by J. Kenner
"I thought we could stop in the bar for a drink," I say. It's a lie. I hadn't thought that at all. But I'm trying to get some sort of reaction from Damien, and at the same time I'm hating myself for manufacturing a scenario where he'll be forced to actively make a choice.
"Go ahead if you want."
"Alone?" I feel a bead of sweat trickle from my underarm down my side. I'm starting to panic.
"Ollie will be along any moment. I bet he'd be happy to have a drink with you."
"I don't want to have a drink with Ollie," I say, proud of myself for keeping my voice calm, when all I want to do is scream. Because the Damien who would willingly park me at a happy hour table with Ollie McKee is not the Damien I know and love. I take a step closer to him. "Damien, please tell me what's wrong."
"I just need to get up to the room." The elevator car arrives, and as if in proof of his words, Damien steps inside.
I follow, then frown as my gaze takes in his face. For the first time I see the beads of perspiration at his hairline. I see his bloodshot eyes and pale, waxy skin. "Jesus, Damien," I say, reaching out to press my palm against his forehead as the elevator whisks us up to the Presidential Suite.
He turns away. "I don't have a fever."
"Then what the hell is it?"
For a moment, he says nothing. Then his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. "I'm just upset."
"Upset?" I hear my voice rising and force myself to keep it down. "Because the charges were dropped?"
"No. Not because of that."
The elevator door opens, and I follow him into the hall, then halt at the door of our suite.
"Then what?" I ask as he slides his keycard into the lock. My speech is unnaturally calm. "Dammit, Damien, talk to me. Tell me what happened today."
The light turns green and he pushes open the door and steps into the suite. I am not sure if it's real or my imagination, but he seems unsure of his steps, as if he's afraid that the floor is going to disappear out from under him. I have never seen him like this, and he is starting to scare me.
He may say that he's upset, but I don't believe him. When Damien is upset, he lashes out. That famous temper rises and he takes control of the surroundings. Hell, he takes control of me.
But right now he looks as though control is slipping through his fingers like sand. This isn't upset--this is damn near shattered. And I am terribly, terribly afraid.
"Damien," I repeat. "Please."
"Nikki--"
He yanks me toward him and though I'm startled, I almost cry out with joy. Yes, I think. Kiss me, touch me, use me. Whatever he needs, I will give. And he knows that--dammit all, he knows it only too well.
But he does nothing. Nothing except thrust his fingers into my hair and hold me tight.
"Damien." His name feels ripped from me, and I force my head up, then crush my lips against his in a bruising kiss. He responds immediately, his mouth hard and demanding under mine, his hands on the back of my head forcing me closer. The kiss is brutal. Violent. Our teeth clash, he bites down on my lip, I taste blood, and I don't care. On the contrary, I feel as though I am soaring, set aloft by the passion in his touch, by the desire coursing through him.
His body is hard against mine, and one hand has moved down to cup my ass. He holds me hard against him, and I can feel his erection straining against his slacks. I grind against him, almost melting from the white-hot relief that boils within me. He's back, I think. He's back.
But it's only an illusion, because suddenly he's shoving me away, his eyes wild and lost, his breathing hard. He reaches to steady himself on the back of a chair and tilts his face away from me. But it's too late, I've seen too much, and what I saw in his eyes was horror.
I stand frozen, not by fear, but by the knowledge that right then I am impotent. He has shut me out, and I don't know the way back to him.
"Don't," I whisper. It is the only word I can manage and I have to force it past my lips.
I think that he will ignore me, but he looks up, and I gasp from the gray pallor of his skin. Immediately, I am at his side. I brush my palm over his cheek. His skin is cold and clammy.
"I'm calling the hotel doctor."
"No." He looks right at me and I see pain in his amber-colored eye, but the black one is as empty and distant as the night. He moves to the sofa and sits down, his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands.
"Damien, please. Can't you tell me what's going on? Can't you talk to me?"
