by J. Kenner
“It was big,” I said. “It could hold hot chocolate and marshmallows without the chocolate dribbling over the side when you stick a spoon in.”
“Yeah, but what’s the point of drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows if you’re going to be all prissy about it?”
I can’t argue with that, so I don’t. Instead I shove my feet into a pair of flip-flops that are by the stairs, then step gingerly into the kitchen to get the small broom and dustpan I put under the sink after I moved in.
“Thanks,” she says, then rolls her eyes when I hand the broom to her. “Okay.” She sighs. “Fine.”
As she squats down, much better dressed for the job in jeans than I am in my towel, I ask where she’s been. “I was worried,” I admit. “Did you sleep somewhere else?”
“Shit no.” She brushes the last of the mug splinters into the dustpan, then tilts her head to aim a cat-ate-the-canary grin up at me. “I may have stayed out all night, but I didn’t sleep.” Her dreamy grin fades and she peers hard at me. “And you? Because it seems to me your bed’s not getting all that much action lately. Pretty soon you’re going to have to sign the poor thing up for therapy. Loneliness can lead to depression, you know.”
“I’ll get right on that,” I say dryly. “And as a matter of fact, no. I wasn’t here, either.”
“Uh-huh.”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “I didn’t say a word,” I point out. “But if I were going to say something, it would only be that when I stay out all night it’s with the same guy. You have so many different men you should start a Facebook page just to keep track of them.”
“Not a bad plan, actually. Except that I think this guy might be something special.”
I gape. “Seriously?”
“Totally. He’s not as fuckalicious as Damien-king-of-the-world-Stark, but I wouldn’t run screaming from a repeat performance. Or even a triple play, for that matter.”
This is as close as I’ve ever heard Jamie get to discussing a relationship. To say I’m bowled over would be an understatement. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that on me when I’m running late. So come on. We can talk while I get dressed.”
She follows me into my bedroom and perches at my desk in front of my laptop. It’s open, and the screensaver is a slideshow of pictures of Damien that I took in Santa Barbara. Damien with so much light and humor in his eyes that I can’t ever look at those photos without smiling. Between that screensaver and the exquisite, original Monet painting Damien gave me that now hangs between my desk and my dresser, I cannot enter this room without feeling cherished. It’s a nice feeling, and one that I am not used to. In college, my apartment was simply a place to live. With my mother, my room was the place I wanted to escape. But here, there is Jamie and my newfound freedom. There is excitement. There is potential.
Most of all, there is Damien.
This room is proof that I really have moved on, and that where I am going is where I want to be.
At my desk, Jamie is typing away. “Raine,” she finally says.
I’m standing by my closet, debating between a blue skirt and a gray one, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s not talking about precipitation.
“Bryan Raine,” she says, when I turn to face her, as if that will make me understand. Since my face apparently continues to register complete cluelessness, she shakes her head in mock exasperation, and taps the laptop screen. “My guy is Bryan Raine.”
Despite my rush, I’m curious enough to forgo my wardrobe analysis to see what she’s doing, and when I reach my desk, I see that she’s pulled up a series of images. They’re all of the same man. Gorgeous, mostly shirtless, with a well-fucked quality and the kind of eyes and facial structure and that dirty blond hair a camera loves. Most of the images, in fact, are from advertisements. Cars, men’s cologne. Jeans. I have to confess that the man could definitely sell a pair of jeans.
“That’s him,” Jamie says proudly.
“That’s the guy you were out with last night?”
“Yup.” She grins mischievously. “Though we stayed in most of the time. Pretty hot, huh?”
“He’s incredible,” I say as I move to my dresser and rummage for panties and a bra. For a moment, I hesitate. In the game I’ve been playing with Damien, I’ve had to follow his rules. And for the last two weeks, I’ve worn neither bra nor panties. It was odd at first, but undeniably sexy, especially when I was with him, knowing that at any moment he could slip a hand under my skirt. That he could touch me, tease me, even fingerfuck me.
