by J. Kenner
“We didn’t have any idea how much Damien paid you,” Evelyn said, “but now that we do, I have to confess that I agree with Blaine. You sold yourself cheap.”
I laugh, remembering that Sylvia said the same thing. At times like this, when I’m with friends and people who don’t have shark’s blood running through their veins, I feel almost proud of what I did. I negotiated a deal. I got my start-up money. And what the hell is wrong with that?
“Aw, hell, Texas. I see it on your face. Now I’ve gone and got you thinking about it. We can’t have that. You want some wine?”
“Love some,” I say.
She disappears inside, then returns a moment later with a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and two glasses.
She sits at the wrought-iron table then indicates the chair opposite with the tip of her cigarette. “So tell me the rest of it,” she demands.
“The rest of it? The rest of what?”
“What’s going on in your life, Texas. Fired twice—excuse me, once was a layoff. Dating one heck of a fine catch if I do say so myself. Your roommate’s got a commercial in the works. Lot of life crammed into not very much time. You’ve certainly made quite the landing in our fair city.”
Put that way, I have to agree. “Despite the firings and the tabloid stuff that we’re just going to ignore, things are great. I’m going to take some time to get a couple more apps on the market.”
She points at me. “An art app for Blaine. I haven’t forgotten.”
I grin, not sure if she means it or not. “I’m ready when you are. But that’s my short-term plan. Long term is still in the development stages.”
“And Damien? You said he’s in London? On business?”
“Yeah, but I think he took some time to visit a friend. Sofia. I guess she’s in some sort of trouble.”
“That’s too bad,” Evelyn says. She props her hand on her fist and looks at me seriously. “He say what kind of trouble?”
“No.”
“Hmm,” she says. “What about Jamie? What’s she up to?”
I hesitate before answering, wondering about the shift in conversation. Does Evelyn know Sofia? Does she know what kind of trouble she’s in? It’s possible, I realize. Sofia is from his tennis past, and Evelyn was Damien’s agent when he was a young sports icon endorsing tennis shoes and God knows what else.
I think about asking, but hold my tongue. Evelyn has become a solid friend, and I don’t want to muddy the waters by using her as a conduit between me and Damien’s past.
“Jamie’s in heaven,” I say, focusing on the original question. “She’s really hit it off with the guy she’s doing this commercial with. Bryan Raine. You know him?”
“I do,” Evelyn says, and she doesn’t sound pleased. “I like your friend. Nice girl. A little green, but she’ll get there. Bryan Raine, though … That one’s a climber, and I’m not sure your friend is tough enough to deal with the shit he’ll eventually throw her way.”
My heart is sinking. “You’re serious?”
“Afraid so. He won’t be happy until he’s banging the next big thing. And while he’d prefer a female, I think he’ll fuck anything that moves if he thinks it’ll ease his climb to the top. Male, female, or small farm animal.” She looks at me hard. “Your friend got the skin to make it when he ditches her?”
I open my mouth to say that Jamie’s as tough as they come, but I can’t speak the words. They aren’t true. She’s got a tough veneer, but inside she’s soft and vulnerable.
“I hope you’re wrong,” I say.
“So do I, Texas. So do I.”
22
The nice thing about limos is that they have a driver. I take full advantage of that knowledge, and I arrive back at Damien’s apartment more than a little tipsy after downing half of Evelyn’s very excellent bottle of Chardonnay.
I am interested in nothing but sleep, and I make my way to the bed, hesitating only long enough to feel a pang of regret that I am in it alone.
I’ve dropped my phone on the bedside table, and I reach for it, then tap out a text: In your bed. Drunk. Wish you were here.
I have no idea what time it is in London, and have had too much wine to bother with the math to figure it out. So I’m not sure if Damien is even awake. But only a few seconds pass before I get his response. Wish I were, too. At airport. Coming home to you. Tell me you’re naked.
