Authors: J. Kenner
“He’s doing the host thing.” I look around for him and see that he’s left Charles, and is now at the center of a small cluster of guests.
“So who is she?” Jamie nods toward the group, and I see that the people have shifted, revealing a lithe brunette at Damien’s side.
The muscles in my face suddenly seem uncomfortably tight. “That’s Giselle,” I say. “She owns the gallery that sells Blaine’s work.”
“Ah. The hostess to Damien’s host. No wonder you’re in a pissy mood.”
“I am not in a pissy mood,” I say, but of course I am. And
although the whole Hostess Giselle thing hadn’t occurred to me before, it is now at the top of my list of affronts and irritations.
Gee, Jamie. Thanks so much
.
“I know how to cure your not-pissy mood.” She grabs my hand and gives it a tug. “Rip and Lyle really are funny. You’re going to love meeting them. And if you don’t love it, then at least pretend like you do, okay?”
I stare her down, because she knows damn well that if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s put on a good face at a party.
I don’t bother to remind her that I’ve met Rip and Lyle before and since all they speak is Hollywood, I couldn’t make sense of a thing they were saying. This time, though, I’m seeing them through Jamie’s eyes, and she’s right—it’s actually fun.
Armed with my best party girl facade, Jamie and I make the circuit. I am smiling and bubbly, and it’s easy to slide into conversations, easy to pull out my camera and tell people to smile or laugh or cluster closer together.
How simple to fall back into my old habits. To hear my mother’s instructions in my head. “A lady is always in control. Never let them see that they’ve wounded you. Because once you do, they’ll know your weaknesses.”
Mother’s words are calculating and cold, but I cling to them. As much as I’ve run from my mother and my pageant days and the hell of my life with her, I can’t deny that there is comfort in turning back to the familiar. Because my mother is right. They can’t hurt you if they don’t see you. And right now, all I’m willing to show is the mask.
Throughout all my mingling, though, I’ve felt Damien’s eyes on me. Watching me. Burning into me. Making me aware of every little movement. Of the brush of my dress against my skin. Of the feel of my shoes on the curve of my foot.
He’s frustrated with me—possibly even angry—but that doesn’t change the fact that his desire is palpable.
For that matter, so is mine.
My fears and frustrations can wait. All I want right then is Damien.
I’ve made up my mind to go join them at the canvas when Evelyn sidles up beside me. “I don’t know if I need to wring Damien’s neck or Giselle’s for only having wine and champagne,” she says to me. “Come on, Texas, you must know where the secret stash is.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I say. Probably not the best display of manners to lead Evelyn back into the kitchen area, but the truth is that I could use a shot of bourbon myself.
We maneuver around the hired staff that is now using the kitchen to refill drink and appetizer trays, and park ourselves at the small breakfast table.
“So spill it, Texas,” she demands once we’re seated and I’ve poured two neat shots. “Something’s on your mind.”
“I’m slipping,” I say. “I used to be able to hide my troubles better.”
“Or maybe it’s putting on a good face that gives you away.”
I consider that, and decide that in addition to everything else, Evelyn is a very wise woman.
“Come on. Tell Auntie Evelyn.”
“Tell you?” I smile. “I seem to recall there was something I wanted you to tell me.”
“Oh, hell,” she says, then tosses back the drink. She slides the glass back toward me and I top it off again. “I was just running my mouth off. Don’t listen to me.”
“I do listen,” I say. “And I don’t believe you. What’s going on that I don’t know about?”
The corners of her mouth turn down and she shakes her head in exasperation. “I just hate it when I see a shitstorm coming and know there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”
“Carl?”
She bats the name away. “Carl can go piss up a rope. No, Damien’s managed to keep his business private for almost two decades. But that’s about to end, and I’m not sure if he even realizes it.”
“Not much gets past Damien,” I say, both because it’s true and because I’m loyal. “But what on earth are you talking about? He’s already done damage control on the Padgett scandal,” I say, referring to recent attempts by a disgruntled businessman named Eric Padgett to implicate Damien in the death of his sister. Damien, thankfully, stopped that rumor cold. “So what else is—” I sit back, suddenly realizing the truth. “The tennis center.”
Evelyn’s head cocks warily. “What has he told you?”
“Pretty much what he told the press. That Richter is an asshole and he’s not going to the dedication ceremony. He didn’t tell me why,” I add, watching Evelyn’s face. “But I have my suspicions.”
