"I used you."
"Yes." I want to scream the word. "And I don't care. God, Damien, you're not some stranger off the street. You're the man I--" But I can't go there. "You're the man who's heard all of my secrets. Who's been in my bed and in my head. That's what makes it different. Don't you see that? You can have me however you need me. You can tell me your secrets and it won't change a thing."
He looks at me. "Won't it? I wonder."
His voice is far away, but seems to hold a challenge. I stand there, unsure of what to say.
"I'm going to call Edward to take you home," he finally says.
I find my voice. "No."
"Dammit, Nikki."
"I said no." I move closer to him. "You didn't hurt me." I rise onto my tiptoes so I can whisper in his ear. "I was wet for you, and you damn well know it. So there's no way you can say that you forced me." I hold his arm with one hand to steady myself, but with the other I slowly trace my way over his chest and lower abs until my finger finds the waistband of his briefs.
"No," he says, but I can hear the quickening of his heartbeat, the tightening of his body in anticipation.
"No doesn't always mean no," I say. I ease myself down onto my knees, thankful for the gym mat below me. His cock is straining against the briefs. I find the fly, then tug it out.
"Nikki ..."
"I'm going to take care of you." I run my tongue down the length of his cock, so hard and velvety. I taste salt. I taste me. And I want to take him all the way in. "Sunset," I say. "It can be your safeword, too."
Before he can say it, though, I rim the head of his cock with my tongue, teasing it as if it were a very large, very decadent lollipop. He gets harder and harder, and when I'm certain that I've brought him close to the breaking point, I draw him in, stroking and sucking and getting myself even hotter in the process.
I can feel the change in his body and I know that he's close, but then he shifts position, pulling out of my mouth and then drawing me up until I'm pressed hard against him. He kisses me, this time softly and sweetly, then eases us both down to the mat.
I open my mouth to speak, but he presses a finger to my lips. "Shhh. No talking."
He unties my robe and leaves it open, laid out beneath us as he climbs on top of me. I spread my legs and draw my knees up, and then close my eyes in pleasure as he thrusts inside me.
He moves in a slow rhythm, the complete opposite of the way he fucked me upstairs. This is making love, and his eyes never leave mine. He takes my hand and slides it between our bodies, and his silent command is easy enough to understand. I'm so aroused my body tingles all over, but I stroke my clit, getting hotter and hotter, my rhythm matching his thrusts until, finally, he explodes, and I do, too, just moments after.
Spent, he lays beside me, sharing the silkiness of my robe.
"I'm so sorry," he says, his fingers tracing a lazy path on my shoulder. "And I'm so angry."
"At me?"
"No. At me."
"But why? I thought we already established that what happened upstairs was okay."
He looks at me, his eyes hot with need. "Because now that I have you, I can't stand the thought of ever losing you."
27
Despite the drama, the evening takes a right turn toward normal. Blaine comes and I pose and he paints and Damien sits quietly in a chair and watches for four solid hours. After that we sit and drink wine and watch the moon on the ocean. Damien offers to let Blaine crash on the mat in the gym, and so we repeat the entire thing bright and early the next morning, finally wrapping at nine when Damien heads out for his office.
When I get home around ten, I find Jamie's note that she's gone to an audition. I cross my fingers for her and settle in for a lazy morning. Damien's in meetings until lunchtime, and though I'd rather be snuggled in his bed, I'm also happy to veg with the television, the newspaper, and Lady Meow-Meow.
I make a pot of coffee, tune the television to a classic movie station, and debate whether or not I should do a load of laundry today.
My Man Godfrey is just about to start, and since that's one of my favorite screwball comedies, I decide that laundry can wait.
The opening credits are still rolling when the phone rings. I see that it's Ollie and snatch it up.
"Can you do lunch?" he asks. "Early, because I have a one o'clock meeting. Like maybe eleven? You could come here? I'll have my secretary order us sandwiches."
"Um, sure. Why the sudden urge?"
"I just want to see you. Does there have to be a reason?"
