Claim Me

by J. Kenner

  I swallow. I knew he was pissed.

  "Second," he continues, "I believe a megalomaniac is someone who suffers from delusions about their own power. Trust me," he says, and this time I am certain I see mirth dancing in his eyes, "I suffer no delusions about the extent of my power. And finally, you may have reason to be sorry. I, however, have more."

  "I--oh." I have no idea what to say. This conversation isn't going at all the way I expected. But he's right; I do have reason to be sorry. "I should have told you that Jamie and I were going out with Ollie."

  "So you knew at the time?"

  "No. Raine called later and told Jamie about the party. Then Ollie called and ended up coming along. I actually picked up the phone to call you. But then I didn't," I finish with a shrug.

  "Because you knew I'd be pissed."

  I nod. "And that's why I'm sorry."

  "Then we have that in common."

  I watch his face silently, waiting for him to explain.

  "I don't want to be the asshole who keeps you away from your friends," he says. "And I don't want you to feel like you have to keep things from me in order to see them. And I'm sorry because you obviously felt exactly that way."

  Polite Nikki starts to protest, but what he's saying is the truth. Slowly, I nod.

  "I won't keep you from your friends, Nikki. But dammit, I don't like the son of a bitch."

  This is not exactly breaking news, but I still take a moment to consider how to respond. "I get that," I say. "He hasn't exactly earned your trust. But I've known him forever, and he's one of my closest friends."

  "He's seen you naked, Nikki. He's touched your scars."

  I blink at him. Surely he's not--"Are you jealous?" The possibility shocks me. I've already told Damien that Ollie and I never slept together. It was never like that between us.

  "Hell, yes, I'm jealous. I'm jealous of anyone who comforts you. Who pulls you into his arms and makes the hurt go away."

  "I didn't even know you back then," I whisper.

  "And I'm jealous of the time that he's had with you that I haven't."

  "You're not being fair."

  "I'm not being fair at all. But that doesn't change the facts. You're not just friends. You haven't been for a long time. At least not since he got you through the hell with that asshole Kurt." I close my eyes, remembering the boy who'd hurt me so badly years ago that I'd needed Ollie to help me pick up the pieces. "Ollie's in love with you, Nikki. It's the one thing I do respect him for," Damien continues. "He has excellent taste in women."

  These are not things that I want to hear. Ollie has only ever been my friend, albeit an extremely close one, at least until recently. I don't like the way things are changing, and I don't want to hear what Damien is saying.

  Mostly, I don't want to suddenly realize that I've been foolishly, stupidly blind.

  I think of Courtney and feel a little sick. "He's engaged, Damien," I say, but the words are weak, and I cannot help but see Jamie in my mind. Fidelity is not one of Ollie's strong suits.

  "I know he is," Damien says. "And maybe he loves his fiancee, I don't know. But I do know that he loves you. And one of these days, that's going to cause a very big problem between him and me."

  I manage a weak smile. "Don't go all Wild West on me. Though with all your money, I guess it would be more Stark Manor than O.K. Corral, and a duel instead of a gunfight. But be careful, Damien. Ollie grew up in Texas. He's a good shot."

  "I'm a better one," Damien says, and there's none of my light teasing in his voice.

  "I really am glad you're here."

  "As am I. It's good to hold you. This entire day has been challenging."

  I wince, thinking of the paparazzi that accosted me outside of the office and those bullshit allegations of corporate espionage. "Sorry."

  He gently strokes my cheek. "No," he says. "Not you. But there are things." He sighs, and I am surprised at the exasperation I hear. "Tapestries that I've woven carefully over the years are starting to unravel. I don't like it when things don't go as I plan or expect." He aims a small smile at me. "You may not have noticed it about me, but I am most comfortable when I am in control."

  "I'm shocked, Mr. Stark. Truly shocked."

  He ignores my sarcasm, and when he speaks, his voice is low and even. "Actually, I suppose you do fall within those parameters. I wanted you at home. You said no. I didn't like it."

  I step close to him and slide my hands around his waist. "I suppose if it bothers you that much, you can simply tie me up and keep me permanently at your side."

