Complete Me (28 page)

Unnerved, I squeeze my hands tight, feeling my nails dig into my palms. Damien’s hand tightens around my ankle.

I sigh and savor the connection. For right then, it is enough.

When the nurse comes in to take Jamie’s vitals, Damien goes out into the hallway to find someone who can bring pillows and extra blankets. There is a hideously uncomfortable chair in the room that pulls out into a hideously uncomfortable bed, and that is where I am sleeping tonight, curled up tight against Damien’s side.

Despite the uncomfortable bed and the nurse visits that wake us every three hours or so, I am actually somewhat refreshed when I’m awakened the next morning by the smell of strong, slightly burned coffee.

“Nectar of the gods,” Damien says as he presses the Styrofoam cup into my eager hand. I sip it, make a face, and take another long swallow.

“The gods aren’t too picky this morning,” I say.

He brushes a kiss across my lips. “I’m sure Edward will be happy to stop for a latte.”

I frown, confused. “Why is Edward here?”

“I’m sending you and Jamie home in the limo.”

“We’re not riding back with you?” I hear the near-whine in my voice and immediately wish I could take it back. Yes, it’s Saturday, but the man has an empire to run, and he’s already been away from it for far too long. “Sorry,” I say. “I know you have to work.”

“There are things I need to take care of,” he says, and something in his tone catches my attention. “I’m going to San Diego,” he adds, obviously noticing my frown.

“Oh.” His father lives in San Diego, and I realize that he is going to confront the man about the photos sent to the court. I do not envy him the trip. My mother may have failed Parenting 101, but Jeremiah Stark never even took the class. “Hurry back,” I say, even though what I want to do is throw my arms around him and keep him safe. I do not want to see his heart wounded any more than it already is. And yet at the same time, I’m silently cheering inside. He could have so easily told me that he had business meetings, but instead he let me in. “I love you,” I say.

He cups my chin and tugs me in for a kiss. “Stop worrying. I’ll be fine.”

I nod, desperately hoping that he is right about that.

Since the cogs of the medical establishment do not turn quickly, it’s a full two hours before Jamie and I are finally settled in the limo. “If I have a mimosa, are you going to lecture me?” Jamie asks.

“I haven’t lectured you at all,” I reply indignantly. “I’ve been extremely non-lecturey. And it’s not like you have a drinking problem, James.”

“You’re right,” she says as she pours two and passes me one. I’m not really in the mood, but I take it anyway. Best friend solidarity and all that. “I don’t have a drinking problem; I have a fucking problem.”

I happen to agree, so I wisely say nothing and just take a sip from my mimosa. Since Jamie is a reasonably observant person who happens to know me well, my silence isn’t lost on her. She shrugs. “I know,” she says. “Nothing you haven’t been telling me for years.”

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” I say. “You were lucky, James. But this could have been bad.”

She doesn’t meet my eyes. I’m not surprised. Jamie has moments of self-awareness, but long contemplation is not her strong suit. But at least the wheels are turning.

“I called Ollie,” she says. I blink, confused by the transition. “I’m elaborating on my fucking problem,” she says, by way of explanation. “I called him after Raine got me fired from the commercial.”

“Oh, Jamie,” I say. “You promised me. For that matter, he promised me. He told me there wasn’t anything going on with you two anymore.”

“Wait. You talked to him? When?”

“He was in Germany,” I say. “The firm sent him over to help with the trial. You didn’t know?”

She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him. Not since . . . well, not since he came over that night.”

“You called him.” It’s not just a statement. It’s an accusation. Hell, it’s a reprobation.

“I needed someone to talk to, and he’s the dude who had the golden ticket.”

“And you slept with him?” I’m pissed. I’m seriously pissed. As much because they did it as because Ollie lied.

“We didn’t! I swear!” She holds up her fingers in a Boy Scout salute. “But there was a tug, you know?”

I’m relieved. But it’s a cold kind of comfort. “He’s engaged, Jamie. And he’s a mess.”

“As to the first, I know. As to the second, so am I. Maybe we’re soul mates.”

“Friends, yes. Lovers, no.” Just the idea makes me shudder. I can picture the movie of their relationship in my head, and it is definitely not one of Evelyn’s romcoms.

