Claim Me: A Novel

by J. Kenner

  Like Ollie has said—Damien is dangerous. To his enemies, at least.

  “This is not my first choice for a topic of conversation,” he says.

  “Nor mine,” I say, relieved. “Tell me about your day.”

  “I’d rather hear what you’re doing right now. Where are you?”

  “On our bed,” I say. “Thinking of you.”

  “Are you really? I can picture you,” he says. “Lying back, hair on the pillow, your naked body stretched out on top of the duvet.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “As much as I love the fantasy, jeans and a ratty T-shirt are closer to the truth. Jamie’s in the other room. Which reminds me—where are you? You’re not still in Palm Springs, are you?”

  “The day was interminable. I’m in the limo now, getting close to LA. I’m going to send a driver to pick you up. I want you home when I get there.” The heat from his voice is enough to melt me, and I make a little sighing noise as I lie back with my eyes closed and let the whiskey-smooth words wash over me.

  “I want you in bed,” he continues. “I want you naked.”

  My smile is lopsided and a little drunk. “But the bed’s here,” I remind him. I roll over and stretch my arm out across it, pretending that I’m reaching for Damien.

  “The apartment,” he says. “The security desk will give you the codes to get inside. Naked, Nikki. Leave your clothes in a pile by the door so I can see them when I get home. I want to know you’re inside and that you’re wet and that you’re waiting for me.”

  My lips are parted, and my breathing is shallow. Little shivers of electricity race across my skin, and I close my eyes, lost to the power of his words.

  “There’s wine in the fridge. Pour yourself a glass and sip it. Take it to the living room. You’ll be thinking of me, Nikki, alone in my house. Alone in all those places I’ve fucked you. You’ll lie down on the couch with your wine beside you. One hand on the glass, one hand on your breast. Maybe a dab of wine on your fingertips as your hand drifts lazily over your body. You’ll be thinking of me, won’t you, baby?”

  “Yes.” I can barely speak.

  “Your breasts. Your nipples. The insides of your thighs. I want you wet for me, baby. A little drunk and a whole lot wet.”

  “Damien.” I barely breathe his name. His words have gone to my head like the wine he wants me to drink—like the margaritas I already have drunk. My teeth graze over my lower lip, and I realize that I’m making small, gyrating movements with my hips, the pressure of the seam of my jeans against my throbbing sex taking me so very, very close.

  “Do you understand?” he asks.

  “Mmm.”

  “And when you get my text that I’m pulling in to the garage, I want you to go in the bedroom and lie facedown on the bed. Then spread your legs. I’ll be there soon, and when I step into the bedroom the first thing I want to see is you wide open and wet for me. I’ve missed you today, Nikki,” he adds, his voice a low, demanding growl. “I need to touch you. I want my hand on your cunt when you come, and I want to hold you tight as you tremble in my arms. Mostly, I want to hear you scream my name.”

  I can’t help myself—I moan aloud.

  “What?” Jamie calls from her bedroom. Her voice fills the apartment. And completely erases the sensual haze to which I have succumbed.

  I sit up, my head throbbing with both the motion and the realization that I was very close to getting off with my best friend in the next room.

  “Nothing,” I shout to her. “I’m just talking to Damien.”

  “Sorry, what?” she says, poking her head out of the door. “I’m off the phone. Ready to start the movie again?”

  “I—” I hesitate, drawing in a deep breath. I’m still limp and tingly simply from Damien’s words, and I want nothing more than his touch. But I’ve seen so little of Jamie lately, and now we’re in the middle of a girls’ night and—

  I draw in a breath. “Hang on,” I tell Jamie. “I’m on the phone.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” She disappears into the kitchen.

  “You still there?” I say into the phone.

  “Always.”

  “Listen, what you just said, it sounds wonderful—”

  “I’m very glad you think so.”

  “But I can’t. Not tonight.”

  There is silence.

  “Damien? You there?”

  “I’m here.” I can tell nothing from his tone.

