today.
I amuse myself by counting the seconds until he replies. Only seven.
Missed you more. I'm at the house. The limo's coming at 5. How long do you need to get dressed?
I check the time, and it's not yet three.
Not two hours, I type. If you have some idea of how to fill the time . . .
His reply makes me smile: I'm full of ideas. Tell your driver to hurry. And in the meantime, imagine me, touching you.
I laugh as I send one final message: I always do.
I've just re-opened my email app when I notice a new email from youradoringhusband at an email server I'm not familiar with. I purse my lips in amusement, wondering what Damien's up to now.
But when I open the email to see what he sent this time, my smile freezes on my face, and the message makes me queasy.
Did you really think you could have both?
Below the words is a picture of Sofia, her head on Damien's shoulder.
And not just one picture, but several. And in each and every one, they're standing right in front of the Santa Barbara Pearl Hotel.
17
By the time I arrive home, my tears have completely destroyed my freshly applied makeup and I'm an angry, hurt, hormonal mess. I order the driver to wait, then hurry to the front door and punch in my key code.
The lock clicks open, and I push the door, anxious to get inside and get my things for the premiere tonight. I'm so hurt and twisted up and hormonal that all I want to do is get out of here. Because I see a huge fight looming, and I can't deal with that right now.
I don't believe the email's suggestion that Damien's cheating on me--honestly, I can't imagine a world in which I could ever believe he cheated on me--but he did keep this huge, hurtful secret from me. And not only did he keep a secret, he actually lied when I asked him why he'd gone to Santa Barbara. He'd lied about Sofia. Sofia.
The woman who tried to take Damien. Who tried to destroy me. And, honestly, almost succeeded.
So I need time. To get my thoughts together. To calm my raging hormones. To figure out what I'm going to say to him.
Mostly, to stop this explosion building inside me before I lash out at him and completely destroy an evening that means so much to so many of my friends.
That's my plan, anyway, but as soon as I enter the house, I'm stopped by the sight before me--hundreds of r
ed and pink rose petals scattered over the floor of the entrance hall and trailing up the massive staircase.
A lump forms in my throat, and though it's hard to believe I have any more tears to shed, when I blink, warm liquid trails down my cheeks. When I draw in a stuttering breath, I taste the salt of my tears. This is what I want. Tenderness and love and romance. Not secrets and deceit and lies.
I swallow hard as I cast my gaze around, looking at the romantic setting he's created with the petals and soft candlelight. For a moment, my resolve wavers, and I think that I need to hurry and find him.
But then I remember the pictures on my phone. Work problem? I mentally scoff at Damien's explanation of why he'd gone to Santa Barbara. Sofia is a lot of things, but she sure as hell isn't a work problem.
The cloying scent of the roses surrounds me as I crush petals beneath my ballet-style flats in my hurry up the stairs. I wrinkle my nose, fighting nausea, then I force myself to focus on getting my things and getting the hell out of there.
I expect to see Damien on the third floor, which is where we spend most of our time, but he's not there, and I realize that he's probably in the cabana by the pool, waiting with chilled fruit juice for me to find him.
Normally, I'd be tempted.
Today, I'm grateful that I can get in and get out. I'm not ready for a fight--my wounds feel too raw. All I really want to do is find someplace to hide away, curled up into a ball until I can gather the strength to have it out with my husband.
I'd be there right now--locked away in some out of the way motel--if it weren't for tonight's premiere. But there's no way I'm going to skip Jane's movie or the fundraiser. The foundation is too important to me--too important to all those kids.
So I'll be there. And with any luck, I'll have pulled myself together before I have to step from a limo onto that red carpet.
My closet is huge, approximately the size of the bedroom I used to have in Jamie's condo, and one entire wall is devoted to formal wear. Ironic, considering that once I walked away from the pageant life, I swore that if I never saw another sequin, it would be too soon. But, somehow, dressing up isn't painful when you're on the arm of someone you love, and as I look at my gowns, I feel a little stab in my heart.
I want Damien here--I do.
I'm just not ready to face him yet.
