by J. Kenner
"You're up." Damien's voice is soft behind me, and I shove the drawer shut and turn to face him, certain that he can see my guilt. He comes to me, his eyes searching my face. But he doesn't ask. Instead, he pulls me close, and I cling to him, and we stand that way in silence for what seems like forever.
"What day is it?" I finally ask.
"Wednesday," he says. "Late afternoon."
It takes me a moment to process his words. That means it's been over four days since the miscarriage. Four days during which I'd completely checked out of the world.
"It's okay," he says, his lips brushing the top of my head. "You needed the time."
"You were working," I say, and though I don't mean it to, my words sound like an accusation.
He nods. "Today, yes. And some yesterday. There were things I had to take care of." He takes my hand. "Now I'm going to take care of you."
He leads me to the table, then tells me to sit. I comply, and then I watch as he moves about the kitchen. He doesn't ask what I want, and I'm glad, because right now I don't think I have the capacity to make a choice. And when he slides a plate with buttered toast and a simple cheese omelet in front of me a few minutes later, I think it is the most perfect meal in the world.
He sits with me in silence as I eat. "Better?" he asks when I've cleaned the plate, and I'm a little surprised to realize that, yes, I do feel better. Stronger, at least, and that's a step in the right direction.
"Good," he says when I tell him as much. He stands and holds out his hand for me. "Walk with me."
We walk in silence on the beach, on and on for what seems like forever, coming back to the house only as the sun is about to set and the ocean starts to turn orange and gold.
"It's beautiful," Damien says as we sit on the pool deck on an oversized lounger and watch the world shift into night.
The words form a hard ball in my gut. "It feels like nothing should be beautiful anymore," I whisper.
"No," he kisses my forehead. "I like it. It means there's hope."
I blink, and fat tears spill down my cheeks. "Is there? Because it doesn't feel like it."
"Sweetheart." He pulls me close, his voice as lost as I feel.
"I feel like I'm broken," I admit. "The baby's gone. And so is any real chance of me ever having another one."
"No, sweetheart. No."
But I just shake my head, not willing to hear him. "I should be relieved," I say harshly, my eyes on the pool deck. "I'm not cut out to be a mother."
"Bullshit. That's your mother talking."
"No. It's me." I look at his face, lost in the gray of dusk. "Do you know how many times I thought about cutting today? All those knives in the kitchen? Your razor in the bathroom? The utility knives in the garage? The pocketknife you keep in the top drawer of your dresser? It's as if they've been calling my name.
"That's not someone who should be a parent," I continue.
"No. Dammit, Nikki--"
"I want to cut, Damien. I want to cut the pain right out of me. I don't because I know I shouldn't and I know you're here. But I want to. I want to so damn much."
He pulls me roughly to him, and I cling to him as I cry. Tears burn down my cheeks, and it feels like a million knives are slicing me up on the inside.
As the sobs rack my body, he holds me close, rocking me gently. And through it all, I wonder if I'm ever going to stop hurting again.
I don't know how long we sit like that, but I must have drifted off because the next thing I know, he's carrying me into the bedroom and tucking me into bed.
"Sleep," he murmurs, and as he bends to kiss me, I hear my phone ping with an incoming text message. I automatically reach for it, not really caring, but he shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. I'll get it. You sleep."
And though I don't know how I can possibly sleep anymore, I do--at least until I'm wrenched awake by someone shaking my shoulder violently.
"Nikki!" It's Jamie's voice, and I squint up at her. "I'm so sorry, but Nikki, you have to wake up. We have to go."
"What?" My voice is hoarse, confused.
"We have to go," she repeats. "Damien's been arrested."
21
I'm in the closet frantically pulling on jeans and a T-shirt when Jamie rushes in. "It's okay," she says. "Charles just called. They're on their way back here."
I sag to the carpet. "Thank goodness. What happened?"