He doesn't move. "No." That simple word slices through me, not quick and neat like sharpened steel, but hot and raw and brutal. A serrated blade across unprepared flesh. I could do it, I think. Just one quick motion. I could do it, and I could follow the pain back here. Back to Damien. I need the anchor. I need--
No!
I flinch and look away; if he looks up, I do not want him to see the direction in which my thoughts have traveled. I do not want him to see the effort it takes not to move. Not to bolt to the bathroom and dig into his brown leather shaving kit. Not to unscrew the top of his safety razor and remove the fresh blade, so small yet so sharp. So sweetly tempting . . .
I focus on breathing--on finding my center. I've come to rely on Damien's strength, and now I can't help but wonder if I'll ever be able to do this alone again.
He shifts on the sofa so that he is lying back, but his eyes are open and he reaches a hand out for me. I go and kneel at his side, holding tight to him, my heart swollen to bursting. I am terrified--so afraid that happiness is only fleeting and that the universe is in the process of self-correcting, and is transforming our story from a romance into a tragedy.
"I love you," I say almost desperately. What I mean is, "You're scaring me."
He draws my hand up and softly kisses my knuckles. "I'm going to take a nap." His lids are heavy.
"Yes. Of course." It's an excuse that makes sense, and I pounce upon it and clutch it tight. After all, we didn't get much sleep last night, and I know that he did not sleep well even when we returned. I know, because I didn't either, and every time I woke up he was either awake and staring at the ceiling or tossing in the bed. He was calm only when he held me close.
It's that memory that soothes me. I do not know what is going on with Damien right now, but at the heart of it all, I know that he needs me as much as I need him.
I give his hand a squeeze before releasing it. I slide off his shoes, then grab a blanket and gently spread it over him. His eyes are already closed, his chest rising and falling in time with his breathing.
I start to tiptoe from the room into the bedroom, but as I do, I hear the familiar buzz of his phone. I curse and sprint back to the couch, because I do not want the phone to wake him.
I find his phone in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, and I pull it out. I don't recognize the number, and I press the button to answer, planning to take a message.
"Damien Stark's phone," I say softly as I move away so as not to wake him. I hear something that sounds like a sharp breath, and then nothing. "Hello?"
And then there is simply the dead silence of a dropped call. I frown slightly, but don't think much of it. Then I switch the ringer off and leave his phone on the worktable where he can easily find it.
I go into the bedroom and take off the conservative Chanel suit I wore to court. I change into a bright yellow dress, hoping that the cheery color will improve my mood. I keep the pearl choker, my fingers drifting to it as I recall the texture of Damien's fingertips as he fastened it around my neck that morning. I lie on the bed and try to sleep, but sleep is not coming and my mood is not improving. Finally, I can take it no longer. I have to have answers, and I can think of only one way to get them.
I pull out my own phone and send a text--It's Nikki. I need to see you. Are you in the hotel? Can I meet you?
I hold my breath as I wait for the reply, hoping he will answer and not simply ignore my plea. So much time passes that I'm beginning to think that's exactly what he's going to do.
Then the reply comes, and I sag with relief.
Room 315.
I gather my things and hurry to the elevator. I want to get there before he changes his mind. I stand by the elevator call button, my finger repeatedly jabbing the down arrow even though the light is already illuminated. Finally it comes, and I join a teenage couple who stand next to each other, his hands in her back jeans pocket and vice versa. The sight makes me smile, and I turn away, afraid that the simple public display of affection is going to make me cry.
I get off before them on the third floor and take a moment to get my bearings. Then I turn and hurry down the hall until I'm standing at the door to suite 315. I knock and wait, then sigh in relief when Charles Maynard opens the door and ushers me in.
"Thank you for seeing me," I say. "Damien is--well, he's asleep." It's a euphemism for "he's a wreck," and I think Maynard knows it.
He gestures toward the sofa. "Sit down. You want a drink? I just walked in the door when you texted. I was considering ordering a late lunch."
"I'm fine," I say as he walks to the wet bar and pours himself a very large Scotch.