There doesn't have to be, but of course I know there is. And I'm afraid it's about Courtney. Or worse--about Jamie. I assure him that I'll be there, then set the DVR to record the movie. No time to watch the whole thing now.
When I arrive in Ollie's office just shy of an hour later, the receptionist is expecting me. She leads me to a conference room where Ollie has spread out sodas and Subway sandwiches. Not exactly high class, but it'll do.
He's not there yet, so I sip my Diet Coke and open my bag of chips, all the while reminding myself that I need to be supportive. Lecturing him about how he screwed up won't do anyone any good at this point.
"Hey," he says, pushing into the conference room with a stack of files.
"Please tell me those aren't for me."
For a moment he looks confused, then his face clears. "No, no. These are for my meeting. Sorry. It's been a crazy couple of days."
"So what's going on?" I ask. It must be serious if he's interrupting work insanity to bring me here.
He presses a button on the credenza and the vertical blinds that hang in front of the two picture windows that make up the open sides of the conference room begin to close. A moment later, we have complete privacy.
"You're not going to like it," he says.
I lean back in my chair, already irritated. "Shit, Ollie. Is this about Damien again? Can you please quit playing the role of big brother? I'm all grown up. I can take care of myself."
He doesn't flinch or react. As far as I can tell, he hasn't even heard me. "Do you remember Kurt Claymore?"
I swallow. The infamous Kurt. Of all the things he might say, this really wasn't on my radar.
"Yeah," I say blandly. "I have a vague recollection."
"He's been working the past five years as a manager at a Houston-based manufacturing company."
"So?"
"So your friend Damien had him fired this morning."
"What?" I realize my fingernails are digging into the armrest of his guest chair. "You can't be sure."
"Yeah," Ollie says. "I can. I said I never worked for Stark directly, but I do the work for Maynard. I'm the one who hired the investigator to find Kurt. I'm sorry, Nik."
My heart is pounding painfully in my chest and my skin feels clammy. Damien tracked down Kurt. He got him fired. And he never asked me. Never talked to me. Just did it.
"He's rich and arrogant and as far as he's concerned he owns the world and it damn well better behave the way he wants it to."
"No," I say automatically. My voice is soft. I feel numb. "Damien's not like that. He was protecting me. That was his way of protecting me."
"Protecting you? The way he protected Sara Padgett?"
My head snaps up. "What are you talking about?"
"You know who Eric Padgett is, right?"
My stomach clenches. I'm terribly afraid of what he's going to say. "Yes," I manage. "You know I do. He's the dead girl's brother."
"He keeps threatening to go to the press and say that Stark killed his sister. For weeks we've had all of Stark's resources aimed at stopping this one asshole, and he just keeps pushing back saying he wants his money, and he's going to screw Stark, and there's more dirt out there than just his sister, but it all sounds like the same old smear routine. Just like I told you in Beverly Hills--we figured Eric Padgett was just one more asshole looking for a payday."
"What's happened?" My voice is completely flat. I just want to hear the horrible thing an
d get out of there. I need to be alone. I need to process this.
"Stark paid him off yesterday. That's right," Ollie adds in response to my openmouthed gape. "The same Damien Stark who wanted a balls-to-the-wall defense against the guy did a complete 180 and paid the fucker off. Forget fighting. Forget all his talk about not backing down, about taking it all the way as far as it would go. He just caved. Quickly and completely."
"Caved how?" I ask, so softly I'm surprised Ollie can hear me.
"Caved to the tune of twelve-point-six million dollars."
"Oh, God." I don't mean to speak, but the words fly out. I press my hand over my mouth and blink back tears.
Ollie is watching me, but I'm not really seeing him. Instead I'm seeing Damien on his terrace pacing with a phone to his ear, talking to Charles Maynard about something I don't understand. And about twelve-point-six million dollars.
"Oh, God," I repeat.
There's no compassion in Ollie's eyes as he looks at me. "Maybe Stark just got tired of the bullshit. But I don't think so. I think he's covering up what he did. He's dangerous, Nik, just like I've been saying. He's dangerous, and you damn well know it, too."