She shakes her head. "I don't know. Charles called here for you, but no one answered the phone. So he called me. Actually, he called Jackson first, but Stella said they were out so I guess that put me on deck. And he said I had to bring you to Beverly Hills because Damien had been arrested." She shrugs. "And now I guess he's not. Or Charles posted bail or something."
She reaches a hand down to help me up, and I grab hold, letting her pull me back to standing. Then I throw my arms around her and hug her tight. "Thank you," I whisper. "I'm sorry I haven't called you back. I haven't called anybody back."
She peels me off of her. "Don't be stupid," she says, with typical Jamie bluntness. "We love you. All we want is for you to be okay." She makes a face. "That, and for Damien not to end up in a maximum security prison."
I wince, but I'm smiling. And I realize that despite the odd circumstances, it's my first real smile since the miscarriage.
I follow her out of the closet and head into the main part of the house. "He was here with me last night. How could he end up arrested?"
Even as I speak, I notice a difference in the way I feel. Less numb. More focused. And for one brief, ridiculous moment, I wonder if Damien ran out into the world last night simply so that I would be forced to crawl out of my funk.
"Do you want me to poke around online? See if there's any gossip?"
I shake my head. "No. Maybe. I don't know." The idea of seeing some horrible story splashed across social media just depresses me. And most of the time, the reporting's inaccurate anyway. "What about asking the police directly? Your station has reporters on the police beat, right? Can they make a call for you?"
She presses her lips so tightly together they disappear.
"Jamie?"
"I kind of don't work there anymore."
I gape at her. "What? Since when?"
But even as I ask the question, I know the answer--since she pushed the camera away from me and denied her network my story.
"Oh, James. I'm so sorry."
"Not your fault," she says firmly. "Assholes. Who trades on shit like that?"
"But--well, what are you doing now?"
"I'm a woman of leisure," she says. "Fortunately, your husband pays my husband very well." She holds her hands up in front of her face as she examines her nails. "I'm thinking about pursuing a career as a lady who lunches."
Her voice is light, but I know her too well.
"You'll find another gig," I say gently. Of course, what I mean is thank you.
"Yeah, well, nobody fucks with my friends."
I'm about to swallow her in a body-slamming hug when I hear the beep of the front door's keypad. I trade a glance with Jamie, and we both race that direction.
Moments later, I'm on the stairs, watching as Damien comes in, followed by Ryan, Charles, and Evelyn. I fly the rest of the way down and into Damien's arms. "What the hell happened? Where were you?"
"Tanner Gates," Evelyn says, moving farther into the sitting area. "The little prick."
I whip around to face Damien. "What the hell? You promised you wouldn't fly off the handle."
But Damien just pulls my phone out of the back pocket of his jeans, then passes it to me.
I have a vague memory of a text coming in last night, and I cringe with trepidation as I open the app.
Are you humble now that you've lost it all?
I try to draw in a breath, then realize I've covered my mouth and nose with my free hand. "So it really was Tanner," I say. Then I frown, confused. "But if he was sending the messages, why was Damien arrested?"
Damien's mouth curves in
to a wry grin. "That might have something to do with the fact that I broke his nose."
Jamie takes the phone gently from my hand, reads the message, then curses. "Okay, you guys," she says as she goes to Ryan's side. "What exactly happened?"
"I read the text last night," Damien begins. "I was sure it was Tanner sending those damn texts. He has access to your mobile number. The messages started when you interviewed with Greystone-Branch, then escalated when you got the contract, and he didn't. He knows damn well the job is time sensitive, and with--" His voice cracks. "And with what's happened, I'm sure he's certain you'll pull out."
I shake my head. "But the email with the pictures of you and Sofia. How would he have even gotten that?"
"Social media," Jamie says. "Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't see some there before they hit your inbox."
I make a face. "Because I spend so much time on social media?"
"That's why I thought he sent it to you," Damien continues. "To make sure you saw it. To twist the knife just a bit more." He rubs his temples. "As far as I was concerned, every goddamn piece fit."
"Go on."