I smile and tap out a reply. Very. And wet. And wanting you. Hurry home. I have been Damienized, and I don’t think I can last long without you. [Damienized, v. To be needful of Damien, especially in the sense of fucking and dirty talk. See, e.g., Nikki Fairchild.]
His answer is almost immediate. I like the new addition to your lexicon. And now I’ll be hard for all of a long flight home. Plane boarding. See you soon. Until then, imagine me, touching you.
I don’t know if he will get the text, but I send one final message. Yes, sir, I type. And then I hug my phone, and drift off to sleep.
When I wake, it’s because my phone is buzzing against my cheek. I roll over, confused, and realize that it’s already past noon, and that I’ve missed a call. I quickly check to see if it’s from Damien, but it’s only a voice mail from Evelyn telling me I forgot my camera. I curse silently and open my email, planning to send her a quick note telling her I’ll get it soon.
That’s when I see that there is an email from Damien waiting.
Nikki, on a quick layover in Amsterdam. Arriving LAX five P.M. Do you mind if we go to a charity fashion show tonight? Starts at nine? Would much rather stay in with you, but Maynard’s firm sponsoring. Swears press access limited. They’ll get the boot if they even think about harassing you. Jamie invited, too. Let me know. Missing you …
I read the message twice, trying to decide why I’m smiling so broadly. It’s only as I start the third read that I realize—he’s asking me, not telling me. I take that knowledge and hold it close to my heart. Then I tap out my reply, though I know he won’t get it until he lands.
Of course, sir. But how you do tease, pretending to ask my consent when of course you know that I will do whatever you want, whenever and however.
I hope you’re spending your time in the plane thinking of interesting “howevers” …
P.S. I have the perfect dress at home. Pick me up at the condo at eight? Will check Jamie’s social calendar …
As it turns out, Raine has told Jamie that he’s having a night out with the boys, so she’s completely keen to be a third wheel with me and Damien.
I’m not entirely sure what to expect from a fashion show hosted by a law firm, but it turns out that Bender, Twain is just one of many sponsors for a function that is raising money for juvenile diabetes. The event is being held in a restaurant in Beverly Hills, but the place has been so transformed that it’s hard to believe that it has ever been anything other than a fashion venue. A long runway bisects a giant room, and that is surrounded by chairs. The perimeter is lined with tables providing research, raffles, and gift bags. Jamie and I both snag a bag and are pleased to find them filled with cosmetics, hair brushes, and even a darling tank top.
“This is great,” Jamie says to Damien. “Thanks for bringing me.”
“Happy to have you along,” he says. His mood has been light since he’s returned from London.
“So the trip went well?” I ask once Jamie skips off to do the circuit.
“It did,” he says.
“Sofia’s okay?”
“She’s settled,” he says. “For her, that’s about as good as it gets. And I heard from Charles. He’s been working with my attorneys in Germany, and with any luck, that problem is going to go away as well.”
“You mean they won’t indict?”
He cocks his head to look at me. “That’s my hope.”
“That would be great,” I say. “And even though I don’t have a clue about international business or what kind of regulations the Germans think you mucked up, you know you can talk to me about that kind of thing. I may not
get it, but I promise I’ll be supportive.”
The expression on his face is surprisingly guarded. “Someday when I’m ready, I will.” He pulls me in for a quick, chaste kiss. “And yes, I believe that you would understand.”
A smile flickers on my lips. I’m pleased, but I can’t help but think that we’re talking about entirely different things.
I don’t have the chance to ask, though, because the show is starting. We take our seats and watch the models parade down the runway in skimpy, sexy outfits, with Damien whispering his opinion as to exactly which outfits he wants to see me in. Reporters and photographers are at the base of the runway, and I realize that Charles has made good on his promise—the press is leaving me and Damien alone. Some weight inside me lifts a little, and I lean back in my chair and enjoy the freedom of knowing that, at least for a moment, I am not a bug under a microscope.
When the show is over, the guests are encouraged to mingle and imbibe from one of the many cash bars while the crew sets up for the charity auction. I look around for Jamie, but she has already disappeared into the crowd, presumably to jump all over that imbibing thing.
