by J. Kenner
We do the mingling party thing for a while, but then he pauses. "I see someone I'd like to speak with. Are you okay on your own for a few minutes?"
"I think I can tough it out," I say. He brushes a kiss over my lips and I am left alone. I don't mind, except that I don't really know anybody. I glance around, searching for a familiar face, and am rewarded when I actually see one. Ollie. I take a step in that direction, only to see that he's being intercepted by Damien.
A little knot of fear forms in my stomach. Why on earth would Damien want to talk to Ollie? I can think of no reason other than Ollie's repeated mentions to me of his fear that Damien isn't good for me and his hints that Damien has some serious skeletons in his closet. But I've never let on that Ollie's mentioned that kind of stuff. Have I?
Suddenly I'm very afraid that I talk in my sleep.
I consider interrupting them, but that would be too neurotic, and so I force myself to turn in the opposite direction. I do, and am thankful to see another familiar face--Blaine. He sees me at the same time and holds out his arms. I slide into them and accept his vigorous hug.
"There she is, my favorite model."
"You didn't tell me you'd be here." I tilt my head and glare. "Is Evelyn here? Is that why you looked so coy when I mentioned getting together with her?"
"Busted," he says. He raises his hand and waves, and a moment later, Evelyn is by our side.
"I see her all the time," Blaine says as he takes his leave of us. He winks at me. "All of her. You two talk." He gives Evelyn a passionate kiss and, from the way she squeals, a little bit of a grope, too. Then he saunters off, Evelyn watching him go.
I start to speak, but Evelyn holds up her hand. "Hang on, Texas. I want to watch the view." After a moment, his formal-wear-covered tush disappears in the crowd, and she turns to me with a sigh. "I'm almost sixty years old, and I'm only just now getting the best sex of my life. I swear, the universe isn't fair."
"Then again, maybe the universe is very good to you," I say, and she laughs.
"Well, look who's a glass-half-full kinda gal. You're right, Texas. I like the way you think."
I've never considered myself particularly optimistic, but maybe I am. Honestly, I really like this woman.
"I've been hearing nothing but good things about you, young lady," she says. "Guess it was a rom-com, after all. Or are we talking NC-17?"
I feel my cheeks heat. "Could be," I admit.
"Good for you. Hell, good for you both. That boy ..." She shakes her head in an almost grandmotherly fashion.
"What?" I want to sit her down and demand she tell me everything she knows about Damien. Unfortunately, that kind of interrogation is generally considered uncool.
"I saw the way he kissed you just now. Gentle, but I swear he looked like he could eat you up."
Her words are like cotton candy to me, sweet and delicious.
"He's usually so closed off. It's wonderful to see him opening up to you."
"It is," I say, even though I am completely clueless and desperately curious. Opening up to me? Hardly. I'm learning that Damien is closed even tighter than I'd thought. Considering how much I've exposed myself to him, I'm feeling a little bit sick to my stomach. I don't show it though. Social Nikki is in full form tonight. "He's overcome so much," I add, hoping she'll respond with something that gives me a clue about the dark things in Damien's past.
"Now you see what I meant by inscrutable." She sighs. "It doesn't matter that so much has been swept under the carpet. These things haunt you. How could they not?"
"I know," I lie. What was swept away?
"See? That's why I think you're good for him. Hell, a year ago, you'd have to drag him to his own fund-raiser. Tonight he waltzed in here with you on his arm looking like he owns the world."
"Well," I say, "he pretty much does."
"True. Shit, I'm not anywhere near drunk enough for tonight. Let's go find one of those skinny bitches with the trays of drinks."
I follow her because I want to talk more and learn more, but we're soon sucked into the crowd and the rolling waves of conversation.
When Damien finds me ten minutes later, I've lost Evelyn and am discussing Humphrey Bogart movies with a guy who looks to be twelve but who swears he's the hottest new director of horror films.
Thankfully, Damien leads me away.
"Everything okay with you and Ollie?"
