Anchor Me

by J. Kenner

  I may only be an amateur photographer, but I know what I like and what I have a talent for, and I've always been drawn to faces. As if the camera can help me see what's beneath the mask that people inevitably put on.

  But it's not that revelation I crave today. I want to capture young faces. Chubby cheeks and wide eyes. Faces full of hope. Faces that are looking toward a future.

  I walk back in the surf and then up the path that leads to our house. I don't bother going inside; I just head straight to the garage and get into Coop. My plan is to go to the Palisades and have my fill of quality time with my niece and nephew.

  Except that's not where I end up.

  I'm not sure why, but when I reach the turn, I just keep driving, going on and on until I find myself in Pasadena at the gate for the fifteen acres of mostly undeveloped land owned by the Stark Children's Foundation. Right now, it's overflowing with foster kids from all over the country who've come here for one of the many week-long summer camp sessions.

  I greet the guard, who lets me in without question, then head to the main building that houses the offices, cafeteria, and classrooms. I stop in long enough to let the staff know that I'm going to be taking a few photographs on the property, and then I start to walk the grounds.

  All of the children have releases signed by their guardians on file that allow us to use the photos in promotional materials, so this isn't the first time that I've photographed the kids at camp or during other foundation functions. Granted, it's not usually my job, but I'm here often enough that no one will think it's odd.

  Today, I'm not interested in taking publicity photos. Instead, I'm searching for hope where there was fear. Joy where there used to be loss.

  I crave finding that in my viewfinder, then capturing it, as if I can bottle that kind of vibrant hope against outstanding odds.

  My favorite place to sit and watch is a set of bleachers near the soccer field. Today, the kids are running relays, and I use my zoom lens to zero in on the children waiting their turn. I focus on one boy who, obviously bored, is trying to touch his nose with the tip of his tongue. Then I pan the group slowly, soaking in the expressions and the faces until I see one that is all too familiar.

  I freeze, my heart pounding as I slowly lower the camera.

  She's wearing a blue staff shirt and a white SCF ball cap. But even without the zoom lens, I know that face.

  Sofia.

  For a moment, I just sit there, certain that somehow I've been transported to some horrible alternate universe.

  Then I slip my camera strap over my arm, stand up, and hurry down the bleachers.

  I'm halfway to my car when she calls my name. "Nikki! Nikki, please wait!"

  I tell myself to just keep going, but it doesn't matter. My feet stop, and I turn to find myself looking into her familiar pixie face and untamed auburn curls.

  "You," I say stupidly. "I thought you were in Santa Barbara. Honestly, that was plenty close."

  "I'm sorry," she says, and the words sound genuine. "I came here after Damien and I talked. I told him this was part of, well, of my recovery. Helping out here for a week of camp and--well, then I heard about what happened to you and, um, I guess I wasn't sure if I should stay or go."

  She looks down at the dusty ground. "I came to apologize to you. I want to apologize to you. And I couldn't call and ask Damien what to do. Not with everything being so . . . you know. So I stayed."

  Her words have been rolling off her tongue, and when she comes to a sudden stop, the silence is almost brutal.

  "You hurt me," I say, my voice dripping with incredulity. "You tried to make me cut. And you tried to break Damien and me up--hell, you almost succeeded."

  I see her throat move as she swallows.

  "And as if that weren't enough, you pretended to be my friend. And now you want me to stand here and let you apologize so you can feel better about yourself? So that you can get back in Damien's good graces?"

  Her head moves in the tiniest shake. "I--I didn't . . . I mean, you're right. You're so right."

  But I'm not even remotely appeased. I jam my hand into my back pocket, pull out my cell, and thrust my phone at her. "Is this you? Did you email those pictures of you and Damien? Because I can damn sure see you trying to twist me up that way."

  "What?" I'm watching her face as she answers. The crease in her brow. The tilt of her head. Either she really is confused, or she's one hell of an actress.

  Of course, I already know that she's a hell of an actress.