"You must be relieved," Maynard says, which is probably the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever said to me.
"Of course I am," I snap, with more irritation than I intend.
He glances at me over the Scotch bottle. "Sorry. That sounded patronizing."
My shoulders sag. "I came here because I don't understand what happened. And I need to know. I need to know because Damien--"
But I can't finish the sentence. I can't say--even to this man who has known Damien since childhood--that for some reason this non-trial seems to have broken him.
At the same time, I can't leave. Maynard is my only chance for answers, and I cannot leave this room without some.
So I wait, and the only sound between us is the hum of the air conditioner. I fear that Maynard will say nothing, and that I will be forced to tell him how Damien walked through the hotel like a zombie. How he now lays asleep on the couch. How he seems shell-shocked, like someone who just went through a battle.
I don't want to tell him, because in some small way it feels like I am betraying Damien if I do. Damien Stark is not a man who shows weakness, and that he has shown me is only more proof that he trusts me. I can't break that trust now. But that leaves me tongue-tied, with no way to explain why I've come here.
Maynard, thank God, comes to my rescue.
"He's tied up in knots, I take it?"
"What happened back there? Why was the case dismissed?"
Maynard looks at me for a moment, and I can see that he is weighing whether or not to tell me.
"Please," I say. "Charles, I need to know."
One more moment passes, and then he nods. Just one quick movement of his head, but it seems to change everything. I feel lighter. My breathing comes easier. I lean forward, no longer caring what it is that he's going to tell me, but simply needing to hear the truth of it.
"The court received photographs and video footage," Maynard says. "That was what happened after the opening statement. The reason for the in-chambers conference. The images were shown to the prosecution and to the defense. In light of that evidence, the court decided to drop the charges."
"The court?" I say. "I thought who gets tried was always up to the prosecutor."
"Prosecutorial discretion is a broad power in the States," he says. "Not in Germany. The ultimate decision was up to the court, and both the prosecution and the defense presented quick arguments supporting the decision to dismiss."
I nod, not particularly interested in the legalities of who had the power to let Damien walk. I'm still hung up on the why.
"All right," I say stiffly. "So tell me what the photographs and videos show."
Maynard focuses on the papers on the coffee table, then reaches out to idly rearrange them. "Exactly what Damien didn't want to testify about. Things he wanted to keep private." He looks up at me. "Don't ask me to tell you more, Nikki. Just telling you that much pushes ethical boundaries."
"I see." The words are hard to force out past the knot of tears that has formed in my throat. I may not know exactly what's in those pictures, but I get the general idea. And I understand why seeing them would wreck Damien.
I stand, because right then all I want to do is return to him. To hold him and stroke him and tell him that it will all be okay. That nobody else knows.
Then a horrible thought occurs to me. "Will the court release that stuff?"
Maynard shakes his head. "No," he says firmly. "Damien was given the duplicate set, and the court has ordered the file copy sealed."
"Good." I take a step toward the door. "Thank you for telling me."
"Give him time, Nikki. It was a shock, but this doesn't really change anything. There wasn't anything in those photos that wasn't already in his past."
I nod, my heart breaking for the boy who had to live through that nightmare. "Thanks," I say again, then step out into the hall and pull the door closed behind me. I take a deep breath and lean back against the door frame. A shudder cuts through me, and I sag to the ground, my legs no longer able to hold me up. I press my forehead against my knees, wrap my arms around my legs, and cry.
No wonder Damien is wrecked. The one thing in all the world he didn't want made public came out of the sky like a meteorite and smashed him in the head. And, yeah, the photos are sealed now, but the judges saw them and the lawyers saw them. And someone out there had them. And that someone must still have copies.
Shit.
I need to go to him. I need to hold him and tell him that it will be okay, and I rise to my feet and move slowly to the elevator. I press the "up" arrow to call the elevator to take me back to the suite, then immediately curse my own selfishness. I need to go to him? I need to hold him? What Damien needs is rest--he as much as told me so himself. What I want--what I need--can wait.