He gives me a sharp look, but nods. Then he traces the pad of his thumb along my lower lip, which has fast become one of my erogenous zones. "I think I need to taste you," he says, tugging my hair to tilt my head up to him. We're interrupted, though, by a tall thin man with salt-and-pepper hair.
"Charles," Damien says coldly. I have a feeling the ice is because of more than the interruption.
"We need to talk," the man says. He turns to me. "Charles Maynard. I'm terribly sorry to intrude."
"Oh, no. It's okay." Because, really, what else can I say?
Maynard leads Damien away and as soon as he does, Ollie sidles up to me. "Hey. I've been wanting to talk to you."
"I've been here all night." I hear the frost in my voice, but can't seem to control it.
Ollie either doesn't hear it or he ignores it. "I know. But I wanted you alone."
"What is it?" I'm sure I sound exasperated, but I'm not interested in another cryptic comment about how Damien's not right for me.
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry. About what happened with Jamie, I mean. It was stupid and--"
I hold up my hand. "You guys are both adults. But you're also my friends. And you're engaged." I reach out and take both his hands in mine. "I don't want you to screw up a good thing. And I really, really don't want to get caught in the middle."
"I know. I know," he says. "It was a one-time thing. Stupid, but it's over."
I'm not sure I believe him, but I also don't want to talk about it. So I just nod and change the subject. "What did Damien want?"
"Oh, that." He tugs his hands away and shoves them into his pockets. "He thanked me. For, you know. Being there for you. After that stuff with Kurt."
I feel my cheeks warm. "It meant a lot to me."
He looks at me and shakes his head. "Don't you thank me, too. You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you."
I look around the room and find the back of Damien's head. "He's a good guy, Ollie," I say. "Are you starting to see that?"
"Sure," he says, but there's something odd in his voice.
"What?" I demand. "What is it about Damien Stark that bugs you so much? Is it all the shit Sara Padgett's brother is stirring up?"
He exhales loudly, and I'm certain that I've nailed it. "Oh, hell, Nik. Stark's a celebrity. He's not up on billboards, but that's what he is, and there are always shitstorms around celebrities. Eric Padgett's just the latest guy tossing wads to see what sticks."
I peer at him. "And that's it? That's all that's bugging you?"
Ollie straightens his tie, a sure tell that he's hiding something. "Yeah. Yeah, that's it. Listen, I see a client. I'm going to catch her, okay?"
I grab his wrist. "Wait. What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing."
"Jesus, Ollie, this is me. What aren't you saying?"
"I--oh, hell, fine." He runs his fingers through his hair, then takes my arm and leads me to a quiet corner. "Honestly, I wasn't even sure if I was going to say anything to you. I mean, maybe it's nothing."
I force myself to stay quiet and wait.
"I mean, he seems like an okay guy."
"He is. Now tell me."
Ollie nods. "You need to keep this to yourself, okay? It's attorney-client stuff. Privileged. I could get fired. Hell, I could lose my license."
I nod, suddenly nervous. "Okay."
"Well, I haven't worked directly for Stark, but I hear things. Whispers. Impressions. You know."
"No," I say. "I don't."
"Oh, hell, Nikki. I've just heard enough folks talk about the guy that I was worried about you. So when
I had the chance, I did some snooping."
"Snooping? What does that mean?"
"Jamie told me what he said to you at Evelyn's party. About you turning down MIT and Cal Tech."
"So?"
"So why would he know that? Those opportunities came in when you were done with college. It's not like you put that on a fellowship application."
I frown. He has a point. "Go on."
"The Stark files are in a locked filing room a few floors up. Access is incredibly tight. But Maynard needed something fast--not for Stark, but for another client with files in the same locked room--and he sent me up to get it. I sort of took advantage of the opportunity."
"What did you do?"
"The firm administers the fellowship, so the applicant files are there. I found yours and took a peek."
"And?"
"And there was no mention of MIT or Cal Tech."
I laugh. "It was incredibly sweet of you to jeopardize your career because you're worried about me, but I could have told you that. I keep copies of all my fellowship applications."
"But you wouldn't know that your file was flagged."
"Flagged?"
He nods. "The only one. I checked them all."
"What does that mean?"