My thoughts bounce randomly through my head as I steer my battered Honda to Damien's Malibu house. Anger, loss, fear, denial, hope. I don't know what I'm thinking or even what to think. All I know is that this isn't good.
All I'm sure of is that it hurts like hell.
It's just past noon, but I'm certain I'll find him there. I called his office from the road and his secretary told me he was heading home.
Home, I know, means our third floor studio.
"Hey, Blondie," Blaine says as I step off the landing and into the studio.
"I didn't think you'd still be here."
"Been doing some color studies. Trying to get the damn sky right." He shakes his head. "Getting close, but I'm not quite there yet." Then he gets a closer look at me, and his brow furrows with concern. "Okay, what's wrong?"
I glance at the painting. My image is there on the canvas, more fleshed out, but still unfinished. I look raw, as if the top layer of me has been stripped away, and in that moment I think that Blaine has truly captured me. Because that is how I feel. Like Damien has ripped his way through to see what I kept hidden, and then left me exposed and vulnerable.
Damien steps in from the kitchen. "Nikki." I hear the pleasure in his voice, then the shift as he truly looks at me. "What's going on?"
"I'm going to cut out," Blaine says.
Damien doesn't look at Blaine or answer. His eyes are only on me.
I wait until I hear the door shut, and then I draw in a tight breath. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely get the words out. "Did you control her the way you do me?"
I see confusion in his eyes, and it pisses me off. I hold on to the anger, because it gives me strength. "Sara Padgett," I say. "Goddammit, Damien, do you think I don't know?"
"What is it you think you know?" His voice is as cold as ice.
"I know you need to be in control. Your life. Your business. Your women. Your bed. I even get it," I say. A tear has escaped and is snaking its way down the side of my nose, but I'm holding it together. Right now, it's me who's the expert on control. "You were abused, weren't you? And now you need it. You need to be in control."
I watch his face, looking for confirmation, but there's nothing there. His face is blank and unreadable.
"I do like to be in control, Nikki. I don't think I've ever made a secret of that."
No, he hasn't. But there have been so many other secrets. "Did it start as a game?" I ask. "Did you tie her up, too?" I move toward the bed and take one of the drapes in my hand. "Did you put this oh so gently around her arms? Then around her throat? Did you tell her about pleasure and pain?" The tears are flowing freely now, and my voice is thick with them. "Was it--was it an accident?"
His face is no longer blank. Now it's dark, like a violent storm, and just as dangerous. "I did not kill Sara Padgett."
I manage to look him straight in the eye. "I've got twelve-point-six million reasons to believe that you did."
His face goes white. It's true. Oh, dear God, until that moment, I don't think I really believed that it was true.
"How the hell did you hear about that?"
My skin feels clammy and my stomach is roiling. I think I'm going to be sick.
"Certainly not from you," I say. "I guess that's not the kind of thing you were going to try to be more open with me about, huh? Well, I suppose I can't blame you."
"How?" he repeats.
"I overheard some of your phone conversation," I snap. I leave out the rest.
He shoves his fingers through his hair. "Nikki--"
I hold up my hand. "No," I say. I just want to get out of there. I shove my hand into the pocket of my jeans and pull out the ankle bracelet. I take a deep breath and then I drop it onto the bed.
I pause only long enough to look at the raw, unfinished painting. I feel a lump in my throat. Then I turn and hurry down the stairs.
Damien doesn't come after me.
I'm not sure how I get through the next two days. They are a haze of ice cream, classic movies, and really depressing country songs. Twice, Jamie makes me go sit by the pool, saying that the vitamin D will be good for me. But it doesn't feel good. Nothing feels good.
My sleep schedule is all screwed up, and I don't worry about fixing it, because I don't need to get up early since I don't have a job. I called Bruce from the car after leaving Damien's house and told him I couldn't accept the job. I need to cut all my ties with Damien Stark because if I don't, I know I'll get reeled back in. I can feel the part of me that's already tugging in that direction, I miss him so terribly.