Evelyn’s brows lift almost imperceptibly. “Have you told Damien what you believe?”
“Yes.” I shrug. “But he hasn’t told me if I’m right.” I watch Evelyn’s expression closely as I speak. I know that she represented Damien back in those days, before and after Richter’s death. If anyone knows whether Richter abused Damien as a child, it’s Evelyn.
Her face remains passively blank. “But he hasn’t told you you’re wrong, has he?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, but she meets my eyes straight on. “He really has fallen for you, Texas, and I couldn’t be happier. For both of you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that boy looking so good. But goddammit, I wish he’d just show his face at that damn dedication. And I could kick the boy in the nuts for that stunt he pulled last night. He deserves better than to have the press all over his ass like a piranha with a hard-on.”
“Is it really such a big a deal?” I don’t understand why both
Evelyn and Damien’s father think that Damien’s statement was such a horrible idea. “Maybe it wasn’t the best move to share with the world that he doesn’t like Richter, but all he’s doing is not showing up to an event. The way he’s being hounded, you’d think he turned down an invitation from the Queen and then insulted her.”
“All I’m saying is that sometimes you have to play the game to avoid a shitstorm,” Evelyn says. “And now I’m afraid the storm will hit dead-on.”
I am completely clueless. “What shitstorm?”
“You ask Damien,” Evelyn says. “As for me, I hope I’m wrong. But I bet I’m right.”
I almost say that I will talk to him again and try to convince him to recant the statement and go to the ceremony. But it’s not true. I would never ask him to do that, and I would never expect him to change his mind. Richter’s memory doesn’t deserve even the tiniest bit of support from Damien, and if a world of shit falls down on Damien’s head, I’ll stand at his side and help him fight it.
“But that’s not what’s been on your mind,” Evelyn says after polishing off the rest of her drink. “Come on, Texas. I’ve been watching you and Damien all night—and most of the time I haven’t been watching you together.”
I conjure a practiced smile, but I know that it must look as false as it feels. “As far as the cocktail party is concerned, I’m simply a guest. Damien and Giselle are doing the host and hostess thing.”
“Uh-huh.” She leans back in her chair, then pushes her whiskey glass toward me with the tip of a finger. I fill it once again. I almost top off my own, too, but considering the way Evelyn is looking at me, I think I need a clear head.
Evelyn ignores the glass, but leans forward on her elbows and peers at my face until I start to feel uncomfortable.
“What?” I finally demand.
“Not a thing,” she says. “Just that I could’ve sworn your eyes were blue. Not green.”
I sag a little. “I’m a bit discombobulated where Giselle is concerned,” I admit. “She’s coming at me from all sides lately, and it’s messing with my head.” I am amazed that these words come so easily. I am much more comfortable living behind my mask, and with the exception of Damien and Jamie and Ollie, that is where I usually stay. With Evelyn, however, it’s far too easy to talk, and I find myself revealing things that I would normally keep locked up. I suppose that should make me uncomfortable around her, afraid that one day she will see too much. But it doesn’t, and I am glad.
“Damien didn’t tell me he was helping Giselle bring the paintings back,” I say. “And I know that’s no reason to be jealous. But—”
“But now she’s at his side instead of you?”
“Maybe. But that’s not really fair of me since I’d be at his side if I hadn’t gotten mad and stormed away. Damien’s giving me space.”
“Ah, a lover’s quarrel. That’s okay, Texas. The drama always increases in the second act. What dastardly deed did he do to bruise your heart?”
Her words resonate, because that is exactly what he’s done—bruised my heart. “He told Giselle it’s me in the painting.” The words sound as heavy as they feel. “And she told Bruce.”
“I see.”
Something in Evelyn’s tone makes me take notice. “What? Do you think I should just get over it? I’ve been telling myself it’s not that big a deal, and maybe it isn’t. But Damien—”
“—broke his word. Yes, of course that would upset you. Would piss me off, too. But in this case, I think you need to forgive the boy.”
I can’t help my ironic half-smile. “I will. I honestly can’t
imagine staying mad at Damien. But not right now. I’m feeling a little fragile.”
She keeps speaking as if she hadn’t heard me. “You need to forgive him because he didn’t break his word. Blaine did.”
“What?” I play her words back in my head, but I still don’t understand.
