by J. Kenner
“Oh, no.” My words are barely a whisper. “He’s an idiot.”
“Yes, he is,” Bruce says cheerfully. “And now he’s an unemployed one.” He points a finger at me. “Don’t be mad at Damien for interfering.”
“I’m not,” I say. All Damien did was find and report the truth. Bruce is right; Tanner screwed Innovative and he screwed me. And Damien protected us both.
The cold fist around my heart loosens a bit.
“Tanner seemed to think that you gave me the job as a favor to your wife.” The statement is out of my mouth before I can think better of it.
Bruce looks at me sharply, and I can’t help but wonder what sort of quagmire I’ve stepped in. “Did he?” Bruce says. “That’s odd.”
“I thought so, too. What did he mean?”
The corners of Bruce’s mouth turn down. “Not a clue,” he says, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Oh, well,” I say lightly. “Probably just Tanner being Tanner.”
“I’m sure that’s all.” He stands up. “We should probably mingle. I think the rest of the guests are starting to arrive.”
He’s right. In the time that we’ve been talking, a steady stream of people has been coming in. A few I recognize from a similar party at Evelyn’s just a few short weeks ago. There’s even a Damien-approved photographer from the local paper, snapping away for what will undoubtedly be a spread in tomorrow’s Sunday edition.
I find Jamie talking with Rip Carrington and Lyle Tarpin, two sitcom stars Evelyn must have invited. Since Jamie considers them each utterly drool-worthy, I know that no matter what else happens, this party will rate a full ten on the Jamie-meter.
My score? Not nearly so high. Bruce has soothed my embarrassment, but I’m still irritated that Giselle knew my identity in the first place. And I’m troubled and confused by Tanner’s strange comment—and Bruce’s even stranger response.
Bruce has gotten washed away in the crowd, but I’m still standing by the fireplace. I bend over and pick up the string off the table, then twist it between two fingers as I look around this room that has been transformed from someplace warm and familiar into a cold, polished place in which I don’t feel comfortable, especially without Damien by my side.
I search the crowd, looking for him, but all I see are strangers. The third floor is full now, bright shiny people with their bright shiny smiles. They all look polished and fresh, and I can’t help but wonder if any of them feel as raw inside as I do at this moment. Between my thumb and forefinger, I am still twisting the string, rolling it this way and that so that it wiggles as if it were a snake. It has given me something to occupy my hands, but that is not why I picked up the string. I tell myself I should set it back down on the coffee table and walk away, but I don’t. I plucked it off the white melamine tabletop for a reason.
Slowly, methodically, I wrap the string around the tip of my finger. I tug it tight, and the skin around the thread immediately turns white, while my fingertip turns a deep red that quickly shifts toward purple. With each revolution, the pain increases. And with each revolution, I am a little more grounded.
I am like a windup doll, and each twist of the key focuses the pain—focuses me. I will keep turning and turning, taking as much as I can, and then, when the key is just about to snap, I will let go and Pretty Party Nikki will perform, moving in and out among the guests, smiling, laughing, and focusing on that one shining spot of dark red pain to guide her back home.
No.
Goddammit, no!
I jerk my left hand away from my right with such ferocity that I stumble and upset the small table beside me. A young man in a purple sport coat is standing nearby, and he takes a step forward as if to help, but I turn away, frantically scraping at the string, too upset to calmly unwind the thread. Instead, I claw at it, my heart pounding wildly, and when it finally falls off my finger and onto the floor, I leave it there, then back away as if it is something poisonous, like a scorpion determined to strike.
I push past the guy in purple then lean against the stonework that surrounds the fireplace. The stones press against my bare shoulders uncomfortably, but I don’t care. I need something to hold me up. And until I find Damien, the wall will have to do.
“Are you okay?” the guy in purple asks.
“Yes,” I say, though I’m not okay. I’m not okay at all.