  “It’s just that Jamie and I are doing a girls’ night, and—”

  “It’s okay,” he says, and this time I hear the emotion in his voice. There is regret, yes. But I think there is also understanding. “I’m disappointed.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “You going to survive without me?” I add, trying to add some lightness.

  “It will be hard,” he says, “but it’s probably for the best.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I say, and laugh.

  “I have a stack of reports I need to get through this weekend. If I can get through them tonight, then Saturday and Sunday are yours.”

  “In that case, I have no guilt whatsoever. Go forth and review, buy, trade, or barter. Whatever it is you do to keep the Damien Stark universe from collapsing.”

  “I’ll get right on that,” he says evenly. “And I’ll see you tomorrow. You can tell me all about your first day then.”

  “Okay.”

  “Until then,” he whispers, “think of me, touching you.”

  “I always do,” I say, before we end the call.

  I’m grinning as I toss my phone down beside me on the bed, and when I turn and see Jamie come back from the kitchen with a bag of chips and a bowl of salsa, I can’t help but smile even wider. “How can you even think about eating more? I’m stuffed.”

  “Like anyone could be too full for chips.” She crawls back onto the bed and nods at the phone. “Did he want you to come over tonight?”

  “He wanted me at the apartment when he got home from the desert,” I say. And, yeah, I’m still smiling. I may not be going, but the thought is still nice.

  “Seriously?” Jamie leans over and feels my forehead.

  I shrug away. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking for fever. Are you ill? I thought that all Damien had to do was crook his finger and you’d come.”

  “I told him we were hanging out tonight,” I say. And then, because I just can’t resist, I add, “And for the record, you’re right. He crooks his finger, and I most definitely come.”

  Jamie rocks with laughter, and after another slug of margarita, I join in. We settle back against the pillows and watch as Alan Rickman joins the party. Soon Bruce is kicking butt and taking names and we’re glued to the screen. Since this is Jamie’s favorite classic action flick, I’ve seen it at least a dozen times, but I still jump when Rickman kills the boss.

  Naturally, that’s when my phone rings again.

  It’s Ollie.

  “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “Are you with Stark?”

  It’s an innocent enough question, I suppose, but I stiffen anyway. “No. Why?”

  He sighs, and I realize he heard the terseness in my voice. “I just didn’t want to interrupt. Swear to God.”

  “Sorry. No, I’m at home.”

  “Yeah? That’s cool. So would you be up for getting a drink?”

  “Now?” The truth is, there was a time when I wouldn’t have hesitated. So what that I’m supposed to be in the middle of a girls’ night in? Ollie could totally come over and join the movie marathon, or we could all go out and get plastered.

  But things have shifted so much between us that instead of being psyched to hang with him, I’m wary. And that saddens me. Lately, every time I see Ollie, bits of my life come crashing down around my ears. And I do not want another piece to get chipped away if I can help it.

  Still, this is Ollie talking, and I’m not ready to give up on us. “Do you want to just hang?” I ask. “Or is there something you want to talk about?”r />
  He’s silent for a moment, and I know he’s also aware of the storm clouds between us. We know each other too well. “Both,” he finally admits. “Oh, hell, Nikki. This is bullshit, and you know it, too.”

  I do know it, but I’m not inclined to admit it. “What is?” I say.

  “Charles mentioned the party at Stark’s tomorrow,” he says, referring to Charles Maynard, his boss and the attorney who’s represented Damien for over a decade. “He just assumed I was invited, too, what with me and you being me and you.” He’s trying to be matter-of-fact, but I hear the hurt in his voice.

  “Ollie—”

  Beside me, Jamie shifts her attention from her iPhone to me. Apparently this one-sided conversation is more interesting than clearing out her junk email.

  “I think this is the first time you’ve thrown a party that I wasn’t invited to,” Ollie says.

  “I’m not the one throwing it,” I say, but the words are hollow despite their truth. If I’d asked, Damien would have let Ollie come to the party. If it was important to me, I am certain that he would have pushed his disdain aside.