With almost painful brutality, I jam my forefinger against the "down" button, but I don't want to wait. I need to move, and if I'm not moving toward Damien, I need to be going somewhere else. I shift my stance in the hallway, feeling suddenly at loose ends. At the end of the hall, a lighted sign marks the stairwell. I hurry that direction, then slip off my shoes. I hold them by the heels and run down the three flights of stairs in my bare feet. It feels good--it feels right--and when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I slip my shoes back on and exit the stairwell into the lobby.
I am not sure what I intend to do. It has been such a long day and I am so exhausted that the sun shining through the windows of the hotel seems like an anomaly. But it is still early afternoon on a stunningly beautiful summer day.
I turn toward the entrance, but I'm stopped by the vibration of my phone. I yank it out of my purse expecting Damien.
It's a text from Ollie. Turn around.
I do. He's standing behind me, a few feet from the entrance to the bar. He lifts his hand and waves.
Despite myself, I grin and wave back.
He lifts his phone, and I see him typing another message. A second later, my phone buzzes.
Hey, lady. Can I buy you a drink?
I can't help it--I laugh. A little early, isn't it? I type, but the message doesn't send because my phone is dead. Shit. I think back and remember that I forgot to plug it in when we got back from the lake last night.
I hold it up so Ollie can see it and then, with an exaggerated gesture, I drop it from two fingers into my purse, as if I'm discarding something useless and slightly gross. Then I start walking toward him. He goes in ahead of me, and when I enter, I find him already sitting at the bar. The bartender comes up to us and slides a martini in front of Ollie and a bourbon on the rocks in front of me.
"Thanks," I say, speaking both to the bartender and to Ollie. "It's a little early."
"Doesn't feel like it," he says. "Not today."
I take a sip of the drink. "No," I agree. "It doesn't."
He stirs the martini with the olive-skewered toothpick. "I'm
glad Stark's in the clear. I am. I swear."
I study his face, because I do not understand where this is coming from. But it is like a bright shiny sparkle of welcomeness in a shitty day that should have been an incredible one. So I do the only thing I can do--I smile and tell him thank you.
"I figured you'd be locked away celebrating," he says.
"Damien's asleep."
"Must be exhausted," Ollie says. "I am. It's been a hell of a wild ride."
This is small talk, and I can't stand it. "Do you know?" I demand. "Do you know why they dismissed the charges?'
He tilts his head as he studies me. "Is that really a line you want me to cross?"
I think about it. About how shattered Damien seems. I've refused to hear what Ollie's had to say about Damien in the past, but now I'm afraid that if I don't know exactly what is in those photos, I can't help.
"Yes," I say firmly. "I want to know."
He exhales loudly. "Oh, hell, Nikki. I don't know. For once, I can't tell you a damn thing. I'm sorry."
The wave of irritation I expect doesn't come. Instead, a swell of relief washes over me. Whatever is in those photos, I don't want Ollie to know. "It's okay," I say, then close my eyes. "It's okay."
He takes a long sip of his martini. "So, you want to go grab a late lunch? Hang out? Make up conversations between the folks at the other tables?"
My smile is tremulous. Part of me wants to say yes--wants to try and mend whatever has gone wrong between us. But the other part . . .
"No," I say with a shake of my head. "I'm not ready yet."
The muscles of his face seem to tighten in what might be a flinch. "Sure," he says. "No problem. We'll do it when we get home." He runs his fingertip idly around the rim of his martini glass. "So, have you been talking to Jamie?"
"Not a lot," I admit. "I've been preoccupied."
"I guess you have. She tell you that fuckwad Raine got her fired from the commercial?"
My shoulders sag. "Shit," I whisper. "When?"
"Right after you left."
"She didn't tell me." I know that she didn't want to bother me with it, what with Damien's trial, but I still feel like I've made a major best-friend blunder. "So, how's she doing?" I ask. "Has she been auditioning? Any other bites?"