The guy still stands by me, but I barely notice him. Instead, I’m searching for Damien, and the swell of relief that rushes through me when I find him is so forceful that I have to reach back and hold tight to the stones. He is standing to the side, away from the bulk of the crowd near the hallway that leads to the bedroom. He is alone except for Charles Maynard, his attorney, who stands beside Damien looking harried.
I can’t see Damien’s expression, as his back is to me. He has one hand in his pants pocket and the other holds a glass of wine. It’s a casual position, but I see the tension in his shoulders, and I wonder if he is thinking of me, just as I am thinking of him.
Damien.
As if my thought calls to him, he turns, his gaze finding me immediately. I see everything on his face. Worry. Passion. Need. I think that he is fighting hard to give me space. But I no longer want the distance, and I take a step toward him.
As I walk, I see Maynard reach out for Damien’s shoulder and hear his voice, suddenly raised in frustration. “—not listening. This is Germany we’re—”
Damien turns back to his attorney, and I stop cold, as if the connection between us has been broken. I consider continuing on my way, but then rule it out. I am, after all, the one who is mad at him. So why am I so desperate to run to him?
I glance down at my left forefinger. The indentations from the string are still visible, and the tip is still slightly purple. That pain satisfied a need. It grounded me and kept at bay my anger, my fear, my humiliation. It gave me strength and focus, and once again I wonder if Damien gives me the same thing. Is he a new kind of pain?
The thought makes me shiver, and I want nothing more than to erase it from my mind.
A waitress passes in front of me and I signal for her to come over. Right now, I need a drink.
I’ve downed the glass and have just grabbed another when Jamie rushes up. “Those two are so funny. And they told me what’s going to happen on the show next week.” She grabs my elbow. “If you forget to remind me to set the DVR, I will never forgive you.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
“You’re getting pictures, right? I want to post them on Facebook. Sorry,” she immediately adds. “I know you’re avoiding social media.”
It’s true. I’ve never used it much, but once all the gossip and speculation about Damien and me started, I took all the social media apps off my phone and have been doing my damnedest to avoid anything that smells of tabloid. As for the photographs the paparazzi take of Damien and me, I rely on Jamie to find those and either email them to me or cut them out. Without the accompanying text.
“It’s okay,” I say. “And, yeah. I’ve taken some,” I add, though I’ve taken very few.
She narrows her eyes at me. “You okay?”
I almost smile brightly and reassure her that of course I’m okay. Why would I not be okay? But this is Jamie, and even if I could, I don’t want to deceive her. “It’s been a strange evening,” I admit.
“Want to talk about it?”
I lift my glass. “Hell no.”
“Where’s lover boy? Or is that the part we’re not talking about?”
“He’s doing the host thing.” I look around for him and see that he’s left Charles, and is now at the center of a small cluster of guests.
“So who is she?” Jamie nods toward the group, and I see that the people have shifted, revealing a lithe brunette at Damien’s side.
The muscles in my face suddenly seem uncomfortably tight. “That’s Giselle,” I say. “She owns the gallery that sells Blaine’s work.”
“Ah. The hostess to Damien’s host. No wonder yo
u’re in a pissy mood.”
“I am not in a pissy mood,” I say, but of course I am. And although the whole Hostess Giselle thing hadn’t occurred to me before, it is now at the top of my list of affronts and irritations. Gee, Jamie. Thanks so much.
“I know how to cure your not-pissy mood.” She grabs my hand and gives it a tug. “Rip and Lyle really are funny. You’re going to love meeting them. And if you don’t love it, then at least pretend like you do, okay?”
I stare her down, because she knows damn well that if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s put on a good face at a party.
I don’t bother to remind her that I’ve met Rip and Lyle before and since all they speak is Hollywood, I couldn’t make sense of a thing they were saying. This time, though, I’m seeing them through Jamie’s eyes, and she’s right—it’s actually fun.
Armed with my best party girl facade, Jamie and I make the circuit. I am smiling and bubbly, and it’s easy to slide into conversations, easy to pull out my camera and tell people to smile or laugh or cluster closer together.