  But I hadn’t asked, because I understood why Damien didn’t want Ollie there. I’d chosen the man in my bed over my lifelong friend, and I do not regret the decision.

  He sighs. “It’s just—look, I’m sorry, okay? I get that you’re with the guy. And, yeah, I have my issues with him, but if this means that we can’t be friends anymore …”

  He trails off, and I squeeze my eyes closed tight. “I don’t want to screw up our friendship, either,” I finally say, and then I let the thought hang. As far as I’m concerned, Ollie’s the one who’s built the wall. He can damn well be the one who starts tearing it down.

  “So how about it?” he asks. “Let’s go get a drink. Hang out. Make up dialogue for the people at the next table.”

  I smile despite myself. When I was in college and Ollie was in law school, that was our favorite form of cheap amusement. We’d go to Magnolia Cafe or Z’Tejas in Austin and watch people at the other tables. How they moved, how they interacted. And then we’d write their dialogue, turning friends into lovers, crafting arguments, and professing profound love. We never sat close enough to find out what the people were really saying. This was all about the make-believe.

  “Tonight’s kind of hard,” I say, glancing at Jamie. “But hold on a second.”

  I hit the mute button on the phone and look at Jamie. “What do you think? Want to make tonight a threesome?”

  “I’m not really into that kind of kink.”

  I roll my eyes. “Seriously, Ollie wants to go out for drinks.”

  “With both of us?” I can hear the disbelief in her voice.

  “He only invited me, but if you two can’t play nice together then you shouldn’t have jumped into bed in the first place. Seriously, James. You need to get past this.”

  She tosses her hands up in surrender. “Hey, fair enough. But I’m not the only one being weird. You haven’t been in the pro-Ollie camp lately, either.”

  “So maybe we all three need to have an intervention. Go out. Have fun. Pretend like things are back the way they used to be.”

  I think she hesitates, but it may only be my imagination. “So Courtney’s not coming?” she asks, referring to Ollie’s fiancée.

  “He didn’t say. I’m guessing not. She’s probably traveling this week. So what do you think?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she says. “But not drinks.”

  “Jamie, if you don’t want—”

  “No, no,” she interrupts. “I do. And tonight’s fine. I just mean that you and I already have plans later, anyway. Ollie can tag along.”

  “What plans?” This is totally news to me.

  “Raine invited us to a party at The Rooftop and Garreth Todd is going to be there.”

  “Who’s Garreth Todd?” I ask.

  “He, my clueless friend, is the hottest thing in Hollywood right now. And we’re going to meet him.”

  “Alan Rickman or Sean Connery, I’d be excited. Garreth Todd, not so much.”

  “Well, you’re going anyway. This is our night to have fun, remember?”

  I glance at the television. I was totally looking forward to the airplane version of Die Hard next, but I have to admit it does sound like fun. I’ve never been to a Hollywood party, and just because I haven’t got a clue who the latest stars are doesn’t mean that the glitz and glam won’t be a hoot. Then again, stars mean paparazzi, and that sounds decidedly less fun.

  “Won’t the press be there? I’m really not in the mood to deal with them.”

  “Nah, Raine explained how it works. They’ll be hanging around the entrance probably, but since they don’t expect you, just wear a hat and keep your head down. Ollie and I can flank you. It’s totally no big. And once we’re at the party, the only photographers are part of Garreth’s PR corp. So it’ll be a vulture-free night. Swear to God.”

  My phone rings, and I realize it’s Ollie, who apparently decided he’d been on hold for long enough and hung up. “Sorry,” I say, then explain the whole Garreth Todd–Hollywood party thing. Unlike me, he doesn’t live in a cultural bubble, and he knows exactly who Garreth is, and he’s keen to do the party thing. As it turns out, I’m right about Courtney, but wrong about the reason. I’d assumed she was away on business, but Ollie tells me that she’s flown to San Francisco to look at wedding dresses with her mother.

  He says he’ll be over in less than an hour, and we’ll all go together. And even though I’m a little nervous about the three of us hanging together for the first time since Jamie and Ollie screwed around, I’m also looking forward to it. These two are my best friends, after all. And, yeah, I miss them.