He shakes his head. "I don't know. But for some reason you were singled out."
I cock my head. "Oh, come on, Ollie. I'm sorry you don't like Damien, but you can't be serious. So there's a flag on my file. Big deal. Maybe it's because I'm allergic to penicillin. Or because I'm the most photogenic fellowship recipient and they were going to do some sort of publicity thing. Or because I'm the only one who moved to LA and I got added to some local mailing list. Hell, you don't even know that it was Stark who flagged my file. Maybe it was your boss. Or some legal assistant who has a thing for the former Miss DFW."
His expression turns defensive. "I know, I know. I told you I wasn't sure it was worth mentioning. But don't you think it's weird? Your file is not only flagged, but he knows all sorts of personal shit about you?"
I shake my head. "Personal shit? Like where I was accepted to grad school is a state secret? Come on, Ollie. Get a grip." Even as I speak, though, I can't help but remember how Damien knew my address and phone number, not to mention my makeup preferences. But each of those had a simple explanation.
"Just think about it," Ollie says. He waves at someone, then meets my eyes. "Promise?"
I stay silent. He sighs, then walks away, disappearing into the crowd. I remain in the corner, trying to sort out my emotions. I'm confused--that much I know for sure. And I'm edging toward anger. But whether it's directed toward Damien or Ollie, I'm not certain.
Antsy, I step outside. There's a flagstone path that runs along the perimeter of the building and I follow it until I'm in front of the tennis courts. I pause, looking out over the court and imagining a young Damien playing, exuberant and happy as he chases the ball. It's a nice fantasy, and it erases the last bits of angst from my mind. Let Ollie worry if he wants to; I know better.
I can tell Damien's behind me before I hear him. It's as if he's so powerful that the air shifts to let him pass. I turn and find him looking at me. For a moment, I'm afraid he's going to be irritated--after all, he made it clear that he was done with tennis, and yet here I am. But he looks calm and happy, and when he comes forward, he kisses my head and cups my ass. "Watch it, bub," I say, and he laughs.
"Hiding out?"
"Yup. And thinking."
"What about?"
"You," I admit. I nod toward the court. "I was imagining you playing." I hold my breath, hoping my admission won't irritate him.
"I presume you were imagining me winning," he says dryly.
I laugh. "Always."
"Good girl." He captures my mouth with his, and his kiss is wild and deep and intense. He's not touching me intimately--his hand has moved to my back and the other is on my arm--but I feel as though he's inside me, filling me, stroking me.
I moan in protest when he breaks away.
He takes a step back. "See you inside, Ms. Fairchild."
I raise my brows. "You just came out here to tease me?"
"I came to tell you I'm giving a speech in about fifteen minutes. If you're inclined to, come in and join me."
"A speech? I wouldn't miss that." I look back at the court and the empty night spread out before me. "I'll be right behind you. I want to stay here with the stars a little bit longer."
He squeezes my hand and leaves, disappearing around the curve of the building. I sigh and realize that I am absolutely happy at that moment. Ollie's fears seem a million miles away.
I let the feeling settle over me, then turn to head back inside as well. A tall man with a caterpillar of a mustache and a wrinkled suit is walking from the opposite direction, coming toward me. I don't think anything of it, but as I get closer, his words startle me. "You the one Stark's banging?"
I stop, certain I must have heard wrong. "Excuse me?"
"You got money? Be careful. He'll fuck you and he'll use you, and when he tosses you away, he'll be richer for it."
My mouth is dry and my legs are struggling to hold me up. I can feel my underarms getting sticky. I don't know who this man is, but I know that he's dangerous and that I need to get away. I glance around quickly and see a sign for a restroom just across the walkway, almost hidden by the landscaping.
"I--I have to go." I turn fast and hurry that way.
"I know that bastard's secrets," the man shouts after me. "I know about all the goddamn bodies. You think my sister's the only one he's fucked up?"
Eric Padgett. It has to be Eric Padgett.