  "This," I say, opening the email so she can see both the message and the photos. Her eyes widen, then she thrusts the phone back at me as if it were a snake.

  "No! Nikki, no, I swear. I wouldn't do that--not anymore."

  "Maybe Damien believes you, but I don't."

  As I watch, tears fill her eyes. "I don't blame you," she says. "But I swear on Damien's life that I didn't send those pictures. And I'll go back to England--I will. I just--it's just that I've worked so hard. So many doctors. So many treatments. I was so fucked up--I mean really, seriously fucked up. But I clawed my way back--and all of that work was so that I'd really and truly mean it when I told you that I'm sorry. Because I am sorry, Nikki. I like you--I really do. And I screwed it all up."

  I say nothing, but I do clench my fists. Not because I want to lash out at her, but in defense against the way her plea is breaking through my armor.

  "I'm glad Damien has you," she says. "You make him happy, and that's all I want. Really."

  I just look at her. We both know that's not all she wants.

  She shakes her head as if I'd actually spoken aloud. "Before . . . I was off. And maybe I won't ever be completely right. In my head, I mean. But I'm fighting and I'm winning and I'm not going to give up on me."

  She draws a deep breath and shakes out her arms a bit, like she's been wound up tight until now and can finally relax. "So, anyway, that's just my way of saying I'm sorry. And, well, that's it. It's not enough, I know, but I hope you'll accept my apology. But if you won't, I get it."

  Her words wash over me, sincere and dangerous.

  "I--"

  I swallow, unsure of what I want to say. I, what? That I understand her fight? That I enter that same battlefield every time a blade tempts me?

  That I've spent a lifetime trying to prove myself professionally? To prove that I'm worthwhile even though my mother always suggested that it was only my looks which were of any value at all?

  That I started out damaged, too, but that I've fought it every day?

  Should I tell her that I think we're more alike than I realized--or that I'm comfortable with?

  And that, right or wrong, I believe her apology is sincere. And I believe that she didn't send that email.

  In the end, I don't say any of that at all. I just say, "Apology accepted."

  Somehow, I think she understands.

  Sofia and I walk beside each other back up the path that leads to the administration building. We're not together, not really, but we're moving in the same direction, keeping more or less in time with each other.

  We reach the heavy wooden door that leads into the main reception area, and she pulls it open for me. I step through with a quiet murmur of thanks, then stop in my tracks just over the threshold.

  Damien is right there, standing at the main check-in counter. Warm relief flashes on his face when he sees me--and then immediately transposes into shocked wariness when Sofia enters behind me.

  "Damien," she says, her voice bright with surprise. As I turn to look at her, she takes a step toward him, then stops and bites her lower lip. She looks at me, then draws a deep breath. "I meant it," she says. "Everything I said. I hope you know that."

  A flicker of a smile touches my lips. "I'm glad I ran into you."

  She nods, then looks at Damien again. I expect her to go to him, but she stays where she is. "I'm so sorry about the baby, D. But I gotta go. I--I need to get back to the kids."

  She gives me one final glanc
e, then scurries out the way we came in.

  Damien and I stay right where we are. The receptionist behind the counter looks at him, then at me, then mutters "excuse me," and leaves as well.

  Now it's just me and Damien in this small, stone room.

  "D?" I say, both because I'm curious about the nickname and because the air is too damn thick.

  "An old nickname. Her father only used last names. But with my dad traveling the circuit with us, it was confusing. So I became D and he became J."

  I take a step toward him. "So you're not starting a boy band?"

  He moves a single step toward me. "No."

  "Too bad." I move closer.

  "Do you want me to serenade you?" Another step and he's right in front of me.

  "No."

  He slides his fingers into my hair and pulls me closer. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

  "Yes," I say--or I try to. His mouth captures mine before I finish the word, and I fall into the kiss, into his touch. Into the passion that we have always shared and that has always saved me. And that even now, when we are both damaged and raw, can keep me steady.

  I'm breathing hard when we reluctantly separate, and I press my cheek to his chest as he strokes my hair with one hand, his other arm holding me close against him.

