Complete Me

by J. Kenner

  Despite the fact that the last time I was in this office I was treated to images of myself with my face scratched off, I actually manage to get some work done, and I'm feeling rather smug about my productivity when Giselle calls to tell me that she won't be coming by to show me any samples today.

  "No problem. I'm going to skip out in a few hours anyway." Tonight I'm cutting loose at Westerfield's, and Jamie and I have already planned to spend hours obsessing about our wardrobe before we decide on the perfect outfits. Coupled with the flavored vodka we'll undoubtedly be sipping, the whole process should be fun. "Is everything okay?" I ask Giselle.

  "Couldn't be better," she trills. "A client coming in. One of my best ones."

  "Better be careful who you say that to. Damien won't be keen on getting knocked from the top slot."

  There's a pause, and then she lowers her voice. "To be honest, Damien is the client. But promise me you won't say a word. I have a feeling he wants to buy a canvas for your office."

  I laugh, delighted. "Really? I promise to be surprised."

  I'm still smiling when Damien calls. "Hey," I say. "I was just about to head back to Malibu to get ready for tonight. Are we going to grab something out for dinner, or do you want me to bribe Jamie to cook?"

  "Why don't you two pick your favorite restaurant--my treat--and I'll meet you at the club later."

  "Work?"

  "A meeting. I have a feeling it'll run long."

  "Oh? Where will you be? We could have Edward swing by and pick you up when you're done."

  I'm baiting him, of course, but he gives nothing away.

  "You girls have fun," he says firmly. "But not too much fun. Not until I get there, anyway. And, Nikki," he adds, "I've already spoken to my manager about security at the club, so they're stepping it up a notch. You'll be watched."

  "All right," I say. I'd expected as much.

  "And I'm sending Ryan to the club. I want him with you until I get there."

  Now I do feel guilty. "Poor guy. He probably used to have a life before he had to start chasing my monsters."

  "There's nothing he likes better than taking down a monster," Damien says. "And the fact that I pay him so well makes it even more fun. Trust me, you don't have to feel sorry for Ryan."

  I laugh. "Okay, then. But, Damien? Please hurry."

  Westerfield's is loud and fun with some of the best bartenders and DJs in the city. Ollie and Jamie and I discovered it even before Damien was on my radar, but we've been by a few times since, and the bouncer who mans the VIP entrance gives me a little salute as Jamie and I approach. Edward escorts us to the door, but he doesn't follow us in, returning instead to the limo.

  I'm wearing a slinky silver skirt and matching tank top with three inch silver shoes. Jamie is my opposite in all black, the color unusually sophisticated for her. The style, however, adds the kick that Jamie usually finds in color. It is essentially backless, all the way down to the dimples just above her ass. The bodice is held in place by a series of loose black cords that crisscross over her shoulder blades. If someone with a pair of scissors took a snip, the dress would come tumbling down. We both look hot, if I do say so myself.

  "Looking good, Ms. Fairchild," the bouncer says as we strut past him. "Knock 'em dead, Ms. Archer."

  "This is why I love Damien," Jamie says as we move down the exclusive hallway. "He hires staff that know how to properly suck up."

  I laugh as we reach the door that opens onto the public area of the club. Ryan emerges from the shadows to join us. He nods politely, but I see just the hint of a smile when he nods at Jamie. And, unless the light is playing tricks, I see an answering smile touch her lips.

  Worry starts to buzz around me like a persistent gnat, and I tug on one of the black cords crisscrossing Jamie's back to slow her down.

  "What?" she says.

  "That's what I wanted to ask." I cut a glance toward Ryan, and even in the dim light I see the way her cheeks flush.

  I remember that Ryan went out to the house last night to check on security, and have to clamp my mouth shut so that I won't scream. "Tell me you didn't sleep with him," I ask when I'm sure I won't explode.

  "Swear to God," she says. "We talked. And he's a total gentleman. I made him eggs."

  "You what?"