How simple to fall back into my old habits. To hear my mother’s instructions in my head. “A lady is always in control. Never let them see that they’ve wounded you. Because once you do, they’ll know your weaknesses.”
Mother’s words are calculating and cold, but I cling to them. As much as I’ve run from my mother and my pageant days and the hell of my life with her, I can’t deny that there is comfort in turning back to the familiar. Because my mother is right. They can’t hurt you if they don’t see you. And right now, all I’m willing to show is the mask.
Throughout all my mingling, though, I’ve felt Damien’s eyes on me. Watching me. Burning into me. Making me aware of every little movement. Of the brush of my dress against my skin. Of the feel of my shoes on the curve of my foot.
He’s frustrated with me—possibly even angry—but that doesn’t change the fact that his desire is palpable.
For that matter, so is mine.
My fears and frustrations can wait. All I want right then is Damien.
I’ve made up my mind to go join them at the canvas when Evelyn sidles up beside me. “I don’t know if I need to wring Damien’s neck or Giselle’s for only having wine and champagne,” she says to me. “Come on, Texas, you must know where the secret stash is.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I say. Probably not the best display of manners to lead Evelyn back into the kitchen area, but the truth is that I could use a shot of bourbon myself.
We maneuver around the hired staff that is now using the kitchen to refill drink and appetizer trays, and park ourselves at the small breakfast table.
“So spill it, Texas,” she demands once we’re seated and I’ve poured two neat shots. “Something’s on your mind.”
“I’m slipping,” I say. “I used to be able to hide my troubles better.”
“Or maybe it’s putting on a good face that gives you away.”
I consider that, and decide that in addition to everything else, Evelyn is a very wise woman.
“Come on. Tell Auntie Evelyn.”
“Tell you?” I smile. “I seem to recall there was something I wanted you to tell me.”
“Oh, hell,” she says, then tosses back the drink. She slides the glass back toward me and I top it off again. “I was just running my mouth off. Don’t listen to me.”
“I do listen,” I say. “And I don’t believe you. What’s going on that I don’t know about?”
The corners of her mouth turn down and she shakes her head in exasperation. “I just hate it when I see a shitstorm coming and know there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”
“Carl?”
She bats the name away. “Carl can go piss up a rope. No, Damien’s managed to keep his business private for almost two decades. But that’s about to end, and I’m not sure if he even realizes it.”
“Not much gets past Damien,” I say, both because it’s true and because I’m loyal. “But what on earth are you talking about? He’s already done damage control on the Padgett scandal,” I say, referring to recent attempts by a disgruntled businessman named Eric Padgett to implicate Damien in the death of his sister. Damien, thankfully, stopped that rumor cold. “So what else is—” I sit back, suddenly realizing the truth. “The tennis center.”
Evelyn’s head cocks warily. “What has he told you?”
“Pretty much what he told the press. That Richter is an asshole and he’s not going to the dedication ceremony. He didn’t tell me why,” I add, watching Evelyn’s face. “But I have my suspicions.”
Evelyn’s brows lift almost imperceptibly. “Have you told Damien what you believe?”
“Yes.” I shrug. “But he hasn’t told me if I’m right.” I watch Evelyn’s expression closely as I speak. I know that she represented Damien back in those days, before and after Richter’s death. If anyone knows whether Richter abused Damien as a child, it’s Evelyn.
Her face remains passively blank. “But he hasn’t told you you’re wrong, has he?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, but she meets my eyes straight on. “He really has fallen for you, Texas, and I couldn’t be happier. For both of you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that boy looking so good. But goddammit, I wish he’d just show his face at that damn dedication. And I could kick the boy in the nuts for that stunt he pulled last night. He deserves better than to have the press all over his ass like a piranha with a hard-on.”