My heart is pounding as I jerk open the door to the ladies' room. The automated lights turn on and I hurry inside. There are multiple stalls, so it's not the kind of restroom that you would normally lock. The door does have a bolt, though, and I turn it immediately. As soon as I do, the lights wink out.
I suck in air, fighting rising panic. Calm, Nikki, calm. The lights went out with the door. Presumably, the idea is that when the janitor locks the door from the outside, the lights are turned off. So just turn the bolt again to unlock it.
I try, my hand shaking because at least here in the dark I'm away from Eric Padgett. But I have to get out. I have to open the door.
The bolt won't turn.
No. No, no, no.
Okay. Okay, I can deal with this. The bolt turns off the lights, but there must be a switch inside, too. Because otherwise someone might get stuck inside in the dark. I am a living, breathing, panicking case in point.
I fumble near the door, trying to find it, but I don't have any luck. My breathing is coming faster and shallower. Stop it. Think.
Right. Think.
Oh, fuck. I've forgotten how to think.
I breathe. That, at least, I can manage, though not without some difficulty. I'm still clammy with panic and I want to pound on the door and scream. But Eric Padgett is out there, and I think that he's scarier than the dark and--
Okay, maybe he's not.
I slam my fist against the door. "Hey! Hey! Is anyone out there? Hello!"
Nothing.
I pound again. And again and again and--
"Nikki?"
"Damien?"
"Oh, shit, baby, are you okay?"
I am so not okay I cannot even begin to say.
"I'm fine," I manage.
"The door won't open. Can you unbolt it?"
"No. It's stuck." But as I'm speaking, I'm grasping the thing and turning and it flips open like a well-oiled machine. The second it clicks, Damien pushes the door open. I'm not sure if I run to him or if he comes to me. All I know is that I'm in his arms and I'm sucking in air and I'm apologizing over and over and over.
He waits for me to calm down, then cups my face. "You don't have a thing to apologize for," he says.
"I'm so glad you came back. Why did you come back?"
He gives me a fifty-dollar token. "I thought you might want to play a
bit before my speech."
For some reason, that makes me tear up. I lean against him. "It was Padgett," I say.
"What?" Alarm and anger color his voice.
"He didn't say his name, but I'm sure I'm right." I describe the man and repeat what he said.
Damien's face is as hard as I've ever seen it. He shifts me in front of him, then his hands roam over my body. "He didn't hurt you?"
"No," I say, my own fears fading under Damien's blatant anger and concern. "No, he didn't even threaten. But he scared me anyway, and that's why I ran."
"If you see him again--I don't care if he's three blocks away and you're not quite sure--you tell me. Okay?"
I nod. "Yes. Of course."
He takes my hand. "Come on. I'm going to make my speech, and then I'm taking you home."
I follow him in, and stand by the podium as a polished woman in Chanel thanks us all for showing our generous support to the Stark Educational Foundation, then introduces Mr. Damien Stark himself.
The room bursts into applause, mine included, and I watch as the man who now consumes my days and nights steps up onto the podium. I listen as his powerful, confident voice talks about helping children. About finding those who need a hand. About pulling them up from the muck and giving them the chance to shine.
His eloquent words extinguish the last embers of panic. Now my eyes are brimming with tears of pride. Maybe this man does have secrets and skeletons. But right now, I'm seeing his heart. And I like what I see.
24
The ocean shines in the morning light as I stand naked in the window under the steady gaze of two men. Blaine's professional inspection, and Damien's heat-filled gaze that makes my nipples peak and my thighs quiver despite the fact that there's another man in the room.
It's awkward--and yet I feel powerful, too.
"It's a crime you look so hot," Blaine says. "I feel like hell."
"That would be all the wine you had," I tease.
"Actually, that would be all the vodka," he counters. "Why the devil I told you to be here at eight, I really do not know. Oh, wait. Yes, I do. Because the morning light on your skin makes you glow."
I can't help it--I have to turn to Damien. I see my own amusement reflected in his face, and I know we're both thinking about how he says that I glow when I'm aroused.
Damien's eyes graze the entire length of my body, the inspection so intense that I think I really will start to glow right then. When his eyes meet mine again, there is undeniable heat there.
