Authors: J. Kenner
Other than the bed, though, there is no furniture in here. And there is no Damien.
I frown and climb out of bed. It’s still dark, and I grapple in my purse for my phone, then groan when I see that it’s not yet five in the morning.
I consider falling back into bed, but I know that is not possible. I need Damien. And, I think, he needs me, too.
His shirt is on the floor, and I put it on. The house is huge, but I have a plan of attack, and I go first to the library—a mezzanine that essentially floats beneath the third floor, visible from the massive marble staircase, but accessible only by a secret elevator or a set of stairs hidden behind a door off the utility area. The lights are low, casting shadows over the cherrywood shelves and glass cases that display the few things from Damien’s childhood that he values enough to keep. The area is filled with memories, both delicious and bittersweet. Damien, however, is not here.
I continue down, cutting through the commercial grade kitchen to the gym that takes up much of the north section of the house. I cock my head, listening for the thud of Damien’s fists against the punching bag or the clatter of weights rising and falling on the machines. There is nothing, however. Just a silence that seems to stretch on forever.
He is not in the pool, either, and as I stand, confused, on the flagstone decking, I begin to fear that he has actually left the property, possibly going downtown to his office. It occurs to me that I didn’t go into the master bathroom, and if he was going to leave me a note, that would have been the most logical place. I start to turn around to go back to check, figuring that if there is no note at least I can get my phone and text him, but I pause when I see the dim glow of lights off to the right.
I focus on them, trying to picture the layout of the property in my mind. Damien’s garage—a massive underground bunker that would make Batman drool—is roughly in that direction, but I’m pretty sure it’s more inland. But if the light isn’t coming from the garage, then what could it be? There was nothing else dotting the property when we’d walked along the landscaped paths before we’d detoured our lives to Germany. Nothing except the ocean in the distance and a flattened area where Damien told me he was considering building a tennis court.
I freeze.
Surely not . . .
I hurry that direction, and as I get closer, I hear an odd
chunk-thwap
and realize that I have found him.
I can tell by looking that the court hasn’t been finished for long. The net is brand-new and not the least bit weathered. The surface isn’t scarred at all. The ball machine that is currently firing at Damien glows bright and shiny under the towers that cast a faintly yellow glow over the whole area.
And there in the middle of it all is Damien.
I draw in a breath, overwhelmed by the sight of him. He wears nothing but gym shorts, and his chest shimmers from the light sheen of sweat. The muscles in his arms and legs are tight, and he moves with the grace and power of a wild animal as he rushes forward, swings, then attacks the ball. He is power and poetry, grace and perfection, and I feel my body tighten in response to the beauty that is Damien.
But he is broken, too, and my heart squeezes as I continue to watch him. Over and over, he moves and hits, his feet moving in a perfect rhythm, his body pushed to the edge. There is no emotion on his face—no smile of self-satisfaction when he nails the ball—just pure concentration, as if this is penance, not pleasure.
There is a chaise in the shadows beside the court and I sit on it automatically, transfixed by the sight of him.
I do not know how long he duels with the machine. I only know that when it stops spitting balls out, he shouts a curse and hurls his racquet. I yelp, surprised, and Damien whirls to face me, his expression a mix of shock and concern.
“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” I say softly. I ease off the chaise and move onto the court—and into the light. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stayed.”
“No.” The word is rough. “I’m glad you’re here.” He takes my hand and pulls me close, and sweet relief flows through me.
“You didn’t tell me you went ahead with the court.”
“How could I not after you teased me with the possibility of you in a tiny tennis dress?” His words are light, but they do not penetrate the shadows in his eyes. “I’ve had a crew working on it since just before I left for Germany.”
“I’m glad.” I smile up at him, and I am genuinely happy. Tennis has been a constant in his life, but Richter stole the joy, and Damien hasn’t played since he quit the circuit. The knowledge that he is finding his way back to something that he loved bubbles through me.
That happiness, however, is tainted. Because I saw the storm in Damien’s eyes when he took me so wildly only a few hours ago. And I saw the fury of that same storm just now as he attacked the stream of balls.
“Was it your father?” I ask gently. “Is he the one who turned the photos over to the court?”