“Is it really such a big a deal?” I don’t understand why both Evelyn and Damien’s father think that Damien’s statement was such a horrible idea. “Maybe it wasn’t the best move to share with the world that he doesn’t like Richter, but all he’s doing is not showing up to an event. The way he’s being hounded, you’d think he turned down an invitation from the Queen and then insulted her.”
“All I’m saying is that sometimes you have to play the game to avoid a shitstorm,” Evelyn says. “And now I’m afraid the storm will hit dead-on.”
I am completely clueless. “What shitstorm?”
“You ask Damien,” Evelyn says. “As for me, I hope I’m wrong. But I bet I’m right.”
I almost say that I will talk to him again and try to convince him to recant the statement and go to the ceremony. But it’s not true. I would never ask him to do that, and I would never expect him to change his mind. Richter’s memory doesn’t deserve even the tiniest bit of support from Damien, and if a world of shit falls down on Damien’s head, I’ll stand at his side and help him fight it.
“But that’s not what’s been on your mind,” Evelyn says after polishing off the rest of her drink. “Come on, Texas. I’ve been watching you and Damien all night—and most of the time I haven’t been watching you together.”
I conjure a practiced smile, but I know that it must look as false as it feels. “As far as the cocktail party is concerned, I’m simply a guest. Damien and Giselle are doing the host and hostess thing.”
“Uh-huh.” She leans back in her chair, then pushes her whiskey glass toward me with the tip of a finger. I fill it once again. I almost top off my own, too, but considering the way Evelyn is looking at me, I think I need a clear head.
Evelyn ignores the glass, but leans forward on her elbows and peers at my face until I start to feel uncomfortable.
“What?” I finally demand.
“Not a thing,” she says. “Just that I could’ve sworn your eyes were blue. Not green.”
I sag a little. “I’m a bit discombobulated where Giselle is concerned,” I admit. “She’s coming at me from all sides lately, and it’s messing with my head.” I am amazed that these words come so easily. I am much more comfortable living behind my mask, and with the exception of Damien and Jamie and Ollie, that is where I usually stay. With Evelyn, however, it’s far too easy to talk, and I find myself revealing things that I would normally keep locked up. I suppose that should make me uncomfortable around her, afraid that one day she will see too much. But it doesn’t, and I a
m glad.
“Damien didn’t tell me he was helping Giselle bring the paintings back,” I say. “And I know that’s no reason to be jealous. But—”
“But now she’s at his side instead of you?”
“Maybe. But that’s not really fair of me since I’d be at his side if I hadn’t gotten mad and stormed away. Damien’s giving me space.”
“Ah, a lover’s quarrel. That’s okay, Texas. The drama always increases in the second act. What dastardly deed did he do to bruise your heart?”
Her words resonate, because that is exactly what he’s done—bruised my heart. “He told Giselle it’s me in the painting.” The words sound as heavy as they feel. “And she told Bruce.”
“I see.”
Something in Evelyn’s tone makes me take notice. “What? Do you think I should just get over it? I’ve been telling myself it’s not that big a deal, and maybe it isn’t. But Damien—”
“—broke his word. Yes, of course that would upset you. Would piss me off, too. But in this case, I think you need to forgive the boy.”
I can’t help my ironic half-smile. “I will. I honestly can’t imagine staying mad at Damien. But not right now. I’m feeling a little fragile.”
She keeps speaking as if she hadn’t heard me. “You need to forgive him because he didn’t break his word. Blaine did.”
“What?” I play her words back in my head, but I still don’t understand.
“Blaine told Giselle,” Evelyn says matter-of-factly. “He didn’t mean to. He was mortified. They were talking about model releases for the gallery and somehow the conversation turned to the portrait. He doesn’t even remember what he said, exactly. You know how he gets when he starts chattering. And the next thing you know, he’d told her. He rushed home and told me the whole story. Didn’t sleep that night—took all my harassing to keep him from calling Damien right then and there, but it was two in the morning, and I told him it could wait. Poor kid looked green until he finally got Damien on the phone at five the next morning.”
“When was this?” I am flabbergasted.
“Four days ago.”