Claim Me: A Novel (22 page)

How could Damien be so cavalier? He saw me melt down at
the first session with Blaine. He’s the one who soothed me, who I thought understood me.

And now it feels like he’s the one who’s slapped me.

I blink, because I am not going to cry. Instead, I concentrate on the fury that is cutting through me like a knife, giving me both strength and a weapon. Because so help me, I want to wound Damien as he’s wounded me. This cut is deep, all the more so because he is the one person I trusted most to never hurt me.

He reaches for me, his face now as gentle as I’ve ever seen it. “Nikki, please.”

“No.” I hold up my hand and shake my head as I choke back a little sob. “And for the record,” I say, coolly meeting his eyes, “of course I wore panties. Game’s over, remember? The rules no longer apply.”

I see the hurt in his eyes, and feel it cut sharply through me. For a moment, I regret the lie. I’m overcome by a desperate longing to lose myself in his arms. To hold him and comfort him, and to let him comfort me.

But I don’t. I can’t. I need to be alone, and so I let my sharp words hang in the air as I lift my head and walk steadfastly away.

But my exit doesn’t give me any satisfaction. Our game may be over, but I don’t want the relationship with Damien to end.

I think about the bed and my fear that it was a portent. About Giselle and Bruce and the trust that has cracked like a mirror. I think about the secrets that I know Damien keeps from me, and about the depths of this man who is still so much a mystery to me.

All of that haunts me. And, yes, I’m afraid.

Not of the ghosts of his past, but of the possibility that we will have no future.

“Nikki!”

I’m trying to escape down to the second-floor library, and Bruce is the last person that I want to see right now. Well, almost the last. At the moment, I don’t particularly want to see Damien.

I can’t, however, continue toward the service elevator without appearing incredibly rude. So I pause and wait for him to catch up with me. I try to plaster on my Social Nikki mask, but honestly, I just don’t have the energy. And I’m sure that the smile with which I greet my boss is thin at best.

“I wanted to thank you for doing such a great job at Suncoast yesterday,” he says.

“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting business chitchat. “Thank you. I was pleased you gave me such a challenging assignment on my first day.” Over his shoulder, I see myself looking down upon us. I wonder if, having seen me nude before the world, Bruce’s assessment of my professionalism has been knocked down a notch. Or twelve.

“Challenging because of the work, or because of your partner?”

“A little of both,” I admit.

“I promised you that we’d talk,” he says. “Is now a good time?”

It’s not, of course. But I’m curious. And so far, I’m only getting a business vibe. Maybe Damien only told Giselle that I’m the girl in the portrait, and Bruce has no idea. After all, it’s not like there’s a neon arrow over my head saying,
She’s the One
.

“Sure,” I say, relaxing a little. “Now’s great.” There is a seating area surrounding the fireplace, and he leads me in that direction. As we walk, Damien catches my eye. He has moved to the balcony, where he now stands between Evelyn and Giselle.

I look away, then smile at Bruce as I sit. “So why is Tanner the wolf?”

Bruce draws a deep breath. “Listen, before we get into all of that, I think I owe you an apology.”

Now I’m confused. “Because of Tanner? It wasn’t that bad,” I lie.

“No. Because of tonight. Giselle told me that it’s you in the painting.”

I nod, too dumbstruck to speak. So much for my shiny new theory that Bruce was clueless.

“To be honest, I didn’t think anything of it. But once we arrived, I realized that you didn’t know that I knew.”

“It’s fine,” I say, though it is a very long way from fine.

“No. It’s not. Giselle had no business telling me. I don’t think she meant anything by it, but sometimes she just doesn’t think.”

He looks at me, but I say nothing. It’s still not fine, and I am not capable of repeating the lie again.

“I wanted to talk to you now, though, because I don’t want you to think that this affects our working relationship.”

“Of course not. Why would it?”

He must know that I’m bullshitting, because he doesn’t even
bother to answer me. Instead, he seems to change subjects altogether. “Did Damien tell you about my sister?”

“Um, no.”

“As brilliant a woman as you will ever meet. She does mathematical equations in her head that I can barely do with a calculator. She teaches at MIT now.”

I cock my head. “Jessica Tolley-Brown?”

“You know her?”

“Of her,” I say, not bothering to hide my excitement. “I almost entered a PhD program at MIT just so I could study under her. But what does she—”

“Do you know how she put herself through school?”

“No. Scholarships, I assume.”

“Mostly,” he says. “But my sister has expensive taste, and she supplemented her income with modeling.”

“Oh,” I say. I have a feeling I know where this is going.

“I don’t have a problem with the female body,” he says. “And I don’t think any less of a woman’s intellect just because she poses nude. Considering my sister’s portfolio, and the fact that she can trample me in just about any contest of wits, it would be pretty hypocritical of me, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it would.” Embarrassment still lingers, but he has managed to soothe the mortification. “And thank you for pulling me aside to tell me. It—well, I appreciate it.”

“Good.” He pats his hands on his knees. “As for Tanner, again, I’m sorry. I imagine he gave you a bit of grief. He didn’t make it a secret that he wanted your job. Now he doesn’t have one.”

“What?” I feel whiplashed by his words.

“I’ve put up with him for a long time, probably too long, but he was with me when I started Innovative, and he stuck with me even when I couldn’t pay him a salary for months on end.” He frowns, then rips off a thread dangling from a seam in the lining
of his jacket. He drops the thread on the small table between us, then continues without missing a beat. “I always thought he had the company’s best interest at heart, but this morning I learned that he’s a backbiting sack of shit.”

“Oh.” I try to think what to say next, but nothing seems quite appropriate, so I wait.

“Damien made some calls after you told him what happened yesterday, and he confirmed that our boy Tanner is the one who told the press you were coming to Innovative. That’s bad enough—making you deal with that shit—but he also planted that bullshit about corporate espionage.”

“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?”