My nights are turning into days and vice versa and I'm learning all sorts of things about products that are sold only by infomercial. That's why I know neither what day it is nor what time it is when I'm awakened from a cat nap on the couch by a determined knock at the door. I yell for Jamie to answer it, but of course she's not home. She's had two more auditions and a callback, and while I'm thrilled for her, I'm also feeling lost and lonely.
The pounding continues. I groan and sit up.
Once the blood starts flowing I wonder who could be that persistent. Damien? I doubt it. I haven't heard a word from him. Not to offer me explanations, or even to check on me.
Because you made the right decision. You really were just chattel. He's moved on.
Well, fuck. Now I feel like shit all over again.
The pounding ramps up. "All right! I'm coming! Hang on!"
I stand up and blink. I can feel that my face is puffy and I know that my unwashed hair is a mess. I'm wearing the same ripped flannel pajama pants I've been wearing for two days, and my tank top has coffee spilled on it.
I am pathetic, and I really couldn't care less.
I pad to the door in my fluffy socks, careful not to trip over Lady Meow-Meow, who seems thrilled to see signs of life in me.
I don't usually bother, but I take the trouble to look through the peephole to make certain it's not Damien about to see me like this.
It's not.
It's worse.
It's my mother.
28
"Mother," I say. "What are you doing here?"
She brushes past me, then looks critically around the room, her nose wrinkling. After a moment, she walks to the dining table, then uses the tips of her fingers to pull out the chair. She takes a tissue from her purse, brushes the seat, and sits. She folds her hands in front of her on the table and keeps her back straight.
I follow and flop down in the chair opposite. I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin on my fist.
My mother smiles at me. The same fake smile she reserves for cashiers and gas station attendants.
I try again. "Why are you in LA?"
"I would think that was obvious," she says. "I came to help."
Granted my brain is a little fuzzy, but I don't know what she's t
alking about.
"With Damien Stark," she says, and my stomach clenches tight.
"What are you talking about, Mother?"
"I saw the picture, of course. And the caption. Why you didn't tell me a man like Damien Stark was courting you, I don't know. But it's the first good news I've heard about this move to Los Angeles."
I stare blankly at her.
"Well, darling, really. If you're trying to marry a man like Damien Stark, you want to make sure not to disappoint. He can so easily move on to another woman."
Yeah. Easy. As far as I know, he already has.
She looks me up and down, her lips a thin line. "Clearly we have a lot of work to do." She pulls her phone out of her Chanel handbag. "What's the best spa nearby? We'll focus on your makeup first. Thank goodness your hair is still stunning, even if it is filthy. We'll get the ends trimmed, of course. Then a new wardrobe and then this apartment. If Jamie is particularly attached to any of these things, she can put them in storage."
"I broke up with him, Mother."
I swear to God, my mother turns green.
"You what?" From her tone, you would have thought I'd told her that I only had twenty-four hours to live. "Why on earth would you do something so foolish?"
"Why?" I open my mouth, grappling for something to say. "Because he has some truly fucked-up control issues. Does that sound familiar?"
She stands up, her movements slow and practiced the way she always moves when she's angry. A lady doesn't show emotion. A lady doesn't spout off. "You little fool," she says, calmly and coldly. "You always were too smart for your own good. Only Nichole knew best. Only Nichole knew what to do."
"For Nichole, yeah, Mother, that's right. Only Nichole knows what Nichole wants."
Her face is pinched so tight I can see where her makeup is caking and cracking. "You are spoiled and ungrateful. I can't believe I took time out of my schedule to fly out here and see you. I am going to go back to my hotel, and you think about your life. About what you want and where you're going and what you're throwing away. And when you can talk calmly and rationally, I'll come back."
And then she turns on her heel and marches to the door and leaves. She doesn't even slam it.
I sit there, numb. I know I should move, but I can't. I just sit and stare and feel like I'm floating out of myself.