  I can feel the way his body stiffens against mine, and I am glad I'm holding on to him. My own knees are weak. How simple it is to slip into passion with Damien. Even when we quarrel, we're never far away from the fire, and it's so easy to get pulled into the conflagration.

  And always, always, there is the need to touch him, to feel him, to know that he is real and that he is mine.

  "Why, Ms. Fairchild," he says, "I believe you're thinking naughty thoughts."

  "Very," I confirm.

  "I may have to take you up on your suggestion," he says. He tugs on the end of my pink scarf. I feel the smooth brush of the material as it slides over my skin. "Tie you up," he says, twisting the end of the scarf around one wrist. "Keep you close." He gives the scarf a tight, quick jerk, and I stumble toward him. He catches me so that I don't fall, and bends down so that his lips are close to my ear. "But first, I think you need to be very thoroughly spanked."

  I tilt my head so that he can see my eyes. "I'd rather be thoroughly fucked."

  He groans, and I know that I have won this round. "Oh, God, Nikki. What you do to me."

  "No," I say, my entire body on fire. "What you do to me. And please, Damien, do it soon."

  "We're leaving," he says, and I can only nod mutely.

  "Where are we going?" I ask, as we take the elevator down. There are two other couples in the car with us, and only the tips of our fingers are touching. It is so intimate, though, that I feel like I'm naked before them.

  "The apartment," he says curtly.

  Thank God. If he wanted to go all the way back to the Malibu house I was going to lose my mind. Even so, I'm not sure I can make it the few short blocks.

  But then the elevator doors glide open and as soon as our companions step off in front of us, we are accosted by the flash of cameras, the press of microphones, and the overlapping queries of a dozen demanding voices.

  Now I clutch Damien's hand and move closer to his side.

  "Mr. Stark!"

  "Damien!"

  "Nikki, over here!"

  "What can you say about your refusal to speak at the dedication of the Richter Tennis Center?"

  "Can you explain your decision, Mr. Stark?"

  I hold tight to Damien and keep my head down as we press forward toward the street. I assume at first that these are simply the same reporters and paparazzi that had been hovering about when we'd arrived. But then I see that in addition to the TMZ and E! reporters, there are vans from CNN and even the Wall Street Journal.

  Apparently someone noticed Damien's arrival, and the word spread like wildfire.

  I squeeze Damien's hand tighter, hoping he has a car nearby. It may only be a block to the apartment, but I do not want to walk it with these vultures following in our wake.

  "What about the rumors out of Germany, Mr. Stark?" a voice calls, and Damien's hand tightens around mine as he leads us firmly and silently toward the valet stand.

  "Nikki, is Damien Stark off the bachelor block?"

  "Damien! How will the talk of a possible German indictment affect your holdings in the European Union?"

  My mind is spinning. An indictment? I force myself not to look at Damien, and instead look forward, my face a mask of disinterest. There is no way--no way in hell--that I am letting these vultures see that I haven't a clue what they're talking about. Is Stark International in some kind of legal snafu? Is that what he meant by the tapestry unwinding?
<
br />   "Nikki! Mr. Stark! Germany! Indictment!" The voices blend together into a hideous cacophony. "Richter! Dedication! Damien! Damien! Damien!"

  Damien must have summoned Edward without me realizing because the limo pulls to a smooth stop in front of the valet stand, and Edward gets out.

  "No," Damien says. "I've got it." As Edward gets back in behind the wheel, Damien tugs me forward, then opens the rear passenger door, his body shielding me from the blinding storm of lights and questions.

  I'm just about to slide into the car when Damien pulls his hand from mine, then turns and faces the crowd. A hush falls. Considering Damien's staunch policy of not talking to the press, I think the paparazzi are at least as shocked as I am.

  "I will not be attending the dedication ceremony for the Richter Tennis Center," Damien says, in the firm clear voice he uses during business meetings. "While I fully support the construction and operation of such a center, I cannot in good conscience support its dedication honoring a man I don't respect. As for your other questions, neither Ms. Fairchild nor I have any comment."