  She lifts a shoulder. "He came out in a hurry because of that shit with you and the photos. And he hadn't eaten. So I made him eggs. And he said he really liked them. Next time, I might try to make him a waffle. What?" she demands after a moment, peering hard at my face.

  I realize I've been staring at her, a little pleased, a little baffled. "Nothing," I say. "Just--I'm glad he likes your eggs."

  "Hey. What's not to like?"

  She doesn't wait for an answer, just tosses a grin over her shoulder and hurries to catch up to him. I follow, then slow to a stop when I realize my phone is buzzing. I tug it out of my tiny purse and see the text from Giselle. I open it eagerly, hoping for gossip about the canvas Damien has bought for me. Instead, I stare at her words as if she'd written them in hieroglyphics.

  I'm so sorry. I truly wanted to make amends. Things got out of hand.

  I read it again, but it doesn't make any more sense the second time than it did the first. I hit the button to call her back, but the call just rolls to voicemail.

  "What is it?" Jamie asks when I catch up to her.

  I shake my head. "I'm not sure. I'll tell you later." The club is too loud for conversation, and I don't know enough, anyway.

  We're in the main area, now, just a few yards away from the dance floor. I glance around and finally see Ollie and Courtney waving from across the room. I already know that Lisa's not coming, after all; she left me a voice mail earlier telling me she had to go to Sacramento on business, but promising she'd take a rain check.

  Jamie and Ryan make it to Courtney and Ollie before I do. I take my time approaching, my eyes searching the area for Damien, but I see no sign of him.

  "Hey, Courtney!" I'm genuinely happy to see her and pull her into an enthusiastic hug. My greeting to Ollie feels more forced, but we loosen up on the dance floor. Whatever issues we have between us, a danceable beat is sufficient to take the edge off.

  "Listen, Nik," Ollie says a half hour later as we are catching our breath to a somewhat slower song. "Can we talk?"

  I stiffen, because I thought we'd tabled our shit for the night.

  He doesn't seem to notice my reaction, though. He leans in so that I am sure to hear him. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. About the grief I've given you about Stark, I mean."

  I pull back so that I can see his face--and so that he can see my surprise.

  He draws in a deep breath. "I know about the photos, Nik. Nobody should have that in his past."

  It's warm in the club, but I feel suddenly cold. "He doesn't want your pity."

  "And he doesn't have it. I'm just--I don't know. I guess I'm just saying that I know what kind of shit you went through as a kid, and now I know what he has to live with."

  I tense, but I say nothing. I can tell he's not finished.

  "Stark's not ever going to be on my favorite people list, but I've seen the way you two are together, and I really got to see it in Germany. I think you're good for each other."

  I swallow, the ice in my veins melting into a lump of tears in my throat. "We are."

  His smile is tentative. "So that's it. That's my apology. I won't say that I'll be asking the guy out for drinks and male bonding, but, well--"

  A bubble of relieved laughter bursts from me. "Thanks," I whisper.

  "Wanna go get a drink?"

  "No," I say. "Stay and dance with me some more."

  He grins, and we slide back into the music. I can't say that we're completely healed, but we're better, and I feel lighter around Ollie than I have in a very long time.

  After four straight songs, I am ready for a drink, so when Courtney comes by and suggests it, we go eagerly with her. Ollie gets waylaid by someone he knows from work, and
it ends up being just Courtney and me who ease up to the bar. I tell the bartender to put our drinks on Damien's tab, and he agrees so easily that I know that not only has Damien already instructed the staff to cater to us, but they have all visually identified me. I'm being watched. Protected. And although it feels a bit strange to be caught in the spotlight like that, I can't deny it makes me feel safer.

  But I won't feel truly safe until Damien shows up and I can slide into his arms.

  "What happened to the destination bridal shower?" I ask Courtney as we wait for the drinks. I have to practically shout to be heard, and I just know I'll have no voice at all tomorrow.

  "I think it's off the agenda," she says.

  "Why?" I expect the answer to have something to do with her nightmare of a travel schedule. Instead, she nods toward the dance floor where Jamie has her arms up in the air and her hips gyrating between Ryan and Ollie.