"I went to his apartment," Damien says simply. "And we had a little chat."
"You punched him in the face?"
"Actually, I slammed him against the doorframe," Damien says. "But the result was the same. And then the bastard called the cops."
"Jesus, Damien, you--" But I don't know what to say. That he can't fly off the handle like that? That I can't survive if he's tossed in jail because some judge wants to make an example of him?
Except . . .
"Wait," I say, still confused. "You were arrested for punching him, but surely they'd be lenient because he was harassing me. Right?"
"Where was the proof?" Charles asks. "Damien went over there on an assumption. And I was all set to bail Damien out when Tanner stepped up and refused to file a complaint." He glances toward Ryan. "Thank him if you want to know why."
"Why?" Jamie and I demand at exactly the same time.
"Fortunately, our boy Tanner isn't too bright. While Damien was with the cops, I told the little shit that I'd traced the messages back to a burner phone he'd purchased by using a combination of satellite triangulation and cross-coordinating that with the phone registration number as shown on his electronic credit transaction log."
Jamie gapes at him. "You can do that?"
"Hell no. But you're not the only one in the family who can act." He grins. "Then I told him that if he didn't back the fuck off, we'd publicly reveal his harassment and use every dime at Damien's disposal to make sure he never gets a better job than flipping burgers at a gas station grill."
Jamie claps. "I love it."
"I got him so worked up, he pulled the phone out from where he was hiding it and turned it over to me. Then he dropped the charges."
"We won't have any more problems from Tanner," Damien says. "And I'm seriously considering giving Ryan a raise."
"Hell, yeah," Jamie says.
"Here's the thing," Ryan adds. "He swears he didn't send the email with Sofia's pictures. And what I've seen on his burner backs that up. He gave me access to his computer and his regular phone, too, and there's no sign of the email or the image."
"Under the circumstances, it's doubtful he'd lie about that," Charles says.
"So that means . . ." I trail off, looking to Damien.
He sighs. "It means we still don't know who sent those pictures to you."
Evelyn waves a dismissive hand. "That one went to your email. Could be anyone at all, for no reason other than that they follow you two in the news and have a mean streak."
"Or some crazed girl who's never met Damien but thinks that he should have married her," Jamie adds.
"Or Giselle," I say, because no matter what Bruce and Damien say, I still don't trust that woman.
"Maybe," Jamie says. "But don't worry about it. It was one email. Let it go, at least for now."
I have to agree that's wise advice, but Damien frowns. "Easier said than done." He slips an arm around me and kisses my cheek. "You guys have coffee or breakfast or whatever you want, I need to go crash."
"Sure," I say, but as I watch him go up the stairs, a cold knot of worry builds inside me. And I'm so lost in my thoughts that I actually jump when Evelyn comes from behind and puts her hand on my shoulder. "It'll all be okay, Texas," she says when I spin around. "In the end, everything will be just fine."
I'm still clinging to those words ten minutes later after I've seen everyone out. Thankfully, they all turned down coffee, probably realizing that all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed beside Damien. But when I go to the bedroom, there's no sign of him there. I hug myself, certain that he's gone to the second floor and the kids' rooms--a place I haven't been since the miscarriage.
I steel myself and go down the back stairs that open behind the kitchen only to find that he's not down here, either.
For a moment I'm baffled--and then I realize that I know exactly where he's gone. I take the stairs to the first floor and then hurry through the huge commercial-grade kitchen to the massive gym that takes up almost half of the first floor.
Sure enough, Damien is there, and he's beating the shit out of a punching bag. He's taken off his shirt, so he's now barefoot in only his jeans. The muscles in his back tighten with each thrust, and he's completely oblivious to everything but the assault on that leather bag.
He's not wearing gloves, and he didn't wrap his hands, and even as fast as he's punching, I can see how red and raw his knuckles are. I make a small sound the next time his fist makes contact with the bag, and he turns to me. His eyes are wild, and I'm not even sure he realizes I'm there. Then he drops to his knees on the mat, my name a soft whisper on his lips.