Instead, I see Ollie, and I suck in a tight breath. He is talking with a woman who looks somewhat familiar, but I can’t place her. Damien hasn’t seen him yet, but I know the exact moment when Ollie’s glance finds us.
I’m not sure why I’m surprised that he’s here. After all, he works with Charles Maynard. The crowd shifts, and I see a pretty, dark-haired woman coming toward him with two drinks in her hands. Courtney. And then Ollie and Courtney and the other woman are all heading our way. I grab Damien’s hand and smile my Social Nikki smile. It is the first time I’ve felt the need to be so armed against Ollie, but I know that I need both the mask and Damien’s strength, and that knowledge makes me sad.
“Nikki, Damien, it’s good to see you here.”
“Ollie,” Damien says politely. He glances at the two women.
“Courtney,” I say, “it’s so good to see you again.” I give her a little hug, then formally introduce her to Damien.
“Great to meet you,” Courtney says, then turns her attention to me. “I’m planning a destination wedding shower, but I haven’t decided where yet.” She shifts toward Damien, including him as she speaks to me. “Tell me you two will come? And Jamie and Raine, too.”
Automatically, my eyes dart to Ollie’s, but his expression is too guarded to read.
“I’m looking forward to hearing all the details,” I say diplomatically. The truth is I’m not sure there is going to be a wedding, much less a shower. Courtney, however, doesn’t seem the least bit worried.
The other woman with Ollie is introduced as Susan Morris. I keep my polite smile plastered on, but inside, I’m frowning, trying to figure out why her name is familiar.
I’m about to ask, when Ollie continues. “Susan is directing the fashion show.”
“I got my training in pageants,” Susan says, “although it wasn’t formal training. More like an apprenticeship.”
“Susan Morris?” I say, finally clueing in. “Alicia Morris’s mother?” Susan Morris was almost as much of a stage mother as mine.
“I was hoping you’d remember me,” she says. “Ollie said that Damien Stark was here with his girlfriend, and I just had to see you.”
“I’m so glad you did,” Social Nikki says. The real me isn’t at all interested in this relic from my past. I can tell that Damien sees the real Nikki, because he squeezes my hand in support.
“Your mother and I have stayed close. In fact, since I moved to Park Cities, we lunch together at least once a week,” she adds, referring to the affluent Dallas neighborhood where I grew up. “I talked to her just this morning, as a matter of fact.” Her voice is strangely tight, and I want nothing more than to get away from this woman who reminds me too much of my mother.
“How nice,” I say. I flash my wide pageant smile. “I should really go check on my friend Jamie. It was lovely talking to you.”
She takes a step sideways and blocks my departure. “Your mother is so mortified she can’t even hold her head up in public. And you haven’t been any help. You haven’t returned her calls or her emails. It’s terribly ungrateful, Nichole.”
Ungrateful. What the fuck?
Damien steps closer to me. “I believe Nikki has already said that she needs to go check on her friend.”
But Susan Morris is not taking the hint. She aims a finger at Damien. “And you! Elizabeth told me how you shipped her home just when Nichole needed her.”
My mouth falls open. Needed her? Needed her? All I’d needed was for her to be gone.
“And now you’ve dragged her into this … this … degrading lifestyle!” Susan Morris is speaking machine-gun fast, and with as much damage. “Posing nude. Erotic art. And accepting money like a common whore. It’s contemptible.” She literally spits the last word, and I see the tiny droplets of moisture fly from her mouth.
I can only gape at her, my Social Nikki facade having shattered under this unexpected onslaught.
Damien is not so frozen. He takes a step forward, his expression like thunder. I think vaguely that he will hurt her, and that I should hold out a hand to stop him. I don’t. All I can think about is the nausea and tightness and clammy coldness that has settled over me.
“Get the hell out of here,” Damien says, his hands pressed firmly against his sides.
“I will not,” she counters. “You think you can buy anything? Even a girl like Nichole in your bed? I know your type, Damien Stark.”