  "I should hate her, you know," Courtney says without malice, and that chill rushes over me once again.

  "What are you saying, Courtney?" I ask, praying that I'm wrong.

  I see the rise and fall of her chest. "I'm not going to marry him," she says. "I don't want to be that woman whose husband cheats on her, and I don't want to get married because I'm a good choice. I can't do that to myself. Hell, I can't do that to him. We'd be miserable in a year and divorced in two."

  "Oh." I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. I'm shocked by her words, and I feel bad for Ollie, who is going to know he fucked up, and that will make it all the worse. But at the same time, I'm glad. As pleased as I am that Ollie and I are on the mend, he did fuck this up with Courtney, and everything she's said so far is dead on the money. "When are you telling him?"

  "Soon. Maybe tonight. I just need to get up the courage." She shrugs. "It's not that I don't love him. It's just . . . " She trails off, as if she doesn't quite know how to say it.

  "Don't worry," I say, clutching her hand. "Believe me, I know."

  I have had too many drinks and danced too many dances by the time Damien finally arrives at the club. Heads turn, as always, and the crowd parts. He strides straight toward me, and I watch, transfixed, as he moves across the dance floor, not quite able to believe that all of that power and grace belongs to me. That out of everyone in that club, I am the one who will see him naked. Who will feel the heat of his mouth upon my skin. Who will cry out when he thrusts himself deep inside me.

  He hooks an arm around me and kisses me hard. I cling to him. I am somewhere in that place between buzzed and wasted, and I feel every beat of the loud music reverberating through me. I am sweaty with exertion, my skin slick, my clothes clinging to me. I lift myself up on tiptoes and press my lips to his ear. "I want you. Now."

  I am not exaggerating; I am desperate for him. But considering we're on a dance floor, I hardly expect my wish to come true. So I am surprised when he grips my arm and steers me toward the back of the club, then tugs me into a small elevator that he calls with a card key.

  Despite the fact that I'm in a haze, I can't help but notice the tension in his face. The hardness of his eyes. Not to mention the fact that he has yet to speak one word to me.

  "Damien? What is it?"

  The elevator opens and we are in an office. One wall is entirely glass, and I remember seeing it from below. It is made of reflective glass and surrounded by lights so that anyone who looks up sees only the distorted reflection of dancers surrounded by the glare of colored lights.

  But from up here, we have a perfectly clear view of the club.

  It is to that wall that Damien pushes me, until my back is to the glass and the dancers writhe beneath us and there is nowhere else for us to go.

  The heat in his eyes is unmistakable, and I feel the corresponding pull inside of me. I don't know what has happened or why he needs this, but right now it doesn't matter. I am his, and he can take me however he needs.

  How he needs, is rough.

  He shoves my skirt up and rips off my panties, making me gasp. He lifts my leg and hooks it around him, so that I am completely exposed. The air against my hot sex makes me tremble, but it is the rub of his jeans against me as he tugs me toward him that sends tremors running through me.

  His erection strains under the denim, and I gyrate my hips, stroking myself along his denim-clad cock, wanting to feel it inside me, needing him to fill me.

  I meet his eyes, and he stays silent, but the need I see on his face is as potent as my own.

  I practically dive for the buttons of his fly, then watch enraptured as he springs free. I want to touch him, to stroke him, but I have no time. He holds me by the hips, shifts my weight, and impales me on him so hard and fast that I swallow my scream.

  He thrusts us both backward, slamming me against the glass, and for a moment, I imagine us tumbling over, falling to the dance floor, still connected, still fucking, while the whole world looks on. The fantasy only makes me more wet.

  His gaze locks on mine as the intensity of his thrusts builds. I see his release growing in his eyes, and tighten my leg around him to pull him closer at the moment he goes over.

  He shudders, still deep inside me, and I reach between us, my fingers rubbing his cock as I stroke my clit, faster and faster until I come, too, and my muscles tighten around him, pulling from him the last waves of the orgasm that still rocks through both of us.

  Finally, we sink to the ground, breathing hard, our clothes and limbs tangled around us.