  Immediately, the air fills with mingled voices, each louder than the next, none discernible. They are shouting follow-up questions, shouting for Damien to turn for a picture, shouting for me to step away from the open limo door. Damien ignores them, turning to face me. I realize that I am still standing frozen, slightly bent midway in the motion of entering the limo.

  And then, another voice rises above the noise, this time from the far side of the street.

  "Damien Jeremiah Stark!"

  I glance at Damien, but his hard expression reveals nothing. I straighten, then peer over the roof of the limo. The reporters have shifted the aim of their cameras, and now their lights are focused on an older man making his way across Flower Street.

  "Get into the car," Damien snaps at me.

  "We need to talk," the man calls out.

  I stand frozen.

  "Get in," Damien urges, his voice more gentle.

  I comply, but I peer out the far window at the man, and then once more up at Damien. "Who is that?" I ask.

  He meets my eyes, his jaw tight, his expression hard. "My father."

  11

  Damien slides in beside me and tugs the door closed. "Go," he says to Edward, who nods and starts to pull slowly out into the street. Reporters scramble to get in front of the car, taking pictures of the limo and of Damien's father, who is now pounding on the side window and yelling for Damien to stop.

  I grab Damien's hand, then look left at the old man's face. "Damien," I say. "Let him in. If you don't, those reporters are going to eat him alive."

  Silence.

  "Damien," I say gently. "You need to find out why he's here."

  Damien's face is tense, his breathing even, and I wish that I knew what he was thinking.

  Finally, he squeezes my hand and nods. "Stop," he tells Edward. "Unlock the doors. And as soon as he's in, run those goddamned piranhas over if you have to."

  A moment later the old man is inside the limo and Edward is pulling hard to the left and accelerating. I hold my breath, not really caring if a reporter gets squashed, but also not wanting Edward to get into trouble. Then we're clear and the limo is traveling smoothly down Flower Street. "Make the block," Damien says. He looks at his father, who's settled on the seat facing us. "What do you want?"

  The old man ignores him, instead focusing on me. "You must be Nikki," he says. "I've seen your picture in the paper with my boy. I'm Jeremiah, but you can call me Jerry."

  "What can we do for you, Mr. Stark?" I ask.

  "We," he repeats, then looks between the two of us. "We," he says again, then actually guffaws.

  I squeeze Damien's hand tighter. I didn't like this man before I met him, and I like him even less now.

  "Ms. Fairchild asked you a question," Damien says. "What can we do for you?" I can sense the low bubble of anger rising off Damien, and I hold tight to his hand. I'm certain that this man sitting so casually across from me either abused his son or was complicit in it, and I'm not sure if I'm holding on to Damien to give him support--or to keep from leaping across the limo and slapping the old man's face.

  Jerry shakes his head as if in defeat. "Damien," he says, then leaves the name hanging.

  My initial impression of him is someone oily and untrustworthy, but as I look more closely, I realize that he's actually attractive, although a little too smooth. Like a man who discovered luxury late in life and has spent the rest of his time trying to play catch-up.

  "I repeat," Damien says, "what can we do for you?"

  Jerry leans back in his seat, and his face takes on an unattractive, calculating edge. I can see a bit of how this man managed, despite his low income and working-class background, to maneuver his son onto the international tennis circuit. "What can you do for me? What can you do for me? Not a goddamn thing now. But this ain't about me. It's about you. And you managed to fuck it up real good."

  "Did I?" Damien asks coldly. "Let me explain the situation to you. You are in this car only because the lady insisted. If you want to earn the right to stay, then you speak, and you speak clearly. Otherwise, we are through."

  "You want clarity? How's this: You're acting like a damn fool, Damien Stark, and I may be a lot of things, but I am not the father of a fool. You get your high-class PR people to put some sort of spin on that nonsense you just spouted. You write a speech that would make angels sing. And you get your ass to that dedication on Friday, and you smile that photogenic smile, and you write a big, fat check if you have to. Because you need to do this, son. You need to push it through. You need to be goddamn squeaky clean, damn you."