“Do you?” He takes another step toward her, and she has the sense to look scared. “In that case I think you would listen when I tell you to get out. And for the record, Nikki is a woman, not a girl. And the choice she made was her own.”
Her mouth drops open, but she doesn’t reply. Instead she turns back to me. “Your mother expected better things from you.”
I can do nothing but stand there. I’m frozen, my body chilled to the bone. And, goddammit, I’m starting to shake. Deep, trembling shudders that I cannot control, and that I do not want Susan Morris to see.
Throughout all of this, Ollie has stood stock-still, Courtney’s hand tight on his arm. But now he, too, takes a step forward. “Do what Mr. Stark says and get the hell out of here or I will have you fired from this pageant right here, right now.”
“I—” She shuts her mouth, gives each of us a hard look, then leaves.
I do not remember sliding into Damien’s embrace, but that is where I am, and it feels warm and safe, and my trembling starts to subside. I don’t want him to open his arms, because I don’t want to face the world. I want to be home with him. Back in the penthouse where ghosts from my past don’t pop up. Where I’m not accused of being a whore. Where my personal life isn’t gossiped about by people who don’t know me and know even less about the choices I’ve made.
“Are you okay?” Courtney asks.
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
I see Ollie shoot Damien a vitriol-filled look. He may have sided with me against Susan Morris, but it’s clear that he’s still not on Team Damien.
“I’ll take you home,” Damien says.
I nod, then hesitate, then shake my head. “No. I want to stay.”
“You’re sure?”
I hesitate only a moment, then nod. “I just need to go to the bathroom. Then I want to find Jamie. We haven’t looked at all the booths yet.” I am proud of myself. I sound so steady even though I’m anything but.
Damien’s phone buzzes and he glances at the screen, then types out a quick response before sliding it back in his pocket.
“Not important?”
“Charles,” he says. “He’s at one of the cash bars and wants to have a quick talk. I told him I was with you, and business could wait until morning.”
“Can it?”
He looks right into my eyes. “Right now, the only thing I care about is you.” He takes my arm. “It looks like the ladies’ room is
over there.”
While Damien waits, I go in—then immediately clutch the counter. I’ve been working so hard not to let Damien see my cracks. Susan Morris. My mother. The rumors of sex for money, of being a whore. It’s all tied up in my head like so much noise and I want to sort it out. I want Damien—but I know he blames himself, and if I can just gather myself a little. If I can just make one tiny inroad on keeping myself collected …
I look around for something sharp, but there is nothing. Only the granite counter, the mirror, and the ceramic soap dispenser.
I remember the apartment and the glass vase that Damien shattered. I close my eyes, feeling the imaginary shard in my hand. Glass cuts on all sides. It’s perfect. It’s like a tiny miracle biting into the palm of your hand.
Wildly, I open my eyes and look around for something with which to break the glass. I snatch the soap dispenser, stand back, and start to hurl it.
That is when I see my reflection. Oh, God. What am I doing?
My fingers go slack, and the dispenser crashes to the ground—and in the back of the room, from behind a closed stall door, I hear someone yelp.
I jump—I hadn’t realized anyone was in there—then immediately relax when I see it is Jamie. Her face is splotchy and her makeup is smeared, but I must look worse because she takes one glance at me, looks down at the ceramic shards on the floor, and says, “I’m finding Damien.”
“Jamie!” I call, trying to get her back, but it’s too late. She’s out the door, and only moments later, Damien is in the ladies’ room.
“I didn’t,” I say immediately. “I just dropped a soap dish. That’s all. Jamie overreacted.”
He is looking at me with such intensity that I am certain he can see the lie inside my head. “All right,” he says slowly. “Now tell me the rest of it.”
I sigh, then drop my gaze. I count to five, and then look back up to him, my composure restored. “I was going to,” I say. “But I talked myself out of it. And then, really, I dropped the dispenser. It’s slippery.”
“You talked yourself out of it.” It’s a statement, not a question.