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?
I draw in breath and try to calm the machine-gun beat of my heart. I sit up straight, my hands on my thighs. My skirt is hitched up a bit, and I clutch tight to the bare skin above my knees, digging my nails in tighter and tighter, using the pain to help pull me out of this fog.
I breathe deep. “My mother,” I say. “Whoever is doing this got these from my mother.”
Beside me, Damien gently plucks one hand off my thigh and holds it tight. Guiltily, I relax my other hand.
“Your mother?” he says. “What are you talking about?”
I relay Jamie’s conversation with my mother.
“This is good,” Damien says, releasing me long enough to type out a text on his phone. “It’s solid information,” he adds, since I must look confused. “A definitive connection. I’m going to have Ryan speak with your mother. I think he’ll have better luck getting her to cooperate than I will.”
I nod, then arch my neck as I look toward the desk. There is nothing there. “Where—”
“I put it away.” His voice is as gentle as the hand that eases my fingers once again off my thigh. I jump a bit; I hadn’t realized I’d started again, but I can see the small red crescents where my nails cut into my skin.
“I—” I look away. I’m too transparent, my wounds far too visible. I desperately wish that I didn’t need the pain, but I do. I do exist, goddammit, and if I’m going to have any chance of pulling back to myself, I need it desperately.
“Tell me,” he says softly. “Tell me what you need.”
I look down at the fading crescents. “You know,” I say, my voice low.
“I do, baby.” He slides off the love seat to kneel on the floor. His hands are on my knees and he gently spreads my legs. “You want me to touch you.” His voice is as gentle as the pressure of his thumb upon my inner thigh. “You want me to fuck you. You want to feel the sting of my hand against your ass or the burn of a rope around your wrist.”
His words mesmerize me. They slide over me like warm water, seductive yet dangerous. So deep I could drown in them.
“You want to draw in the pain—to turn it around inside you.” His hands slide roughly over my thighs, pushing the skirt up around my hips to expose the white lace triangle over my sex.
My breath comes faster now and I am hyperaware of my body. Of the way the nubby upholstery presses into my thighs. Of the heat coursing through me, running in vibrant currents from Damien’s hand to my cunt, to my breasts, to my nipples. I arch my back and slide forward a bit with my hips. I want to feel his hands upon me. Hell, I just want to feel. I want the explosion, and yet at the same time, I want this. His touch. His words. His slow build to passion and that sharp sting of pain mingled with pleasure that I know is coming.
He grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head in one swift, violent motion. I hear myself moan and feel my breasts tighten with need as the muscles of my sex clench with longing. Damien tosses the shirt aside and grabs my hip with one hand, shoving the skirt up around my waist. With the other hand, he fingers me over the lace panties, rubbing and teasing me through the delicate material as I spread my legs wider in shameless, wanton greed.
I want it hard and fast. I want to latch on to the pain—to use it as a rope to find my way back. I want it—and I am certain that Damien understands it.
His fingers glide over bare skin on either side of the thong, so close to my sex and my clit—but without actually touching—that my frustration is almost as keen as the pain he knows I am craving. He slides the hand on my hip up to my breast, then pinches my nipple through my bra as he yanks the thong to one side and slides three fingers deep inside me.
My breath comes in shudders and I squirm against him. I’m no longer sure what I need anymore except him. And now. Oh, please, now.
“You want the pain because it’s what gives you the power to beat it—to haul yourself back and say fuck you to the world. It’s a gift, Nikki—that red-hot sting. And I will be the one to give it to you.”
He tugs his fingers out of me, then flips me over as if I weigh nothing and carries me toward my desk. He puts me on my feet in front of it and orders me to bend over. I do, the bulk of my skirt between my hips and the edge of the desktop providing some padding.