“I know,” she says. “I really do. You’d be proud of me. Nothing happened.”

“Proud of you?” I repeat, hearing what she’s carefully not telling me. That had it just been up to Ollie, something would have happened.
That
part he left out.

“You’re missing the point,” she says. “I didn’t sleep with Ollie. And I really wanted to because of the commercial and I felt lower than dirt, and, well, you know. But I didn’t—and I thought maybe that meant I was getting my act together.” She sucks in a breath. “And then I go and fuck an asshole and wreck Damien’s Ferrari.”

I may have used a blade against my own flesh to cope, but Jamie uses men. From a distance, it looks like my method is the more dangerous, but sometimes I’m not so sure. For years, I’ve seen the way Jamie’s casual fucks rip her up. Now, I’m afraid I’m seeing a different kind of danger. “The bottom line is that I worry about you.”

“I know you do,” she says simply. “I do, too.”

For a few moments, we’re both silent, and I think that we’re done. Then Jamie draws her knees up and hugs herself. “I’m thinking about going back to Texas.”

My mouth hangs open and I am literally speechless. Of all the things she might have said to me, this was not even on my radar.

“I can’t afford to keep the condo, though. So you’ll have to find another roommate. Unless you move in with Damien. If you do that, I might sell. The market’s gotten better. I might even make enough to buy a place in Dallas and have some cash leftover to pay Damien for at least part of the mess I made of his car. I figure my condo should cover about a hubcap, don’t you think?”

“Wait, back up. What are you talking about? You hate Dallas. You’ve always hated Dallas.”

“Look at me, Nik. I’m a mess. I go from fucking movie stars to screwing strangers. But all I’m really doing is screwing myself.”

“I don’t disagree,” I say baldly. “But moving to Dallas doesn’t change anything but geography.”

“Maybe that’ll be enough. Maybe there’s too much noise here. Too much temptation.”

I want to tell her she’s wrong, but I’m not entirely sure that she is. All I know is that I don’t want her to move fifteen hundred miles away. But what I want and what Jamie needs are two entirely different things. “Just think about it before you do anything rash,” I finally say.

Her eyes meet mine and we both laugh at the irony of my words. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, and we laugh even harder.

We leave the serious shit behind and spend the rest of the ride cranking up the tunes, singing along with Taylor Swift, and downing mimosas. Because, after all, you can never have too much vitamin C.

“Did you see that we’re finally famous?” Jamie asks, about the time we see the skyline of downtown LA.

“What?”

“Or, I am. Damien’s been famous forever, and you’ve been racking up your share of the press, too. But check it out.” She rummages in her purse for her phone and then passes it to me. “I took screenshots of all the stuff I found on the Internet. Just check out my photos.”

I do. There, mixed in with pictures of an absolutely gorgeous guy, are candid shots of me and Damien and Jamie at the shops at Lake Arrowhead. Eating, talking, laughing. There’s even one with Damien’s arms around each of our waists. She peers over my shoulder and taps the screen. “That one’s all over Twitter,” she says. “I’m not sure if it’s because Damien’s famous or because he’s fuckalicious, but it’s totally gone viral.”

“Maybe it’s because of you,” I say. The photographer caught Jamie in a laugh, her eyes bright, her hair shining. It’s the vibrant and beautiful girl in the picture that I know so well, but I can’t help but fear that the image Jamie has of herself is the one sitting beside me in the limo. Battered and bruised and not quite sure where to go next.

It’s not until we reach Malibu that Jamie presses her hands against the window, peers out at the world with her brow creased in confusion, then turns to me. “This is not Studio City,” she says, as if I am the one who is confused.

“You’re staying at Damien’s Malibu house.”

Her brows rise and her smile turns devious. “I was kidding about that threesome. But if it’s important to Damien . . . ”

I put my hands over my ears. “I can’t hear you,” I say over and over again until she breaks down and starts laughing.

“Seriously,” she says, “why am I staying in Malibu? Because if this is my punishment for wrecking his Ferrari, he kind of missed the mark.”

“Not punishment,” I say. “Pragmatism.” I go on to explain about the rock and the stalker-style text.

Her eyes are wide when I finish. “Whoa. At least you don’t have to deal with your fruitcake of a mother. You can thank me for taking
that
burden off you, anyway.”

