Complete Me

by J. Kenner

  "Maybe it's because of you," I say. The photographer caught Jamie in a laugh, her eyes bright, her hair shining. It's the vibrant and beautiful girl in the picture that I know so well, but I can't help but fear that the image Jamie has of herself is the one sitting beside me in the limo. Battered and bruised and not quite sure where to go next.

  It's not until we reach Malibu that Jamie presses her hands against the window, peers out at the world with her brow creased in confusion, then turns to me. "This is not Studio City," she says, as if I am the one who is confused.

  "You're staying at Damien's Malibu house."

  Her brows rise and her smile turns devious. "I was kidding about that threesome. But if it's important to Damien . . . "

  I put my hands over my ears. "I can't hear you," I say over and over again until she breaks down and starts laughing.

  "Seriously," she says, "why am I staying in Malibu? Because if this is my punishment for wrecking his Ferrari, he kind of missed the mark."

  "Not punishment," I say. "Pragmatism." I go on to explain about the rock and the stalker-style text.

  Her eyes are wide when I finish. "Whoa. At least you don't have to deal with your fruitcake of a mother. You can thank me for taking that burden off you, anyway."

  "You've been dealing with my mother? How? Why?" I have no idea what she's talking about, but since I wouldn't sic my mother on my worst enemy, I'm already sympathizing with Jamie.

  "She called me about a week ago--in a total Elizabeth Fairchild snit, I might add--and told me that since I was your best friend, could I please get you a message. Apparently--her words, not mine--you are emotionally confused, overwhelmed by your rich and bossy new boyfriend, and taking the whole thing out on her by ignoring her calls and emails."

  "Shit," I say. "Sorry."

  "No, it's okay. When she called, I was pissed off at my mom for some bullshit thing I don't even remember now. After talking with your mother, I was practically giddy about my entire family tree."

  "Thanks," I say dryly. "Now I feel better."

  She just grins. "Anyway, I guess she's pissed that you sent someone to get all those old pictures of you, but then you ditched her calls. I'd ditch the calls, too, Nik, but why on earth would you tell someone to see your mom for old pictures? Who do you dislike so much you'd send them her way?"

  "I didn't," I say as a finger of worry trails down the back of my neck, making me shiver.

  "It may not be bad," Jamie says, obviously seeing the concern on my face. "It's probably just a reporter. Someone putting together the definitive article on the girl who got Damien Stark."

  Somehow, that doesn't make me feel any better.

  She cocks her head and points a finger at me. "As of now, we're entering a worry free zone. For the rest of the day, nothing but sand and surf and margaritas." She thrusts out her hand. "Deal?"

  "Deal," I agree, because that sounds pretty damn good to me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My margarita-inspired dream is wildly erotic. A hot mouth closed tightly over my breast. Strong hands stroking my splayed legs, moving upward with sweet determination until the two thumbs are close enough to brush over my swollen and eager sex. I open my eyes, but I see no one. There is only the touch of his hands and the brush of his lips and--oh, please--the hard length of his cock inside me.

  I cry out for Damien--my voice noiseless in the dream--but he does not appear. There is simply that touch. That pressure. That insistent stroking of flesh against flesh, the rise of heat, and the steady, growing scent of arousal. I am lost in it. Lost in this sensual haze that surrounds me. It is Damien--it is always Damien--but though I reach for him, my arms find only air.

  And then there are hands upon my breasts and the hot, hard head of a cock between my legs. I cry out as he thrusts into me, his movements rhythmic but frenzied. Over and over he pounds in a violence that seems to carry us up and up, a wild dance, a dangerous coupling. My heart batters my chest, my body aches deliciously--he is using me, pounding me, and the power of his thrusts are such that I wonder I don't pass out from the desperate intensity of his fucking.

  My body quakes as the force of an orgasm rips through him, and I reach up to pull his body closer to mine, knowing that in this dreamworld he will remain ephemeral and I will clutch only air.