  I pick up my phone to call Damien and tell him I’ve had a change of plans. If he’s not deep into work stuff already, maybe he can even join us. But my finger hesitates over his name. Damien doesn’t want to spend time with Ollie. For that matter, while he was fine with me hanging with Jamie, I have a feeling he’d be less than thrilled if Ollie had been part of that mix. And besides, nothing of what I told him has changed—I am still with Jamie. We’ve just added another person, too.

  I drop my phone back onto the bed, then get up and head to my room to find an outfit for tonight. The glow I was feeling earlier, however, has faded a bit, and that frustrates me.

  I’m not doing anything wrong. So why do I feel so guilty?

  A woman wearing nothing but a bikini and down-covered wings brushes by me carrying a tray of rainbow-colored champagne. As far as I can tell, the champagne has been dyed to match the pool, which is changing color every thirty seconds as the lights rotate through the spectrum.

  If I had been held at gunpoint and forced to come up with the most ostentatious Hollywood party imaginable, I do not think I could have conjured anything even close to what now surrounds me. The waiters and waitresses wear tiny gold bathing suits that leave nothing to the imagination and decorative wings that make it difficult to maneuver through the crowd. We are on the roof of one of downtown Los Angeles’s tallest buildings, and I can only presume the unstated message is that we, the guests, hold such a prominent spot in heaven that the angels themselves must serve us.

  Jamie bounces up to me and presses a glass of bright red champagne into my hand. She’s wearing an extremely short red skirt paired with a black lace blouse over a red bra. As always, she looks amazing. I’m wearing a black sarong skirt and matching black tank, the only color provided by a pink scarf that I have draped around my neck. Considering the outfits that I see walking past us, on the whole Jamie is dressed at least as conservatively as I am.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” she asks.

  “It’s exactly what I would expect a Hollywood party to be,” I say dryly. Beside me, Ollie barks out a laugh, and Jamie scowls at us both.

  “Don’t be cynical,” she says. “From what Raine tells me, this is one of the parties of the summer, and it’s incredibly exclusive.” She gestures vaguely in t
he direction she came from. “Steve said he’s been finagling to get an invite for months.”

  “Steve’s here?” I rise up on my toes and search the crowd. “What about Anderson?” Steve is the first person Jamie met after she skipped out on me during our college years and moved to Los Angeles to find fame, fortune, and near starvation as an actress. I met him during my many pre-graduation visits, but I haven’t seen him since I actually moved here.

  “He’s here, too. I told them we’re by the pods,” Jamie says, referring to the odd, red waterbed pods near where we’re standing. “They’re making the circuit.”

  This doesn’t surprise me. Steve is a working screenwriter despite the fact that he’s never seen one of his movies produced. According to Jamie this is not an unusual thing in Hollywood. His husband, Anderson, sells real estate. I adore Steve, but unless he takes pity on me and talks classic movies, my eyes glaze over ten minutes into the conversation. But I can always find something interesting to say about houses.

  “This really is ostentatious as hell,” Ollie says, “but it’s also pretty damn cool. I mean, look at this place.”

  I have to agree that the venue is amazing. It’s a clear night, and we seem to be floating among the skyscrapers. I can see the mountains in the distance, looming black dotted with pinpoints of light against a pencil-gray sky. From a booth on the other side of the roof, a DJ is providing danceable music, and many of the guests are taking advantage of the huge dance floor. Drinks are provided by the roaming angels, but can also be had at the pool-side bar. And, lest we forget this is a Hollywood party, a series of clips from various films—presumably starring Garreth Todd—are being projected onto a two-story tall screen.

  “Okay,” I say. “Y’all win. It’s pretty cool.” I take a long drink and finish off my champagne, because I am here tonight to have fun with my friends. “So where is your guy?” I ask, which prompts Jamie to crane her neck and look around.

  “Unless he fell off the roof, he’s here somewhere. Let’s wait here for Steve and Anderson, then we can go make the circle and find him.”