I see the shadows cross his face again, and when he turns and starts to tug me toward the edge of the court, I fear that he isn’t going to answer. But we are not returning to the path. Instead, he sits on the lounge where I had been only moments before. He stretches his legs out in front of him, and then pats the space beside him. I lay on my side, propped up on my elbow so that I can watch his expression as he speaks, but it takes so long for him to begin talking that I start to wonder if I’d been wrong about why he has brought me here.
I am about to suggest that if we are going back to sleep, the bed inside would be a much more comfortable choice, when he shifts and looks at me.
“I don’t think it was my father,” he says. “He seemed genuinely baffled when I confronted him about the pictures.”
“Oh.” My brow furrows with worry and confusion. “So you don’t have any idea who it could be?” That would certainly explain the storm I saw in his eyes.
“I don’t,” he agrees. There is silence. Then, “I’m worried about Sofia.”
I don’t understand the transition. “I know you are, but she’ll check in. If she’s playing roadie to a band in Shanghai, she’s probably not—”
“I’m afraid she’s running,” Damien says simply. “I’m afraid someone’s harassing her.” He strokes my cheek, his eyes burning into me.
“Oh, God,” I say with sudden understanding. “You think someone is trying to get to you through the women you love. Me. Sofia.”
“I think it’s possible.” He scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair. “I think a lot of things are possible. All I know for certain is that those goddamn photos were my salvation whether I like to think about them that way or not.”
“They were,” I agree.
“And I still don’t know who or why, which leads me to think that someone is playing with me. They’ll reveal themselves eventually, and when they do, they’re going to want something from me. Tit for tat.”
I want to argue with him, but what he says makes sense. I sit up and draw my knees to my chest. “But how does that tie in with Sofia being missing?”
Even in the dark, I can see the way his eyes cut away from me.
“Damien?” I press. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I hear him draw in a breath. “Richter abused her, too.” The words are flat, matter-of-fact, and they chill me to the bone.
“Oh.”
He continues without pausing. “If there are photos of me, there are undoubtedly photos of her. Someone delivered a set to me—through the court, but still to me. What if someone did the same to her?”
I tremble. I think of how the photos wrecked Damien, a man with so much strength it awes me. What would they do to this fragile girl? “But wouldn’t she call you? Aren’t you the one she’d turn to for help?”
“I don’t know. Sofia is many things, but predictable isn’t one of them. She once disappeared for six months. Turned out she screwed some guy who did time making fake passports, and since I haven’t been able to find any evidence that she left the UK under her own name, I can’t help but wonder if she’s hooked up with him again. She’s smart and she’s fearless. She’s lived on the streets, so if she feels like she needs to hide, she can disappear better than anyone. Most important, she’s fucked up enough to happily fall off the grid.”
“I get that you love her, and I get that she’s not entirely stable, and I get that you’re worried. But, Damien,” I say gently, “she’s an adult. And no matter what your history, she’s not your responsibility.”
“Maybe not, but it feels like she is.”
I can’t help but nod in understanding. After all, Jamie’s not my responsibility, either. I sigh and stretch out beside Damien. He presses a kiss to my forehead, then links his fingers in mine. A moment later, he presses a button on a remote control.
The lights on the court wink out, and we are thrust into a darkness broken only by the gentle glow of a blanket of stars spread wide across the sky above us.
Chapter Nineteen
After Saturday’s drama, I want to bottle Sunday so that I can keep it close and pull it out whenever I need it. We spend the day doing everything and nothing. Even Damien turns off, abandoning his quest to find Sofia or my stalker or the bastard who leaked those photographs in favor of entering a purely vegetative state with Jamie and me.
Jamie and I rouse ourselves from our prone positions around lunchtime in order to take a walk along the beach. Damien doesn’t join us, claiming he’s too engrossed in his reread of Asimov’s
I, Robot
. Considering Damien’s love of science fiction, I do not doubt that the book has captured him, but I also know that the reason he’s not coming is because I asked him not to. I want some time to interrogate Jamie about her announcement that she is considering moving back home to Texas.