  But I am wrong, and my fingers find heated skin and taut muscles.

  Damien.

  I open my eyes to find him balanced over me, his cock going soft inside me. His eyes are hard on mine, and we are both breathing hard. I feel gloriously alive. Well-fucked and adored. But I also see the storm in his eyes and something that comes dangerously close to regret.

  I want to reach out and slap it off his face.

  "I used you," he says, his voice as tight as the muscles of his chest.

  "Yes," I say, then hook an arm around his neck. I lever myself up and capture his mouth in a deeply sensual kiss that has his cock twitching inside me. I pull him down, wanting him pressed hard against me, not balancing above me, and hold him tight. "God, yes." I hook my feet around his legs, keeping him there, his skin hot against mine, our bodies still connected.

  When I look in his eyes again, I see that the storm has faded. I sigh. I do not know what happened between Damien and his father, but I know enough to understand that it ripped him up and it was to me that he came. That it was my body and my touch that helped him work through his demons.

  I hold him close, still astounded that we have such power over each other. That we are the balm to each other's soul. It humbles me. And, yes, it terrifies me. Because how could we ever survive if we lose each other?

  I fall asleep in his embrace, but when I awaken, I am alone in the room. I sit up and glance around. Despite all the time I've spent in this house, this is the first time I have gone to sleep in the master bedroom. The iron bed upon which I sit used to be in the third floor open area, but Damien had obviously decided on a more traditional approach when he had the bed moved back to his house.

  Other than the bed, though, there is no furniture in here. And there is no Damien.

  I frown and climb out of bed. It's still dark, and I grapple in my purse for my phone, then groan when I see that it's not yet five in the morning.

  I consider falling back into bed, but I know that is not possible. I need Damien. And, I think, he needs me, too.

  His shirt is on the floor, and I put it on. The house is huge, but I have a plan of attack, and I go first to the library--a mezzanine that essentially floats beneath the third floor, visible from the massive marble staircase, but accessible only by a secret elevator or a set of stairs hidden behind a door off the utility area. The lights are low, casting shadows over the cherrywood shelves and glass cases that display the few things from Damien's childhood that he values enough to keep. The area is filled with memories, both delicious and bittersweet. Damien, however, is not here.

  I continue down, cutting through the commercial grade kitchen to the gym that takes up much of the north section of the house. I cock my head, listening for the thud of Damien's fists against the punching bag or the clatter of weights rising and falling on the machines. There is nothing, however. Just a silence that seems to stretch on forever.

  He is not in the pool, either, and as I stand, confused, on the flagstone decking, I begin to fear that he has actually left the property, possibly going downtown to his office. It occurs to me that I didn't go into the master bathroom, and if he was going to leave me a note, that would have been the most logical place. I start to turn around to go back to check, figuring that if there is no note at least I can get my phone and text him, but I pause when I see the dim glow of lights off to the right.

  I focus on them, trying to picture the layout of the property in my mind. Damien's garage--a massive underground bunker that would make Batman drool--is roughly in that direction, but I'm pretty sure it's more inland. But if the light isn't coming from the garage, then what could it be? There was nothing else dotting the property
when we'd walked along the landscaped paths before we'd detoured our lives to Germany. Nothing except the ocean in the distance and a flattened area where Damien told me he was considering building a tennis court.

  I freeze.

  Surely not . . .

  I hurry that direction, and as I get closer, I hear an odd chunk-thwap and realize that I have found him.

  I can tell by looking that the court hasn't been finished for long. The net is brand-new and not the least bit weathered. The surface isn't scarred at all. The ball machine that is currently firing at Damien glows bright and shiny under the towers that cast a faintly yellow glow over the whole area.

  And there in the middle of it all is Damien.

  I draw in a breath, overwhelmed by the sight of him. He wears nothing but gym shorts, and his chest shimmers from the light sheen of sweat. The muscles in his arms and legs are tight, and he moves with the grace and power of a wild animal as he rushes forward, swings, then attacks the ball. He is power and poetry, grace and perfection, and I feel my body tighten in response to the beauty that is Damien.

