Complete Me
Page 60
“I have checked her credentials,” he says. “It’s just been a while.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he admits. He steps toward me and the air between us thickens.
I step back. “Dammit, Damien. You can’t just pull shit like that.”
“Are you going to ignore her advice? Cut her off?”
“No. She’s my friend. Despite you,” I add. “Not because of you. And don’t you dare argue that what you did makes no difference because we ended up genuinely liking each other.”
“I know the difference,” he says seriously. “But I have a blind spot where you’re concerned, Nikki.”
“Aw, really? That’s so romantic.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Get over it.”
He chuckles, then crosses the space between us before I can back away again. His arm is around my waist and he pulls me close so that my pelvis is hard against him. I feel the length of his erection, and I want to be annoyed that he’s hard despite the fact that I’m mad at him. I can’t, though. Because I’m turned on, too, my body tingling and already melting against him. Hell, I’d gone damp the moment he stepped into my office. “You can fuck me,” I say breathily. “But I’ll still be mad at you.”
He closes his mouth over mine for the kind of kiss that positively melts a girl. “Tempting,” he says. Then he releases me, takes two steps back, and returns to me with the shopping bag. “For you.”
I take it warily, then peek inside. It’s full of tissue paper, which I pull out to reveal a box shaped like a doghouse. I glance at him, confused, then pull the box out of the bag and open it. Inside are a dozen sugar cookies baked in the shape of dog bones. Each has I’m sorry lettered upon it in silver icing.
“Okay,” I say with a grin. “You’re officially out of the doghouse. Thank you for the cookies,” I add. “And don’t do it again.”
“I’ll do my best,” he says. “But it’s safer not to make promises.”
I can’t help but laugh. This is one of the foibles of being in a relationship with a man like Damien Stark. But the more important fact is that as much as he drives me nuts, we are talking about this stuff. It’s light in the shadows. It’s glue on the bubble. Because the more solid we are, the longer we can hold back the world.
“Thanks for coming,” I say. “You could have waited and talked to me tonight.”
“No,” he says simply. “I couldn’t have.”
“Lunch?”
“Unfortunately, that I do have to pass on.”
“Too bad, though I suppose it’s just as well. I’ve accomplished absolutely zip today. I take it your day is busier what with a universe to run.”
“My universe today extends only to the two of us.”
At first, I think he’s being romantic. Then I see the hard lines of his face. I push the box aside and perch on the edge of my desk. “You’ve learned something. Is it good or bad?”
“A bit of both, actually.”
“All right. Tell me the good first.”
“The court ruled against the motion to unseal the photos.”
“Damien,” I say. “That’s huge.”
“It is,” he agrees. “But the press isn’t stupid. The odds are they’ll try the back door route and do the same thing I’m doing—try to figure out who sent the evidence in the first place.”
“Have you learned anything new?”
He hesitates, then nods. “About the photos, no. About our leak regarding your portrait, yes. Turns out the ATM camera was very effective.”
“Seriously? That’s wonderful. Who is it?”
“I still need confirmation,” he says. “Let me see where it goes, and then I’ll lay the whole thing out for you.”
“Okay,” I say, though I’m disappointed he won’t tell me right then, even if he is still investigating. I consider pressing the point, but decide not to. I don’t think that his closed-mouthedness stems from the desire to keep secrets but simply from Damien’s innate need to keep control. Of his business. Of information. And, I think, glancing at the doghouse-shaped box, of me.
The intercom buzzes. “Ms. Fairchild, you have another delivery. May I send them back?”
“Sure.” I glance at Damien, but he holds up his hands. “This one’s not from me. I swear.”
I don’t believe him, of course. At least not until I take the envelope from the courier and see his Damien’s face. “Let me open it,” he says sternly.
My chest goes cold. The negligible weight of the plain manila envelope turns heavy in my hand. “You don’t think . . . ”
“I don’t know.” He reaches for it. “But I’m going to find out.”