There’s something desperately erotic about being naked beneath your clothes, and even when Damien wasn’t around, my body was keyed up, and I was aware of every brush of material over my rear and every whisper of a breeze that stroked my sex.
But this isn’t a game, it’s the first day of a new job and the Elizabeth Fairchild Rules for Living are too ingrained in my life. I might have spent my entire life trying to escape from my mother, but she has still soaked in through the cracks. And in my mother’s world, the thrill of sexual freedom doesn’t override the necessity of panties at work.
I slip on my underwear, sigh, and return to the closet to continue debating my outfit.
I glance at Jamie to see if she has an opinion, but she’s still gazing dreamily at the screen. “Don’t get drool on my keyboard,” I chide. “So how did you meet him?”
“He’s my co-star,” she says, referring to the commercial she’s about to start shooting. “He mostly models, but he’s also done a few television guest appearances and he was even one of the bad guys in the last James Bond movie.”
“He was?” I’d actually seen that movie, and I don’t remember him.
“Well, he stood around with a gun and looked hot,” she amends. “But he was on the bad guy team.”
“But you guys haven’t started to shoot yet,” I say, because I’m still confused. “So why did you go out with him? Which one?” I add, holding up the two skirts I’m considering.
“The blue. And he called me. He said that since the commercial’s basically a love story in thirty seconds, we ought to go out and suss out our chemistry.”
“I take it the chemistry is good?”
“Sizzling,” Jamie agrees, and although I’m still not thrilled about the ease with which Jamie bounces from bed to bed, I can’t deny that this morning my roommate looks good. Sparkly, fizzy good, and I figure that the new job and the new guy have a lot to do with that. I feel a surge of protectiveness mixed with relief and tinged with a tiny bit of worry. Jamie’s never confided in me about it, but I’m pretty sure that before I moved in she often chose her men based not on attraction but on their willingness to help her make the mortgage. If a real relationship develops between Jamie and Bryan Raine, no one will be happier than me. But if he ends up breaking her heart, I have a feeling that my strong, self-sufficient roommate will shatter.
I glance at her and see that she’s frowning. I swallow, afraid that my fears show on my face. “What is it?”
“You’re really wearing a skirt? I thought you tech folks were all about the jeans and T-shirts with math equations.”
I scowl, because I happen to own several T-shirts with truly funny math jokes. “First day on the job, and I’m not doing the tech side, remember. I’m management. I want to look professional.”
I’ve zipped up the blue skirt, and now I slide my feet into my favorite pair of pumps, then slip on a white silk shell that I top with a darling jacket I found at one of the studio resale shops that Jamie took me to during our Nikki-just-arrived-in-LA shopping spree. It has a classical cut with a muted pattern in gray and blue. The clerk told us that it was worn by one of the characters on some television show I never watched, but that Jamie assured me was great fun.
“I want to hear more about this guy,” I tell her as I move back into the bathroom to fly through my makeup routine. “But I have to get going.” She follows me and leans against the door as I finish up by carefully lining my eyes and brush
ing mascara on my lashes. When I’m done, I do a little spin in the tiny area between the tub and the sink. “Do I look okay?”
“When don’t you?” she asks. “And if anyone asks, Lauren Graham wore that jacket on Gilmore Girls. Trust me, it’s cool.”
I nod, taking her word for it.
“Want to meet after work? I’ll tell you about Raine and you can tell me all about your nights away from home, too. I want to hear everything.”
“Sounds good,” I say, not bothering to tell her that where Damien is concerned, there is no way that I’m going to be revealing “everything.” “Du-par’s?” I ask.
“Are you shitting me? I want a drink. Meet me at Firefly,” she says, referring to a local bar on Ventura Boulevard that we went to my first night in town.
“I’ll text you as I’m leaving work,” I say, then pull her into a hug. “I’m really glad about this guy. I can’t wait to hear more.”