  But he is broken, too, and my heart squeezes as I continue to watch him. Over and over, he moves and hits, his feet moving in a perfect rhythm, his body pushed to the edge. There is no emotion on his face--no smile of self-satisfaction when he nails the ball--just pure concentration, as if this is penance, not pleasure.

  There is a chaise in the shadows beside the court and I sit on it automatically, transfixed by the sight of him.

  I do not know how long he duels with the machine. I only know that when it stops spitting balls out, he shouts a curse and hurls his racquet. I yelp, surprised, and Damien whirls to face me, his expression a mix of shock and concern.

  "I didn't want to interrupt you," I say softly. I ease off the chaise and move onto the court--and into the light. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stayed."

  "No." The word is rough. "I'm glad you're here." He takes my hand and pulls me close, and sweet relief flows through me.

  "You didn't tell me you went ahead with the court."

  "How could I not after you teased me with the possibility of you in a tiny tennis dress?" His words are light, but they do not penetrate the shadows in his eyes. "I've had a crew working on it since just before I left for Germany."

  "I'm glad." I smile up at him, and I am genuinely happy. Tennis has been a constant in his life, but Richter stole the joy, and Damien hasn't played since he quit the circuit. The knowledge that he is finding his way back to something that he loved bubbles through me.

  That happiness, however, is tainted. Because I saw the storm in Damien's eyes when he took me so wildly only a few hours ago. And I saw the fury of that same storm just now as he attacked the stream of balls.

  "Was it your father?" I ask gently. "Is he the one who turned the photos over to the court?"

  I see the shadows cross his face again, and when he turns and starts to tug me toward the edge of the court, I fear that he isn't going to answer. But we are not returning to the path. Instead, he sits on the lounge where I had been only moments before. He stretches his legs out in front of him, and then pats the space beside him. I lay on my side, propped up on my elbow so that I can watch his expression as he speaks, but it takes so long for him to begin talking that I start to wonder if I'd been wrong about why he has brought me here.

  I am about to suggest that if we are going back to sleep, the bed inside would be a much more comfortable choice, when he shifts and looks at me.

  "I don't think it was my father," he says. "He seemed genuinely baffled when I confronted him about the pictures."

  "Oh." My brow furrows with worry and confusion. "So you don't have any idea who it could be?" That would certainly explain the storm I saw in his eyes.

  "I don't," he agrees. There is silence. Then, "I'm worried about Sofia."

  I don't understand the transition. "I know you are, but she'll check in. If she's playing roadie to a band in Shanghai, she's probably not--"

  "I'm afraid she's running," Damien says simply. "I'm afraid someone's harassing her." He strokes my cheek, his eyes burning into me.

  "Oh, God," I say with sudden understanding. "You think someone is trying to get to you through the women you love. Me. Sofia."

  "I think it's possible." He scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair. "I think a lot of things are possible. All I know for certain is that those goddamn photos were my salvation whether I like to think about them that way or not."

  "They were," I agree.

  "And I still don't know who or why, which leads me to think that someone is playing with me. They'll reveal themselves eventually, and when they do, they're going to want something from me. Tit for tat."

  I want to argue with him, but what he says makes sense. I sit up and draw my knees to my chest. "But how does that tie in with Sofia being missing?"

  Even in the dark, I can see the way his eyes cut away from me.

  "Damien?" I press. "What aren't you telling me?"

  I hear him draw in a breath. "Richter abused her, too." The words are flat, matter-of-fact, and they chill me to the bone.

  "Oh."

  He continues without pausing. "If there are photos of me, there are undoubtedly photos of her. Someone delivered a set to me--through the court, but still to me. What if someone did the same to her?"

  I tremble. I think of how the photos wrecked Damien, a man with so much strength it awes me. What would they do to this fragile girl? "But wouldn't she call you? Aren't you the one she'd turn to for help?"

