I'm left with either work or photography, and since my camera is still at the Malibu house, I decide to go with work. Now is as good a time as any to finish the coding on my two smartphone apps that are almost ready to market. That, of course, means a quick trip to my condo. Since I have no car at Damien's apartment, that's not as easy as it sounds.
The phone in the kitchen acts as both a regular phone and an intercom to Damien's office. I've seen him use it a dozen times, and I press the button to operate the speaker. "Hello?" I say tentatively.
"Yes, Ms. Fairchild? Can I help you?" I grin. This really is pretty cool.
"Um, yeah. Is this Ms. Peters?" I ask, scraping my memory for the name of Stark's weekend assistant.
"How kind of you to remember. It is. What can I do for you?"
"I don't have a car and I need to go pick up something at home. Could you arrange a taxi or--"
"I'll have Edward bring the limo around. If you take the elevator to parking level C, he'll meet you right there."
"Oh. Okay. Thanks." I end the call and shimmy happily in the kitchen. Yes, there are definitely perks to having money.
As Ms. Peters had predicted, Edward is waiting for me.
"Thanks so much," I say.
"Not at all, Ms. Fairchild. Where are we going?"
"My condo," I say. "I just need to run in and pick up something. And I really wish you'd call me Nikki."
"Right away, Ms. Fairchild," he says, but he grins as he says it.
I slide into the limo and curl up in the corner, thinking about that first night I met Damien. Or re-met him, I suppose, since our first encounter six years ago doesn't really count. I close my eyes and remember the way Damien whispered to me. How turned on I'd been by the words he'd spoken into the phone, and how shocked I'd been by what I'd so willingly done in the back of a limo.
By the time we reach the condo, I've played back that entire evening in my mind--and I am very much missing Damien.
"Will you be long?"
"Not too long. I need to download a couple of things onto my laptop, but that's all. Are you listening to a book?"
"Decided to try a classic," he says. "The Count of Monte Cristo. Not bad, so far. Not bad at all."
I smile at his assessment of one of my favorite books, then hurry up the stairs.
I can hear the loud bangs coming from our neighbor Douglas's apartment, and I wince. I know it's not Jamie in there burning up the sheets with him, but I still scowl at his door.
Inside, I toss my purse on the bed that still looms in the living room, head for the two stairs that lead up to the bedroom, then scream as the door to the bathroom jerks open on my right.
Ollie.
"Jesus Christ!" I shout. "You almost gave me a heart attack. What are you doing here?" He looks like hell. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin splotchy, and his hair hangs limp around his face. I take a step toward him. "Are you okay?" A horrible thought occurs to me. "Oh, shit," I say. "You and Jamie didn't--I mean, she's out with Raine right now." The idea that he and Jamie had been doing the nasty only hours before she went out on a date with her new boyfriend bothers me almost as much as the idea of Ollie cheating on his fiancee.
Actually, the whole thing makes me ill, and I'm not thrilled about finding Ollie in my apartment. I don't want to think about their drama. More than that, I'm still stinging from the fact that Ollie hasn't called since I saw him at The Rooftop. Sure, he could be busy, but once the million-dollar-painting news broke, surely he could have at least texted. Yet days have passed, and he hasn't said even one word to me about all the gossip that's been swirling around me like leaves in a windstorm.
Or, as Damien would say, like sharks smelling blood.
"I didn't do anything with Jamie," he says sullenly. "Courtney and I had a fight."
"Oh. I'm sorry," I say, though I am not surprised.
"Yeah, me, too." He sighs, then checks his watch. "We're meeting for dinner. Patch things up. At least I hope so."
"So do I." I don't mention that I am dubious. Ollie doesn't have the best track record, and though he is my friend--at least I think he is still my friend--I can't help but think that Courtney deserves better.
Ollie runs his fingers through his hair. "Jamie let me crash here. I slept in your room." He shoots a questioning glance at the bed that fills the space between the dining table and the door. I say nothing, and after a moment, he shrugs and continues. "I didn't figure you'd mind if I slept in your bed."
