“But, Nik,” he says gloomily. “He already is.”
The next morning, I pick up the phone. Ollie’s words have weighed on me. The dark cloud has pressed against me for too long. The lure of the blade is too sweet.
I can stand it no longer.
“Stark International.” It is Sylvia’s voice, clear and strong.
“I—oh—I must have hit the wrong button. I thought I dialed Damien’s cell.”
“Ms. Fairchild.” Her voice has lost the businesslike quality. It’s gentle now, maybe even a little sad. “He forwarded his cellular calls to the office.”
“Oh. Where is he? I’ll call the house or the apartment or wherever directly.” Now that I have gathered the courage to call, I am determined to do this. I do not know exactly what I intend to say—I haven’t thought this out that far—but I know that I need to talk to him. That I need to hear his voice.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Fairchild, I don’t know where he is. He left yesterday. No number, no address. He said he was leaving the country. He said he needed time.”
I close my eyes and sag down onto the bed. “I see. If he—if he calls, will you ask him to call me?”
“I will,” she says. “It will be the first thing I tell him.”
In the weeks that follows, I become a gossip hound. I troll websites and Twitter and Facebook and everything else I can think of searching for information about Damien. I find nothing. Nothing except the press speculating about the cause of our breakup.
I’ve seen nothing about Sofia, either, and so I do not know if Damien located her and got her back to London or if she is still in LA. Because I know Damien, I know they are not together. But I can’t help but worry about how Sofia is going to blow when her frustration level from not winning Damien back reaches critical mass.
When yet another Saturday night rolls around again, Jamie is determined to drag me out of my funk. “Popcorn and Arsenic and Old Lace,” she says, pointing authoritatively to the couch. “I’ll make the popcorn while you set up the movie.”
I do not argue. I turn on the television, then dig through the basket of CDs while the local news plays. I’m about to slip the disk in when I freeze.
Damien’s face is all over the screen, along with blurred copies of horrific photos that are all too familiar. I realize my hand is over my mouth, and I fear for a moment that I am going to be sick. I stand up, pace, then sit back down again. I need to do something—anything—but I don’t know what to do.
“Oh, God.” The words are from Jamie, who has come into the living room behind me.
I turn and meet her eyes. “I can’t believe she did it. I can’t believe that bitch sent those pictures to the press anyway.”
“Damien must be a mess.”
I nod, then pull out my phone.
“I thought he wasn’t there,” Jamie says.
I ignore her, keeping my fingers crossed, praying he is no longer forwarding the number.
But it is Ms. Peters, Damien’s weekend assistant, who answers the call.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Fairchild. We haven’t heard from him for weeks.”
“But the news—he—is he in town?”
I hear the softness in her voice as she says, “I don’t know. I wish that I did.”
“What else can you do?” Jamie asks, as soon as I’ve ended the call.
“I don’t know, I don’t know.” I’m pacing the living room, my fingers running through my hair, as I try to think where he could be. I have to find him. I can imagine how wrecked he is, and I can’t bear the thought of him suffering through all that alone.
And then, suddenly, I remember. I snatch my phone and turn back to Jamie. “It’s okay,” I say. “I know how to find him.”
The trouble with the phone-tracking app is that it doesn’t narrow the area to anything remotely useful. Which is why I’m wandering blind near the Santa Monica Pier. I am thankful—so thankful—that he is back in LA. But I’m beyond frustrated that I cannot find him.
I think that he might be at the Ferris wheel, since he once took me up in it, but when I arrive, there is no Damien. I wander all the way to the end of the pier, check in all the little shops, circle around all the rides.
I cannot find him.
Frustrated, I take off my flip-flops and start schlepping down the beach, but after fifteen minutes of that, I’m no closer to locating him. I cut perpendicular across the beach from the shore to the parking lot and start heading south again, this time through the lot. There aren’t many people out, and the lot is thinning, so I have a pretty good view, and I scan the distance looking for Damien’s gait, his build, his raven-black hair.
I don’t see him.
But I do see his Jeep.
At least, I think I do, and as I say a silent prayer, I take off running across the lot to the black Jeep Grand Cherokee that is parked in a secluded corner. I press my face up to the window so that I can see the interior, and my heart does a twist. It’s Damien’s all right; there’s his phone sitting right on the console.
Now I just have to sit here and wait.
It is a full hour before he returns. I see him walking up from the beach, looking desperately sexy in faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt. I know the moment he sees me. His perfect gait stumbles, and then he pauses. I cannot see his eyes in the dark and from this distance, but I know that he is looking at me. And then he continues forward again, that same long stride, only this time it’s just a little bit faster, as if now he has somewhere that he wants to be.
He passes beneath a circle of light thrown by one of the parking lot towers. I see the weariness on his face along with something else. Something harder.
I stand up straighter. I want to run to him, but I hold back, wanting more to watch him. I have missed seeing him move. Hell, I’ve missed everything.
And then he is here, right in front of me, his face all hard lines and angles, his black eye dark and accusing, and his amber one flat. I gasp, suddenly afraid. My heart pounds, then I cry out as he roughly grabs my arms, and yanks me to him. His mouth slams against mine, his hands closing painfully around my upper arms. The kiss is violent, harsh. A demand and an accusation all rolled into one. He bruises my lips, our teeth clash, I taste blood. And then he pushes me away so swiftly my back slams against the Jeep. “You left,” he says. “Goddammit, Nikki, you left.”
Tears stream down my face, and I open my mouth to apologize—to tell him I had to, that I didn’t have a choice—but then he’s pulling me to him again, only this time his embrace is soft and his mouth is full of need, consuming me, tasting me, as if he can’t quite believe that I’m real. “Nikki,” he says when he breaks the kiss. “Nikki, oh, God, Nikki.”