I hurry to kneel in front of him. "I'm sorry," I say. "I'm so sorry."
His brows quirk down. "For what?"
"I've been so selfish." A tear snakes down my cheek. "I've been so lost in my own pain that I didn't think about yours. I'm sorry," I repeat, knowing that he wouldn't have flown off the rails so dramatically if he hadn't been just as wrecked as I am. "I'm so, so sorry."
For a moment, he just looks at me, and I see both understanding and heat in his eyes. We need this, I think. We need each other. We're both raw. Both broken. Both in desperate need of release.
I feel my body tense in expectation. He's going to pull me to him. Take me. He's going to use me to make himself feel better, to grab control by controlling me. He needs it, and God knows I need it, too.
But that wild touch doesn't come.
Instead, he simply pulls me close and holds me.
And there in the circle of his strong arms where I've always before found comfort, I feel as hollow as I did in the hospital.
22
After staying up all night, exhaustion finally claimed Damien, and he's been crashed in our bed for hours. Now it's lunchtime, and I'm pacing the house like a caged tiger, unable to settle. And certainly unable to sleep even a minute more.
I feel off. Hell, everything feels off, and I don't know what to do to turn it right again.
I hardly ever use our gym, but I'm at such a loss that I'm actually considering going down and hitting that ridiculous bag, when my phone rings. I snatch it up, grateful for the distraction, and see that the caller is Frank.
"I'm so sorry," he says the moment I answer. "How are you doing?"
"I'm getting better. It's been hard, but it's getting better. Either that or I'm getting used to the pain."
For a moment, I just hear him breathing. Then he says, very softly, "I should have called sooner, but I--I feel like I should have some wisdom for you. Some fatherly advice. But I don't. I don't know what to say at all except that I'm sorry."
"That's good, though. It helps." It doesn't, of course, but that's what people do. One says they're sorry. The other says it helps. And they both feel like they've played their part.
I frown, disgusted with myself. Even in grief, I'm wearing a ma
sk. Mourning Nikki. And I don't want to be that girl around this man. Now that he's in my life, I want it to be real.
"What would you do?" I ask, surprising myself with the question.
"What?"
"In a tragedy. What would you do? To feel better. To get through it."
"Oh."
I can tell I've put him on the spot, and I regret it immediately. I'm on the verge of telling him never mind when he answers, speaking very softly and thoughtfully.
"Something just for me, I think. Maybe it won't make me feel good right away, but it lets me believe that whatever it is will pass."
"Like what?"
He exhales. "Aw, honey, I don't know. I'm sorry. I've got no business offering you half-baked advice."
"No," I say quickly. "No, I appreciate it. And it helps." Weirdly, it does. I like that he didn't spout some pre-packaged platitude. That part of his answer is telling me that I have to find my own way. "Really," I say.
"That's half the reason I didn't call earlier," he admits. "I wanted to give you time, sure. But I also didn't know what to say."
"No," I say. "It's good. Really."
"Should I come back? Would that help?"
I'm touched by the tenderness in his voice, and I smile. It feels good. Unfamiliar, but good.
"No," I say. "You don't need to do that. Just knowing that you would helps, though. And I'll see you when get back."
"All right, then. That's a plan. You call me if you need anything at all."
"I will."
"Okay, then," he says gruffly. "And Nikki?"
"Yeah?"
He hesitates. "I--I'm glad I called."
My smile broadens. "Me too."
I hang up the phone, and I do feel better. Not perfect, not healed, but better.
There's still a hollowness inside me, though. A space I need to fill. I think about what he said about finding something I love, and after a few moments of frustration, I finally know what I need to do. I grab the Leica camera Damien gave me when we first started dating, and head down to the beach.
I walk for a while and take random shots--the water, some seashells, some teens playing volleyball, two college-aged guys way out on the water on surfboards.
But none of it's what I want to see through my lens.