I pass him the envelope, irritated with myself for not having the guts to rip it open, and at the same time desperately grateful that he’s there beside me. He holds the envelope in a handkerchief, then uses a small pocketknife from his keychain to open it. He pushes the envelope at opposite corners so that the slit gapes open, then starts to peer inside.
“No,” I say firmly. “I want to see when you do.”
His expression is tight, and I expect him to say no. But then he nods. I move to stand beside him, and then he upturns the envelope over the desk, spilling the contents onto the polished surface.
Six photographs. Me in kindergarten. Me in a tiara at my very first pageant, my hair in ringlets. Me, me, me, me.
In every photograph, my face has been crossed out with a red pen pushed so hard into the photographic paper that the emulsion has been scraped off, leaving a series of ragged red x’s where my face should be. There is one piece of paper mixed in with the photos. Block letters cut like a cliché from newspapers and pasted on the sheet: YOU DON’T EVEN EXIST
I stare at it all, surprised that the room is silent. Surprised that I’m not screaming, because this is so very wrong. But the world is as silent as death. Hell, the world looks like death. No noise. No color. No light.
It’s all gray. Even those red x’s have faded to gray. And the gray room is actually shifting to black. A cloudy, inky black that surrounds me, blanketing me, drawing me down, down, down . . .
Nikki!
Nikki!
I feel a sharp sting across my cheek. “Nikki!”
“Damien.” It’s my voice, but it sounds horribly far away. I lift my hand and touch my cheek.
“Sorry,” he says, though he sounds more worried than sorry. “You fainted.”
“I—what?” I sit up, groggy, and realize that somehow I’ve ended up on the love seat. I focus on Damien. “Fainted?”
I haven’t fainted in years. Not since I was accidentally locked in a storage closet during college. Dark enclosed spaces have always freaked me out, and I’d passed out. But never have I simply slipped into a faint like this.
“You had reason,” Damien says, correctly reading my face.
Those photos. My photos.
I shiver. Whoever did this is in my life. This isn’t just nasty texts. This is flat-out targeting me. And if I don’t exist, then what the hell does that say about their endgame?
“You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he admits. He steps toward me and the air between us thickens.
I step back. “Dammit, Damien. You can’t just pull shit like that.”
“Are you going to ignore her advice? Cut her off?”
“No. She’s my friend. Despite you,” I add. “Not because of you. And don’t you dare argue that what you did makes no difference because we ended up genuinely liking each other.”
“I know the difference,” he says seriously. “But I have a blind spot where you’re concerned, Nikki.”
“Aw, really? That’s so romantic.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Get over it.”
He chuckles, then crosses the space between us before I can back away again. His arm is around my waist and he pulls me close so that my pelvis is hard against him. I feel the length of his erection, and I want to be annoyed that he’s hard despite the fact that I’m mad at him. I can’t, though. Because I’m turned on, too, my body tingling and already melting against him. Hell, I’d gone damp the moment he stepped into my office. “You can fuck me,” I say breathily. “But I’ll still be mad at you.”
He closes his mouth over mine for the kind of kiss that positively melts a girl. “Tempting,” he says. Then he releases me, takes two steps back, and returns to me with the shopping bag. “For you.”
I take it warily, then peek inside. It’s full of tissue paper, which I pull out to reveal a box shaped like a doghouse. I glance at him, confused, then pull the box out of the bag and open it. Inside are a dozen sugar cookies baked in the shape of dog bones. Each has I’m sorry lettered upon it in silver icing.
“Okay,” I say with a grin. “You’re officially out of the doghouse. Thank you for the cookies,” I add. “And don’t do it again.”
“I’ll do my best,” he says. “But it’s safer not to make promises.”
I can’t help but laugh. This is one of the foibles of being in a relationship with a man like Damien Stark. But the more important fact is that as much as he drives me nuts, we are talking about this stuff. It’s light in the shadows. It’s glue on the bubble. Because the more solid we are, the longer we can hold back the world.
“Thanks for coming,” I say. “You could have waited and talked to me tonight.”