  "I don't know. Sofia is many things, but predictable isn't one of them. She once disappeared for six months. Turned out she screwed some guy who did time making fake passports, and since I haven't been able to find any evidence that she left the UK under her own name, I can't help but wonder if she's hooked up with him again. She's smart and she's fearless. She's lived on the streets, so if she feels like she needs to hide, she can disappear better than anyone. Most important, she's fucked up enough to happily fall off the grid."

  "I get that you love her, and I get that she's not entirely stable, and I get that you're worried. But, Damien," I say gently, "she's an adult. And no matter what your history, she's not your responsibility."

  "Maybe not, but it feels like she is."

  I can't help but nod in understanding. After all, Jamie's not my responsibility, either. I sigh and stretch out beside Damien. He presses a kiss to my forehead, then links his fingers in mine. A moment later, he presses a button on a remote control.

  The lights on the court wink out, and we are thrust into a darkness broken only by the gentle glow of a blanket of stars spread wide across the sky above us.

  Chapter Nineteen

  After Saturday's drama, I want to bottle Sunday so that I can keep it close and pull it out whenever I need it. We spend the day doing everything and nothing. Even Damien turns off, abandoning his quest to find Sofia or my stalker or the bastard who leaked those photographs in favor of entering a purely vegetative state with Jamie and me.

  Jamie and I rouse ourselves from our prone positions around lunchtime in order to take a walk along the beach. Damien doesn't join us, claiming he's too engrossed in his reread of Asimov's I, Robot. Considering Damien's love of science fiction, I do not doubt that the book has captured him, but I also know that the reason he's not coming is because I asked him not to. I want some time to interrogate Jamie about her announcement that she is considering moving back home to Texas.

  Once we're actually out with the sun and the surf, though, I can't seem to find the right moment. Instead, we chatter about nothing as we walk all the way through Damien's property to the ocean, then north up the beach to our nearest neighbor. He's tall and muscled and his coffee-colored skin is slick with the sea. He waves at us as he comes out of the water with a surfboard. Jamie, I think, is going to have a heart attack when she sees him.

  "Who is he?" I whisper as we turn around and head back toward home.

  "T
hat's Eli Jones. He won the Oscar for best supporting actor last year." She shakes her head. "You really are hopeless."

  "I am," I say. And, since I doubt I'll find a better transition, I add, "It's going to be hard to focus on your acting career if you move back to Texas."

  She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Yeah, well, we both know that it's a long shot career. It's not like I've taken LA by storm."

  We're both barefoot, and now she kicks her toes through the water, sending droplets flying. They twinkle for a moment in the sun, then quickly fall, lost once again to the churning water of the ocean. I can't help but think of Jamie; I want more for her than fifteen minutes of fame, and I fear that my lack of enthusiasm for her move is more about me than about what is best for Jamie.

  "Whatever you decide," I say firmly. "You know I've got your back."

  We've crossed the beach and are trudging back up the path to Damien's house when my phone rings. I pull it out from where I've stashed it in the pocket of my terrycloth cover-up and am surprised to see Courtney's name on the screen.

  "Hey, Courtney. What's up?" Courtney is Ollie's fiancee, and we've known each other for years, though not as well as I'd like since she is constantly traveling for her job. Still, she's sweet and genuine and I think she loves Ollie. I love him, too, but I don't love the way he fucks around, and even though Ollie ranks higher than Courtney on the best-friend-o-meter, I can't help but feel that she deserves someone better.

  Beside me, Jamie's eyes are wide. What is it? she mouths, but I can only shrug.

  "Ollie and I want to know if you and Damien are free on Tuesday night. Jamie, too. Is she with you? Ollie said she's staying with you and Damien this week?"

  I glance sharply at Jamie. She hadn't told me that she'd told Ollie where she's crashing. I shouldn't feel suspicious--after all, they were friends before they fucked, and I hope they'll be friends after--but I can't help but be nervous.