“I can’t wait to see more,” she says with a wicked grin. “Trust me, I could look at that man all day.”
I leave Jamie sighing and probably replaying last night’s coital gymnastics in her mind, then hurry down the back stairs to the parking area. As I pull out, I see the limo in my rearview mirror. I keep an eye on it until I turn, but it doesn’t move from the spot, and as I turn onto Ventura Boulevard, I can’t help but smile. After all, it’s not every day I manage to outmaneuver Damien Stark.
Despite the fact that my ancient Honda has very little spunk and has lately taken to stalling out at stoplights, I manage to get from Studio City to the Innovative Resources office in Burbank in less than fifteen minutes, completely stall-free. I consider this a stellar beginning to the day. I park next to a red Mini Cooper that I eye jealously, then lock my car and head toward the ugly four-story stucco building that houses the Innovative offices along with a few subtenants.
My phone beeps and I pause in the middle of the parking lot to pull it out of my purse, then smile when I see it’s from Damien.
Thinking of you. Be good on your first day. Get along with the other kids. But don’t share your candy.
I laugh and tap out a reply. I only share my candy w/ u.
His reply makes me smile. Very glad to hear it.
I answer quickly. Heading into building now. Wish me luck.
His response is just as quick. Luck, though you don’t need it. Meeting reconvening, must go. Tonight, baby. Until then, imagine me, touching you.
I always do, I reply, then sigh happily as I slide my phone back into my purse, but not before noticing the time. It’s only 9:45, which means that I have fifteen minutes before I’m supposed to report for work.
My phone rings, and I pull it out. Damien again. “I’m imagining,” I say, keeping my tone sultry.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He doesn’t sound sultry at all. In fact, he sounds downright pissed. I grimace. Apparently, he’s just spoken to Edward.
“Going to work,” I say.
“I’m supposed to be in a meeting right now.”
“So why aren’t you?”
“Dammit, Nikki—”
“No,” I snap. “I’m the only one who gets to say that. Dammit, Damien, I am perfectly capable of driving myself. And if you want to hire out Edward then ask me. It’s easy. You walk up to me and say, ‘Nikki, darling, light of my life, can I have my driver take you to work?’ ”
There is a pause, and I hope that he is laughing. “And you would have said yes?”
“No,” I admit. “But that’s the way you should have handled it. It’s my job, Damien. I want to drive myself. I will drive myself.”
“I don’t want you around the paparazzi without someone there with you.”
Oh. I feel a little bit better. I don’t agree with what he did, but at least there was a reason for doing it. “Nobody’s here,” I say.
“But there could have been.”
“And I would have dealt with it,” I say, probably too sharply. I count to five. “You can’t be with me every second of every day. No matter how much I wish you could. I’m going to see them when I’m alone. It’s going to happen, and we both just have to deal with it.”
I hear him exhale. “I don’t like it.”
“Me, neither.”
“Dammit, Nikki.”
I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say.
Finally Damien speaks. “I’m going to my meeting,” he says, but what he means is, I’m worried about you.
“I’m fine,” I say. “And, Damien?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. Right emotion. Crappy execution.”
That gets a laugh out of him. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that,” he says. “It is not an argument I can have from Palm Springs.”
I frown. Apparently it is an argument he can have in Los Angeles. Great.
He really does have to go to his meeting, so he ends the call, and I’m left scowling at my phone and the knowledge that I’m going to have to deal with not only the paparazzi, but with Damien trying to babysit me through my day.
I shove the problem out of my head and hurry into the building. I no longer have time to grab a coffee, but that’s okay because I don’t want to risk spilling it on my white blouse. As my mother’s voice in my head reminds me, there are better ways to make a first impression than coffee stains on your outfit.
The reception area is on the fourth floor, and I punch the elevator call button and wait impatiently for the elevator to arrive.
The doors finally slide open and I shift to one side to let the passengers get off. I’m about to step into the car when I hear a throaty, familiar voice behind me.
“Well, look at you, Texas. All dressed up with someplace to go.”