"I do mind," I say, the words snapping out before I think about it. I see the hurt on his face, but I don't care. I'm pissed, and it's all just spilling out of me. "You just grab my bed like everything is like it always was? It's not. I've needed a friend, and you haven't even called."
"Maybe I didn't call because you didn't tell me about the painting," he says. "A million dollars. Is it true?"
"It's true," I say.
He shakes his head. "Stark's bad news, Nikki."
"No," I say firmly. "He's not. And did you ever think that that's exactly why I didn't say anything about the painting to you?"
"Why the hell are you so fucking obstinate? Are you afraid to learn the truth about him? Or are you afraid I'll learn the truth about what you do with him?"
He's spewing words at me, clearly as pissed off as I am. Then, without warning, he grabs my arm and tugs it toward him. He jabs a finger hard on the bruise around my wrist. I jerk my arm back, blushing, and undoubtedly erasing any possible question in Ollie's mind as to the cause of those marks.
"You're being an idiot," he says. He reaches out and tugs a lock of my hair, then looks pointedly toward my thighs. "How long will it be before Stark does something else that makes you take a knife to yourself?"
I don't even realize I've moved until I feel the sting of my palm intersecting his cheek. "Get the hell out of my house," I say.
He stands perfectly still, his mouth hanging open, his breath coming hard. "Oh, shit," he whispers. "Oh, shit, oh, shit. Nikki, I'm sorry."
"No, you're not," I snap. "You'd be thrilled if Damien and I broke up. I don't know why you dislike him so much--"
"And I don't know why you're so blind."
"I'm not," I say. "I see him perfectly clearly."
"You see what he wants you to see. But you forget where I work. You forget that my boss is his attorney. There is shit raining down on Stark," Ollie says, "and I don't want to see you get hurt." He sighs. "I warned you, didn't I? You're in the spotlight now, and that's not where you want to be. It's not where you should be."
My blood feels as though it's moving too fast through my body, and I feel a little sick to my stomach. "Just go."
"Fine, whatever. I'll get my stuff and get out of here." He returns to my room, then emerges with his briefcase. He marches for the door, then stops. "No, you know what? I get that things are bad between us now, and I'm sorry. But I can't just let this slide. Do you even know where he is now?"
I cross my arms over my chest. "In London."
"Why?"
"Business."
"Yeah?" He digs in his briefcase for his iPad, then pulls up a page from Hello! "Here," he says, shoving the tablet at me.
It's a picture of Damien with his arm around a woman. Her head is down, she's wearing sunglasses, and a hat shields most of her face. I don't know who she is, but I can guess. Apparently Hello! can't even do that, because the caption reads
Did Damien Ditch the Delicious Darling? Is it the end for Damien Stark and Texas Beauty Queen Nikki Fairchild? Our sources say Stark looked quite cosy with this unidentified woman as they strolled the Hampstead Heath earlier today. Stark arrived in London without the woman whose portrait he paid a cool million dollars for. Buyer's remorse, perhaps?
I hand the tablet back to him, feeling smug. "She's a friend."
"I thought he went on business."
"He's not allowed to see a friend while he's doing business?"
There's a loud bang on the wall Jamie and I share with Douglas, followed by a very loud, ve
ry satisfied groan.
Ollie and I meet each other's eyes and, as if on cue, we both laugh.
For those few seconds, we are Ollie and Nikki again. But the seconds pass all too quickly.
"I don't want to screw us up," Ollie finally says.
"You already have," I say. "All you can do now is try to fix it."
For a moment I think he's going to snap something back at me. Then he nods. "Yeah. I guess so." He glances toward the door. "Should probably fix things with my fiancee first. That's all I do, lately. Piss people off and then try to patch it up."
"Ollie ..." Sadness envelops me as he leaves. I think about what Damien says--that Ollie is in love with me. But I don't think it's true. I think that he's grieving. Through our lives, I've always been the more damaged, and Ollie has been my rock. But I'm healing, and I have found a new rock in Damien, and I think Ollie wonders how our lives will fit together.
It's not a question that I can answer for him. Not now. Not when he attacks Damien every time we come together. But I hope there is an answer, because I don't want to lose him. And I know that if I am forced to make a choice, I will go with my heart. I will go with Damien.