  "I didn't know she was here," he says. "I'm sorry."

  I tilt my head up. "You didn't?"

  "I told her she could work the camp--part of the twelve-step thing I told you about. But once everything happened . . . well, I didn't realize that she'd actually made the arrangements. I wouldn't have--anyway, I'm sorry if you were caught off-guard."

  "So you didn't come here looking for her?" It's not until I've actually voiced the words that I realize that was my assumption. After all, I hadn't left a note telling him where I was going, and he hadn't texted asking where I was. So presumably he'd come here for some other reason. Probably to tell her that he'd finally told me about how she wanted to apologize to me face-to-face, but that with the miscarriage, now probably wasn't a good time.

  But Damien's shaking his head, dispelling my assumptions. "I came for you. You know I'll always come for you."

  "But how--" I cut the question off. Of course he knew where I was. Somehow, he always knows.

  He pulls his phone out and shows me the screen with his primary contact list. He taps an icon next to my name and a map pops up. And right there, on the grid-style map, is a tiny picture of me in the middle of what is the Stark Children's Foundation.

  "Clever," I say. My phone does the same, of course. I just never think to use it.

  "And my apology still holds," he continues. "I'm sorry if Sofia blind-sided you."

  "No. No, it's okay. She . . ." I trail off, searching for the words. "She seems better. And she seems sincere."

  I watch his face and see a flicker of hope. It's been hard for him, I know. He loves her--not like he loves me, but she's important to him the way Jamie and Ollie are to me. And I'd love them both even if they went off the rails.

  "She won't ever be my best friend," I tell Damien, because I'm pretty damn certain about that. "But I think we can move on from here."

  I watch as relief flares in his eyes, then sigh as he pulls me close for a long, deep kiss. I melt against him, and when I feel his erection press against my belly, every cell within me fires. I want him--we've held each other tenderly every night since the miscarriage, but it's been far too long since we've made love.

  Now, I crave him, and a wild desperation washes over me, setting my senses on fire and making me wish that we were someplace other than the reception area of a children's foundation.

  We're both breathing hard when we break the kiss, and our eyes lock on each other's for what feels like an eternity. My heart thuds in my chest, and I can feel the blood pounding through my body.

  I want to get out of here.

  I want to drop naked onto the floor and not care who sees.

  "With me," Damien says brusquely, tugging me with him as he hurries past the desk and into the foundation's main hall. We reach the end of the corridor, then enter his private office. It's rarely occupied--he tends to work from here only when he's holding a foundation-related meeting or courting donations--but it has a desk and a couch.

  Best of all, the door locks.

  He closes it, then flips the latch, then presses me against the wall, his hand cupping the back of my neck. "Nikki," he murmurs, before his mouth closes hard over mine.

  His other hand slides down my body, cupping my breast, tracing my waist. His fingers move as he hitches up my skirt, then slides his hand up my thigh as I gasp against his mouth, then cry out when he cups my sex.

  I whimper, craving a more intimate touch, and he doesn't disappoint. His fingers slide under my soaked panties, and he thrusts them inside me, then finger fucks me in time with his tongue teasing my mouth.

  My fingers dig into his shoulders as I moan with need. I want more--so much more. Wilder, more intense. And when he picks me up and carries me to the couch, I anticipate a savage build, a violent claiming.

  I know how much the drama with Sofia has weighed on him. Then there's the miscarriage, the arrest, my mother--with all of that, he must be about to burst. But instead of coming to me, he's been boxing in the gym, pounding out his frustrations.

  I know that he's been trying to let me heal. But physically, I'm fine now, and I need that intensity. That desperate, primal wildness that has always been our strength.

  I need it, and because I know he does, too, I expect him to take me brutally. To use me as an antidote against all his fears and frustration.

  And yet he doesn't.

  Instead he pulls my panties off and settles me on the couch. He kisses me, strokes me, teases. Every touch is a treasure. Every stroke ignites my senses, making me crazy with need. And with every touch, I expect him to ratchet it higher.