I turn and find myself facing Evelyn Dodge, a brassy broad if ever there was one, and one of my favorite people in the world. She’s wearing flowing black pants and gold sandals that look like something imported from Morocco. The pants are mostly obscured by a blustery multi-patterned shirt that, as far as I can tell, was created by stitching together dozens of Hermes scarves. She looks a bit like a gypsy with very expensive taste.
“I knew today was your first day,” she says, “but I didn’t think I’d get lucky enough to see you.”
I realize that I’m still staring at her in complete surprise—and blocking the entrance to the elevator. I step to the side so that the small group that has gathered can get on, and force myself to speak despite the grin that is plastered across my face.
“What on earth are you doing here?” I ask. Evelyn lives in Malibu, not far from Damien’s new house, and she’s not the type to make the trek to the Valley unless the apocalypse is upon us.
“Same thing you are, Texas.”
I lift a brow in amusement. “You’re going into the tech industry? Designing an iPhone app to feature Blaine’s work?”
She taps her nose and points at me. “Not a bad idea, actually, and I just may have to wrangle some advice out of you about that later. But no. I’m here to see Bruce.”
“Why?” The question is out of my mouth before I realize how completely rude it sounds.
Evelyn, however, isn’t the kind to take offense. “I need one of his keys,” she says, then barks out a throaty laugh. “But don’t worry. It’s not for a tryst. Blaine’s more than I can handle in that department—and now he’s decided he wants to touch up some of the paintings for Saturday’s showing, but apparently they’re in the gallery’s off-site storage facility.”
Now I really am confused. “Can’t Giselle let you in?” Giselle is Bruce’s wife and the owner of a few Southern California art galleries. Saturday’s cocktail party will not only feature the portrait of me—though only a handful of guests will actually know that I am the model on the wall—but also a number of Blaine’s other paintings.
“If she hadn’t hauled her ass to Palm Springs, sure. But she called me from the road. Apparently she’s on her way to get a few pieces from her gallery there, and her ass
istant doesn’t have the spare key to the unit. Why the hell Giselle gave it to Bruce instead of her assistant, I don’t know. Sometimes, that woman baffles me.”
“Damien’s in Palm Springs, too. He went there this morning.”
“Too bad Giselle didn’t know. She could have dumped the job of bringing the paintings back on him. Would have saved me a trip.” Evelyn shakes her head. “Frankly, I would have much rather gone to Palm Springs than Burbank, and I’m sure she knows it, but I think she and Brucey boy are having another tiff.”
“Why are they fighting?”
“With those two? Who the hell knows.” She brushes the conversation away, as if it is old news, but to me the topic of Giselle is one of unpleasant but undeniable interest. I’d been jealous of the woman for about five minutes when I’d first met Damien at Evelyn’s party because it had seemed to me that she was the girl on Damien’s arm. Once I’d learned that she was married, however, the jealousy had been shoved into a dark corner where it belonged. I wouldn’t say that the jealousy has returned, but my hope that Bruce and Giselle quickly regain a state of marital bliss is definitely more selfish than altruistic.
“And what about you?” Evelyn continues. “I keep hoping you and that camera of yours will take me up on my offer so that I can ply you with drink and wrangle some gossip, but I guess you don’t need me now that you’ve got Damien’s view at your disposal.”
“It is one hell of a view,” I admit. “But I’d still love to come over sometime.”
“Anytime. Bring your camera if you want,” she says. “Or just come for the liquor and the gossip. Both flow free at my house. Advice, too, if you need it. But from what I’m hearing, you’re doing just fine.”
“Blaine’s been telling stories on me.” I can’t help my grin. The skinny young artist and the large brassy woman don’t seem like a couple at first glance. And while Evelyn will say she only keeps Blaine around to warm her bed, I have a feeling there’s a lot more to it than that.
“Hell, yes. What’s the point of sending that boy out in the world if he doesn’t bring me back the dirt?”