“No,” he says simply. “I couldn’t have.”
“Lunch?”
“Unfortunately, that I do have to pass on.”
“Too bad, though I suppose it’s just as well. I’ve accomplished absolutely zip today. I take it your day is busier what with a universe to run.”
“My universe today extends only to the two of us.”
At first, I think he’s being romantic. Then I see the hard lines of his face. I push the box aside and perch on the edge of my desk. “You’ve learned something. Is it good or bad?”
“A bit of both, actually.”
“All right. Tell me the good first.”
“The court ruled against the motion to unseal the photos.”
“Damien,” I say. “That’s huge.”
“It is,” he agrees. “But the press isn’t stupid. The odds are they’ll try the back door route and do the same thing I’m doing—try to figure out who sent the evidence in the first place.”
“Have you learned anything new?”
He hesitates, then nods. “About the photos, no. About our leak regarding your portrait, yes. Turns out the ATM camera was very effective.”
“Seriously? That’s wonderful. Who is it?”
“I still need confirmation,” he says. “Let me see where it goes, and then I’ll lay the whole thing out for you.”
“Okay,” I say, though I’m disappointed he won’t tell me right then, even if he is still investigating. I consider pressing the point, but decide not to. I don’t think that his closed-mouthedness stems from the desire to keep secrets but simply from Damien’s innate need to keep control. Of his business. Of information. And, I think, glancing at the doghouse-shaped box, of me.
The intercom buzzes. “Ms. Fairchild, you have another delivery. May I send them back?”
“Sure.” I glance at Damien, but he holds up his hands. “This one’s not from me. I swear.”
I don’t believe him, of course. At least not until I take the envelope from the courier and see his Damien’s face. “Let me open it,” he says sternly.
My chest goes cold. The negligible weight of the plain manila envelope turns heavy in my hand. “You don’t think . . . ”
“I don’t know.” He reaches for it. “But I’m going to find out.”
I pass him the envelope, irritated with myself for not having the guts to rip it open, and at the same time desperately grateful that he’s there beside me. He holds the envelope in a handkerchief, then uses a small pocketknife from his keychain to open it. He pushes the envelope at opposite corners so that the slit gapes open, then starts to peer inside.
“No,” I say firmly. “I want to see when you do.”
His expression is tight, and I expect him to say no. But then he nods. I move to stand beside him, and then he upturns the envelope over the desk, spilling the contents onto the polished surface.
Six photographs. Me in kindergarten. Me in a tiara at my very first pageant, my hair in ringlets. Me, me, me, me.
In every photograph, my face has been crossed out with a red pen pushed so hard into the photographic paper that the emulsion has been scraped off, leaving a series of ragged red x’s where my face should be. There is one piece of paper mixed in with the photos. Block letters cut like a cliché from newspapers and pasted on the sheet: YOU DON’T EVEN EXIST
I stare at it all, surprised that the room is silent. Surprised that I’m not screaming, because this is so very wrong. But the world is as silent as death. Hell, the world looks like death. No noise. No color. No light.
It’s all gray. Even those red x’s have faded to gray. And the gray room is actually shifting to black. A cloudy, inky black that surrounds me, blanketing me, drawing me down, down, down . . .
Nikki!
Nikki!
I feel a sharp sting across my cheek. “Nikki!”
“Damien.” It’s my voice, but it sounds horribly far away. I lift my hand and touch my cheek.
“Sorry,” he says, though he sounds more worried than sorry. “You fainted.”
“I—what?” I sit up, groggy, and realize that somehow I’ve ended up on the love seat. I focus on Damien. “Fainted?”
I haven’t fainted in years. Not since I was accidentally locked in a storage closet during college. Dark enclosed spaces have always freaked me out, and I’d passed out. But never have I simply slipped into a faint like this.
“You had reason,” Damien says, correctly reading my face.
Those photos. My photos.
I shiver. Whoever did this is in my life. This isn’t just nasty texts. This is flat-out targeting me. And if I don’t exist, then what the hell does that say about their endgame?