  I'm so damn wet, my thighs slick with need. And when I spread my legs, he thrusts inside me, kissing me as he makes love to me, fingering me to take me closer to the edge, pushing me higher and higher until an unexpected orgasm rocks through me, and I shatter into a million pieces, then sigh beneath him, warm and sated, as he murmurs that he loves me.

  He's made love to me beautifully, with a gentle sweetness that fills me with a tender love and a glowing happiness--and a hint of dissatisfaction.

  I curl against him, frustrated with myself, because I know that I should feel nothing but joy that we are healing. But I can't quite get there. Because underneath the happiness, I can't deny the tiny niggle of fear that he's ignoring what he needs because he sees me as something fragile and breakable.

  Most of all, I can't escape the fear that we'll never truly get past this tragedy if we can't take from each other exactly what we need.

  23

  I spend the next three days using the third-floor kitchen as an office. The table is my desk, and while my laptop is the centerpiece, all of my documentation for the Greystone-Branch project is spread over the polished wood.

  I sit for so long, my ass goes numb, and I drink what must be several times my weight in coffee. I sleep only when I have to, and my food is all delivery.

  Damien has said he'll cook for me--which is tempting as he has surprising skill in that area--but I've told him that if I'm getting back to work, then he must, too. And I'm not going to accept food charity if it keeps him away from his empire.

  I'm not entirely sure that he's getting much work done, but he does spend a few hours at his desk on the mezzanine level every day, and longer than that juggling conference calls.

  By the fourth day, though, he stands behind me with his hands on my shoulders. "You need to slow down," he says. "You're going to make yourself sick."

  I think of what Sofia said. About how she worked hard and clawed her way back. If she could salvage her sanity, then I can damn well save my business. "I've lost too much already," I tell Damien. "I'm not losing this contract, too."

  He pulls up the chair b
eside me and sits down, then presses his hand over mine so that I'm forced to stop typing. I look up, irritated. Because, frankly, I really am screwed here, and if I don't hit my next marker, I'm going to have to pull out of the project. Wait any longer, and it would be unprofessional; I'd be leaving Greystone-Branch in a terrible mess because there'd be no way for me to finish on time.

  "You can't push yourself like this for the next three months."

  "I made a commitment. More than that, I worked my ass off to get this job in the first place. I'm not letting it slip away." I know I'm bordering on unreasonable, but I can't stand the thought of losing the job after the baby. It's too much--just too damn much.

  He nods a little sadly, then presses a kiss to my forehead. "I know. But you're pushing the limit."

  "Dammit, I don't have a choice." I lean back and hold up my hands. "Sorry. I don't mean to snap, but I'm under the gun, and I need to concentrate. I'm working on a tricky section and the coding is complicated."

  He sits for a minute studying my face, then he nods. "All right. What can I do to help?"

  I cock my head. "In case you've forgotten, you have a universe to run."

  "Nikki--"

  "If you really want to help, let me do this. I just need time. Please, Damien. That's all I really need."

  For a moment, I think he's going to argue some more, then he stands up and walks away with my coffee cup. He returns a few moments later with a coffee refill and a frozen Milky Way.

  I force myself not to laugh. "Thank you, Mr. Stark."

  "Any time, Ms. Fairchild."

  He heads for the elevator that is the quickest route to the mezzanine, and I turn back to my coding. A few moments later, I hear the murmur of his voice as he starts to make phone calls. I tune him out and dive back in because there is more code to be written than there are hours in the day.

  I'm deep in the thick of it when I hear the doorbell, which is odd because guests can't actually get to the door without going through the security gate. But I assume that I was so deep in concentration that I didn't hear the intercom, and that Damien took care of it.

  I'm just about to dive back into work when I hear male voices downstairs and then two sets of footsteps coming up. I glance down at my ratty yoga pants and ancient Sea World T-shirt and mentally groan. Damien may think I'm stunning all the time, but as a general rule, I like to at least brush my hair.