Once we’re actually out with the sun and the surf, though, I can’t seem to find the right moment. Instead, we chatter about nothing as we walk all the way through Damien’s property to the ocean, then north up the beach to our nearest neighbor. He’s tall and muscled and his coffee-colored skin is slick with the sea. He waves at us as he comes out of the water with a surfboard. Jamie, I think, is going to have a heart attack when she sees him.
“Who is he?” I whisper as we turn around and head back toward home.
“That’s Eli Jones. He won the Oscar for best supporting actor last year.” She shakes her head. “You really are hopeless.”
“I am,” I say. And, since I doubt I’ll find a better transition, I add, “It’s going to be hard to focus on your acting career if you move back to Texas.”
She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah, well, we both know that it’s a long shot career. It’s not like I’ve taken LA by storm.”
We’re both barefoot, and now she kicks her toes through the water, sending droplets flying. They twinkle for a moment in the sun, then quickly fall, lost once again to the churning water of the ocean. I can’t help but think of Jamie; I want more for her than fifteen minutes of fame, and I fear that my lack of enthusiasm for her move is more about me than about what is best for Jamie.
“Whatever you decide,” I say firmly. “You know I’ve got your back.”
We’ve crossed the beach and are trudging back up the path to Damien’s house when my phone rings. I pull it out from where I’ve stashed it in the pocket of my terrycloth cover-up and am surprised to see Courtney’s name on the screen.
“Hey, Courtney. What’s up?” Courtney is Ollie’s fiancée, and we’ve known each other for years, though not as well as I’d like since she is constantly traveling for her job. Still, she’s sweet and genuine and I think she loves Ollie. I love him, too, but I don’t love the way he fucks around, and even though Ollie ranks higher than Courtney on the best-friend-o-meter, I can’t help but feel that she deserves someone better.
Beside me, Jamie’s eyes are wide.
What is it?
she mouths, but I can only shrug.
“Ollie and I want to know if you and Damien are free on Tuesday night. Jamie, too. Is she with you? Ollie said she’s staying with you and Damien this week?”
I glance sharply at Jamie. She hadn’t told me that she’d told Ollie where she’s crashing. I shouldn’t feel suspicious—after all, they were friends before they fucked, and I hope they’ll be friends after—but I can’t help but be nervous.
“Yeah,” I say, looking hard at Jamie, whose sheepish expression only makes me more nervous. “She’s here. What’s up on Tuesday?”
“Nothing specific. But I don’t have any trips this week, and we haven’t seen y’all in forever. I told Ollie that we should all go to Westerfield’s. You know it, right? That place in West Hollywood.”
“I know it,” I say wryly. Westerfield’s is one of Damien’s properties.
“So can you come?”
Part of me wants to say no, because I’m terribly afraid that there will be drama. But a bigger part of me still hopes that Jamie and Ollie and I can get back to where we were. “Sure,” I finally say. “We’ll be there.”
By the time evening rolls around, we have lounged by the pool, walked along the beach, played air hockey in a game room that I didn’t even know the property boasted, and watched the first two Sean Connery Bond films while stuffing our faces with popcorn.
For dinner, Jamie suggests that we roast hot dogs on sticks over the fire pit, and then make s’mores. It’s calorie-laden and gooey and fun, and as I lay beside Damien and lick chocolate off his fingertips, I can’t help but wonder if life can go on like this forever.
It can’t, of course, but for these few hours I am enjoying the sanctity of life within this bubble.
It ends all too soon, though. At ten, Sylvia calls to patch Damien in on a conference call with one of his Tokyo suppliers. He kisses me lightly, then heads inside to take the call. I watch him go, sipping my whiskey and enjoying the way his ass looks in his favorite threadbare jeans. Jamie, I see, is also appreciating the view. She meets my eyes, then grins. “What? Like you don’t know he’s hot?”
“Trust me,” I say as I lean forward to grab another square of chocolate. “I am fully aware of his hotness.”
“Making another?” Jamie asks, passing me the bag of marshmallows.
“Nope. Just eating the chocolate.”
“You okay?”
I glance up at her. “Chocolate isn’t always a sign of a deep emotional crisis.”