  "Don't call me 'son.' "

  "Goddammit, Damien!"

  I watch the two men, trying to understand what is really going on here. Trying to intuit why Damien's refusal to attend the dedication and his very public announcement as to the reason means so much to the elder Stark. Damien did not outright say that Richter abused him, and he certainly didn't say that his father was involved. Is that what Jeremiah fears will come next? That once Damien spills one truth, the rest will come tumbling out? If, as I suspect, that truly is the rest.

  I don't know, and all I can do is hold tight to Damien's hand.

  Damien has not responded to the criticisms his father poured out. Instead, he has been staring at the elder man's face, his eyes narrowed as if the older man's features were some sort of equation with a missing variable.

  When he finally speaks, I do not understand the context: "How much of this is your doing?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Jerry says, sitting up straight, his eyes wide as a child getting chastised. Even I can see that he is lying.

  "Let's get this straight," Damien says. "I am not interested in your opinion or your help. Now get out. Edward, pull over." We've circled three blocks, and now we're at Pershing Square, two full blocks from where we started.

  "I'm not even parked near here."

  "I don't care," Damien says. "Out."

  Suddenly, Edward is outside pulling the door open. Jerry hesitates, then looks from Damien to me. "Does she know? I wouldn't tell her, Damien," he says, and there's malice in his voice. "If you want her to stay, I wouldn't tell her a thing."

  He gets out, and Edward immediately slams the door, as if the driver wants him gone as much as Damien and I do.

  Damien runs his hands through his hair and sighs. "I'm sorry," he says.

  "So, you've met my mom and I've met your dad. I guess that means we're really dating." I'm shooting for a light moment here, but Damien's expression doesn't change. "Hey," I say. "It's okay."

  "Very little about this entire day falls into the category of okay."

  "Oh, I don't know," I say. "I rather enjoyed dancing with you."

  "Yes," he says. "So did I. Come here." I am already right beside him, but I slide closer and lean against him. His arm is draped over my shoulder and his fingers are idly stroking my arm. I slide down and put my
head on his lap. I kick off my shoes and curl my legs up on the seat as Damien strokes my hair. Part of me wants to stay like that forever, warm and safe in Damien's lap. But another part of me has questions--so many questions. I want to understand what Damien's father was talking about--why he cares so much whether or not Damien endorses the tennis center. But I don't want to ask--I want Damien to tell me because he wants me to know.

  If you want her to stay, I wouldn't tell her a thing.

  I shiver. I can think of nothing so horrible that I would walk away from Damien. But is that because nothing exists that is so bad it could rip us apart? Or do I simply lack the imagination to think of it?

  Damien holds me calmly for the short drive to the Tower apartment.

  He remains coolly collected as Edward pulls into the parking garage beneath Stark Tower.

  His composure doesn't break during the ride either to the building lobby or from the lobby to the penthouse fifty-seven floors up that houses his private office on one side and his residential apartment on the other.

  It is only once the doors to the apartment slide open and we have entered the residence that Damien's equilibrium shifts and the facade of calm vanishes. There is something desperate in his eyes, and he grabs both ends of the scarf that is still draped around my neck. "What was it you said about tying you up?"

  His words are as rough as the anger that still clings to him. "Yes," I say, because I know he needs it. He needs to get lost in the passion that is always ready to burst between us. He needs to forget what just happened--the paparazzi, his father, Ollie, and even my own refusal to meet him here tonight.

  He needs to do something about that tapestry of his that is coming undone.

  He needs to be in complete control--and right then, I want nothing more than to surrender to him.

  "Yes," I repeat, my voice raw. "Yes, please."

  He uses the scarf to shift our position until my back is against the wall, and he is against me, and I am breathing hard, my body quickening with excitement and expectation. With one hand, he holds both ends of the scarf while the other hand strokes slowly down my body, over my breast, down my belly, over my hip. His touch is slow, the movements designed to make me melt. It's working. My lips are parted, my skin hot and sensitive. If I was not already leaning against a solid structure with Damien keeping me upright, I think I would sink to the floor, my body too limp and malleable to hold myself up.