I realize that Edward's probably halfway through The Count of Monte Cristo by now, and so I hurry to my bedroom and get my laptop and the files I need. I pause at the door, then return to my closet for my old Nikon, since the fabulous digital Leica Damien gave me is still in Malibu. And as much as I love the Leica, the Nikon was a gift from Ashley, and I refuse to give up using it entirely.
"Back to the apartment?" Edward asks as he opens the limo door for me.
I close my hand tight around the camera. "Actually," I say, "there's one more place I want to go."
"How you holding up, Texas?"
"Okay, I guess." We're on Evelyn's balcony, looking out over the beach. Blaine is out with friends, and Evelyn had been enthusiastic when I'd called from the limo to invite myself over.
I've only been here once--the night that Damien and I met in Malibu--but it feels like home. I attribute that more to the woman than the location. "When I'm inside and away from it all, I do great. But when I see a paper or am accosted by a reporter, I feel like I'm going to crumble. Honestly, I don't know how celebrities do it."
"They have the fame gene," she says. "You don't."
"There's no such thing as bad PR?" I say dryly.
"For some people, it's a truism. Have you watched reality television?"
I have to laugh. I don't watch it regularly, but I've caught enough episodes with Jamie to understand what she's saying. Some people don't mind being the train wreck that other folks watch. Me, I mind.
"Pretty soon you'll be last week's news. Until then, hold your head up and smile."
I flash a brilliant pageant smile. "That's one thing I know how to do."
In front of us, the sun is beginning its descent toward the horizon. I take out the Nikon and snap shot after shot, hoping that when the prints are developed, I'll have managed to capture even a fraction of that beauty.
"You're going to show me the shots you took at the party, I hope," Evelyn says. "The more snapshots there are of me, the better my odds of finding a picture that's actually flattering."
"Do not even try fishing for compliments with me," I say, laughing. "You're gorgeous and amazing and you know it."
"It's true," she says, then taps out a cigarette and lights it. "I just hope Blaine keeps remembering it."
"I think you've got him hooked." Despite their age difference, they really do seem like the perfect couple. After the drama with Ollie, it's nice to know that some of my friends have relationships that are actually stable.
I'd been spurred to come here after the bullshit with Ollie, but now that I'm here, I find I don't want to talk about it. Instead, I'm enjoying just hanging and chatting. We've already covered the scintillating topics of male models, Botox, and the current summer blockbusters. The conversation was so scattered in fact, that I'd been surprised when she raised the specter of my personal tabloid hell.
"Blaine's still mortified, of course," she adds. "Thinks it's his fault."
"That's ridiculous," I say. "I'm the one who accepted money to pose nude, and then I consented to be tied up. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine."
"We didn't have any idea how much Damien paid you," Evelyn said, "but now that we do, I have to confess that I agree with Blaine. You sold yourself cheap."
I laugh, remembering that Sylvia said the same thing. At times like this, when I'm with friends and people who don't have shark's blood running through their veins, I feel almost proud of what I did. I negotiated a deal. I got my start-up money. And what the hell is wrong with that?
"Aw, hell, Texas. I see it on your face. Now I've gone and got you thinking about it. We can't have that. You want some wine?"
"Love some," I say.
She disappears inside, then returns a moment later with a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and two glasses.
She sits at the wrought-iron table then indicates the chair opposite with the tip of her cigarette. "So tell me the rest of it," she demands.
"The rest of it? The rest of what?"
"What's going on in your life, Texas. Fired twice--excuse me, once was a layoff. Dating one heck of a fine catch if I do say so myself. Your roommate's got a commercial in the works. Lot of life crammed into not very much time. You've certainly made quite the landing in our fair city."
Put that way, I have to agree. "Despite the firings and the tabloid stuff that we're just going to ignore, things are great. I'm going to take some time to get a couple more apps on the market."
She points at me. "An art app for Blaine. I haven't forgotten."
I grin, not sure if she means it or not. "I'm ready when you are. But that's my short-term plan. Long term is still in the development stages."