“Blaine told Giselle,” Evelyn says matter-of-factly. “He didn’t mean to. He was mortified. They were talking about model releases for the gallery and somehow the conversation turned to the portrait. He doesn’t even remember what he said, exactly. You know how he gets when he starts chattering. And the next thing you know, he’d told her. He rushed home and told me the whole story. Didn’t sleep that night—took all my harassing to keep him from calling Damien right then and there, but it was two in the morning, and I told him it could wait. Poor kid looked green until he finally got Damien on the phone at five the next morning.”
“When was this?” I am flabbergasted.
“Four days ago.”
“But—but I asked Damien point-blank if he told Giselle, and he said yes. He was lying for Blaine? Why?”
“Aw, honey, it wasn’t Damien that Blaine was green in the gills about. It was you. He fucked up, and he hurt you, and he fully intended to come clean. He wanted Damien’s advice on how to tell you, and Damien told him not to. Damien said he’d talk to Giselle and make sure it didn’t go further, and that if need be, he’d take the blame.”
“But why?”
“You already answered that one, Texas,” she says gently.
For a moment, I don’t understand. Then I recall my words.
I honestly can’t imagine staying mad at Damien
.
“He’s protecting Blaine,” I say, more to myself than to Evelyn. “He’s protecting our friendship.” Suddenly, my hand is over my mouth and I’m blinking back tears.
“You want me to tell Blaine that you know?”
I shake my head violently. “No. No. I don’t want him to worry that it bothers me or that I’m mad at him. Maybe someday I’ll tell him, but right now, no.”
“I wasn’t sure about telling you myself,” she says. “I’m glad I did.”
“Me, too,” I say.
“To be honest, I was surprised as hell to see Giselle here. Blaine told her that he didn’t mean to say anything. She must know that showing up would embarrass you and piss off Damien. Hard to believe she’d go out of her way to piss off her best client.”
“No kidding,” I say, but I’ve realized now what Tanner meant. If Damien is Giselle’s best client, then the accusation that Bruce hired me to make his wife happy makes sense. Keep the wife’s best client happy and keep the galleries making money.
“Maybe I had it wrong,” Evelyn muses. “Maybe Giselle’s the one who’s jealous.”
“Of me? Why?”
“You’re with Damien,” Evelyn says. “And she’s not. Not anymore.”
This is a night of revelations. “Damien and Giselle used to date?”
“Years ago. They were an item for a few months before she and Bruce tied the knot. Now there’s an interesting story.”
“Damien and Giselle?” That’s a story I’m not sure I want to hear.
“Giselle and Bruce,” Evelyn says with a small shake of her head. “But that’s dirt for another day.” She tosses back the last of her drink, then slams the glass onto the tabletop. “Ready to head back into the fray?” she asks, standing.
“No,” I admit, though I stand as well. Because it’s not people that I want right now. It’s just Damien.
I wait a moment after Evelyn has gone, then make a quick circle through the party. A few people smile or nod at me, moving a step to one side as if silently inviting me to join their conversations. But I pass by; I have no time for anyone but Damien, and I move through the crowd with singular determination.
When I finally see him, I stop short. He stands in a small group, listening to a story told by a stout woman with curly brown hair. As if he feels me looking at him, Damien turns. His eyes find me, and suddenly everything around me seems to melt away. The people are nothing but blurs of colors, the conversation little more than white noise. We are the only two people in the room, and I stand transfixed, my body tingling, mouth suddenly dry. It is as if this man has cast a spell over me, and I am a willing participant to the enchantment.
I want to bask in the heat that radiates between us. I have been so cold today, my body battered by icy winds and drifting tides. I want to stay here, lost in time. Lost in Damien.
But I cannot. There are things to do—things to say. And so I force myself to move. I take a single step forward, and the world
around me rushes back into focus, people moving, couples talking, glasses clinking. But my eyes have not left Damien’s face, and I smile in apology and forgiveness. And also in invitation.
Then, with my heart beating wildly in my chest, I turn and walk away.
It takes remarkable strength not to turn and look behind me, but I manage the task. I head back into the kitchen, then follow the short hallway that leads to the service elevator. I get in and descend one level to the second-floor library. That floor isn’t available to the party guests. It is Damien’s private space, and though I am feeling decidedly on edge, I know that I belong there, too, and I smile as I step off the elevator and into the small alcove that houses a computer workstation. This area cannot be seen by anyone climbing the stairs, but neither can I see those magical, sparkling lights. And magical and sparkling is exactly what I need right now.