  When the ability to move returns, I prop myself up on my elbow to look at him "Do you want to tell me what that was about?" I ask softly.

  He reaches for me, then cups my face, his thumb stroking lightly over my chin. "Nobody fucks with what is mine."

  I frown, not understanding. "What's yours? You mean me?"

  He doesn't answer, but the darkening intensity of his eyes tells me what I want to know.

  "What happened?"

  "I paid a visit to Giselle earlier. You won't be working with her again."

  His words propel me to a sitting position. "What the fuck?" I think about her text. "Goddammit, Damien, quit talking in riddles and tell me what's going on."

  He lifts his hips so he can readjust his clothes. Then he stands. I scramble to do the same, and follow him back to that glass wall. "She was in the ATM footage. I confronted her, and she confessed she leaked the story about the portrait so she could get cash to help keep her business going after she and Bruce split. She also sold the story about Jamie and the Ferrari, not to mention the bullshit about our little love nest in Malibu."

  "What? No." But even as I say it, I think about the intensity of her expression when I told her Jamie was staying in Malibu. And I think about all the financial trouble that she told me she was having as a result of her divorce.

  Most of all, I think about that text. It was a confession, I now realize. A confession and an apology.

  "But she's the one who told me about the article in the Business Journal."

  "Camouflage," he says. "She sells the story, then tells you. You're both surprised together, and she looks innocent."

  My head is spinning. "Wait a second. You fired her? She was doing my walls in my office. If anyone was going to fire her, it should have been me."

  "I told you," he says. "No one fucks with what's mine." There is an edge to his voice that I rarely hear. The edge that reminds me that, yes, Damien has a dangerous side. A ruthlessness that helped him win game after game of tennis in his youth, and then claw his way to the top of the corporate ladder without even breaking a sweat. He is not a man to be fucked with.

  But that doesn't change the fact that it wasn't him Giselle was fucking with. Maybe the articles were about the two of us, but she'd slipped her way into my office, into my life.

  Damien is studying my face, and he's obviously seeing my temper rising. "It's done," he says. "It's over."

  "How is it done?"

  "I explained to her that my lawyers were more than capable of dragging out multiple act
ions for defamation and invasion of privacy. She's a businesswoman at heart, so she understands that I can keep a litigation going forever, but she's going to have trouble finding a lawyer whose hourly rate doesn't break her. We came to terms."

  "What kind of terms?"

  "She turned over all right, title, and interest in her galleries to me. She's relocating to Florida. And good fucking riddance."

  I press my palm against the glass, as if the coolness will ease the bite of my temper. "You don't have to fight my battles, Damien."

  "I love you, Nikki. I will always fight for you."

  His words are heavy with meaning and ripe with passion. They knock me backward and steal my breath. "You love me," I say stupidly.

  The corner of his mouth curves up. "Desperately."

  I swallow back the knot of tears that has formed in my throat. "You haven't said it," I say. "Not for weeks now."

  He closes his eyes as if my words have hurt him, but when he opens them again, it's not pain that I see, but love. He reaches for me and pulls me close. I lean against him, breathing in the scent of soap mixed with sex. It's heady, and I want to get lost in it. Lost in this moment.

  "I love you, Nikki," he repeats. "I say it with every touch, with every look, with every breath that I take. I love you. I love you so much it hurts."

  "Me, too." I brush a kiss across his lips, then meet his smile. "But you can't protect me from everything, Damien. And you sure as hell can't protect me by keeping things from me. You should have told me about Giselle. Hell, who knows what else is out there you're keeping from me. So just stop it, okay? It doesn't protect me, it just pisses me off."

  "All right," he says evenly. I think that's the end of it, but then he continues. "Sofia sent the photos."

  I have to rewind his words in my head, because what he is saying makes no sense whatsoever. "The photos in Germany. Sofia is the one who sent them to the court? I don't understand. Why? How do you know? Did you talk to her?"

  He moves away from the glass wall to the center of the room. He paces, not like a man trying to solve a problem, but like a man who already knows the answer and doesn't much like it.