"And Damien? You said he's in London? On business?"
"Yeah, but I think he took some time to visit a friend. Sofia. I guess she's in some sort of trouble."
"That's too bad," Evelyn says. She props her hand on her fist and looks at me seriously. "He say what kind of trouble?"
"No."
"Hmm," she says. "What about Jamie? What's she up to?"
I hesitate before answering, wondering about the shift in conversation. Does Evelyn know Sofia? Does she know what kind of trouble she's in? It's possible, I realize. Sofia is from his tennis past, and Evelyn was Damien's agent when he was a young sports icon endorsing tennis shoes and God knows what else.
I think about asking, but hold my tongue. Evelyn has become a solid friend, and I don't want to muddy the waters by using her as a conduit between me and Damien's past.
"Jamie's in heaven," I say, focusing on the original question. "She's really hit it off with the guy she's doing this commercial with. Bryan Raine. You know him?"
"I do," Evelyn says, and she doesn't sound pleased. "I like your friend. Nice girl. A little green, but she'll get there. Bryan Raine, though ... That one's a climber, and I'm not sure your friend is tough enough to deal with the shit he'll eventually throw her way."
My heart is sinking. "You're serious?"
"Afraid so. He won't be happy until he's banging the next big thing. And while he'd prefer a female, I think he'll fuck anything that moves if he thinks it'll ease his climb to the top. Male, female, or small farm animal." She looks at me hard. "Your friend got the skin to make it when he ditches her?"
I open my mouth to say that Jamie's as tough as they come, but I can't speak the words. They aren't true. She's got a tough veneer, but inside she's soft and vulnerable.
"I hope you're wrong," I say.
"So do I, Texas. So do I."
22
The nice thing about limos is that they have a driver. I take full advantage of that knowledge, and I arrive back at Damien's apartment more than a little tipsy after downing half of Evelyn's very excellent bottle of Chardonnay.
I am interested in nothing but sleep, and I make my way to t
he bed, hesitating only long enough to feel a pang of regret that I am in it alone.
I've dropped my phone on the bedside table, and I reach for it, then tap out a text: In your bed. Drunk. Wish you were here.
I have no idea what time it is in London, and have had too much wine to bother with the math to figure it out. So I'm not sure if Damien is even awake. But only a few seconds pass before I get his response. Wish I were, too. At airport. Coming home to you. Tell me you're naked.
I smile and tap out a reply. Very. And wet. And wanting you. Hurry home. I have been Damienized, and I don't think I can last long without you. [Damienized, v. To be needful of Damien, especially in the sense of fucking and dirty talk. See, e.g., Nikki Fairchild.]
His answer is almost immediate. I like the new addition to your lexicon. And now I'll be hard for all of a long flight home. Plane boarding. See you soon. Until then, imagine me, touching you.
I don't know if he will get the text, but I send one final message. Yes, sir, I type. And then I hug my phone, and drift off to sleep.
When I wake, it's because my phone is buzzing against my cheek. I roll over, confused, and realize that it's already past noon, and that I've missed a call. I quickly check to see if it's from Damien, but it's only a voice mail from Evelyn telling me I forgot my camera. I curse silently and open my email, planning to send her a quick note telling her I'll get it soon.
That's when I see that there is an email from Damien waiting.
Nikki, on a quick layover in Amsterdam. Arriving LAX five P.M. Do you mind if we go to a charity fashion show tonight? Starts at nine? Would much rather stay in with you, but Maynard's firm sponsoring. Swears press access limited. They'll get the boot if they even think about harassing you. Jamie invited, too. Let me know. Missing you ...
I read the message twice, trying to decide why I'm smiling so broadly. It's only as I start the third read that I realize--he's asking me, not telling me. I take that knowledge and hold it close to my heart. Then I tap out my reply, though I know he won't get it until he lands.
Of course, sir. But how you do tease, pretending to ask my consent when of course you know that I will do whatever you want, whenever and however.
I hope you're spending your time in the plane thinking of interesting "howevers" ...
P.S. I have the perfect dress at home. Pick me up at the condo at eight? Will check Jamie's social calendar ...