“You’ve been dealing with my mother? How? Why?” I have no idea what she’s talking about, but since I wouldn’t sic my mother on my worst enemy, I’m already sympathizing with Jamie.

“She called me about a week ago—in a total Elizabeth Fairchild snit, I might add—and told me that since I was your best friend, could I please get you a message. Apparently—her words, not mine—you are emotionally confused, overwhelmed by your rich and bossy new boyfriend, and taking the whole thing out on her by ignoring her calls and emails.”

“Shit,” I say. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. When she called, I was pissed off at my mom for some bullshit thing I don’t even remember now. After talking with your mother, I was practically giddy about my entire family tree.”

“Thanks,” I say dryly. “Now I feel better.”

She just grins. “Anyway, I guess she’s pissed that you sent someone to get all those old pictures of you, but then you ditched her calls. I’d ditch the calls, too, Nik, but why on earth would you tell someone to see your mom for old pictures? Who do you dislike so much you’d send them her way?”

“I didn’t,” I say as a finger of worry trails down the back of my neck, making me shiver.

“It may not be bad,” Jamie says, obviously seeing the concern on my face. “It’s probably just a reporter. Someone putting together the definitive article on the girl who got Damien Stark.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.

She cocks her head and points a finger at me. “As of now, we’re entering a worry free zone. For the rest of the day, nothing but sand and surf and margaritas.” She thrusts out her hand. “Deal?”

“Deal,” I agree, because that sounds pretty damn good to me.

Chapter Eighteen

My margarita-inspired dream is wildly erotic. A hot mouth closed tightly over my breast. Strong hands stroking my splayed legs, moving upward with sweet determination until the two thumbs are close enough to brush over my swollen and eager sex. I open my eyes, but I see no one. There is only the touch of his hands and the brush of his lips and—oh, please—the hard length of his cock inside me.

I cry out for Damien—my voice noiseless in the dream—but he does not appear. There is simply that touch. That pressure. That insistent stroking of flesh against flesh, the rise of heat, and the steady, growing scent of arousal. I am lost in it. Lost in this sensual haze that surrounds me. It is Damien—it is always Damien—but though I reach for him, my arms find only air.

And then there are hands upon my breasts and the hot, hard head of a cock between my legs. I cry out as he thrusts into me, his movements rhythmic but frenzied. Over and over he pounds in a violence that seems to carry us up and up, a wild dance, a dangerous coupling. My heart batters my chest, my body aches deliciously—he is using me, pounding me, and the power of his thrusts are such that I wonder I don’t pass out from the desperate intensity of his fucking.

My body quakes as the force of an orgasm rips through him, and I reach up to pull his body closer to mine, knowing that in this dreamworld he will remain ephemeral and I will clutch only air.

But I am wrong, and my fingers find heated skin and taut muscles.

Damien.

I open my eyes to find him balanced over me, his cock going soft inside me. His eyes are hard on mine, and we are both breathing hard. I feel gloriously alive. Well-fucked and adored. But I also see the storm in his eyes and something that comes dangerously close to regret.

I want to reach out and slap it off his face.

“I used you,” he says, his voice as tight as the muscles of his chest.

“Yes,” I say, then hook an arm around his neck. I lever myself up and capture his mouth in a deeply sensual kiss that has his cock twitching inside me. I pull him down, wanting him pressed hard against me, not balancing above me, and hold him tight. “God, yes.” I hook my feet around his legs, keeping him there, his skin hot against mine, our bodies still connected.

When I look in his eyes again, I see that the storm has faded. I sigh. I do not know what happened between Damien and his father, but I know enough to understand that it ripped him up and it was to me that he came. That it was my body and my touch that helped him work through his demons.

I hold him close, still astounded that we have such power over each other. That we are the balm to each other’s soul. It humbles me. And, yes, it terrifies me. Because how could we ever survive if we lose each other?

I fall asleep in his embrace, but when I awaken, I am alone in the room. I sit up and glance around. Despite all the time I’ve spent in this house, this is the first time I have gone to sleep in the master bedroom. The iron bed upon which I sit used to be in the third floor open area, but Damien had obviously decided on a more traditional approach when he had the bed moved back to his house.