Release Me: A Novel Part 37

"Dammit, Nikki."

"I said no." I move closer to him. "You didn't hurt me." I rise onto my tiptoes so I can whisper in his ear. "I was wet for you, and you d.a.m.n well know it. So there's no way you can say that you forced me." I hold his arm with one hand to steady myself, but with the other I slowly trace my way over his chest and lower abs until my finger finds the waistband of his briefs.

"No," he says, but I can hear the quickening of his heartbeat, the tightening of his body in antic.i.p.ation.

"No doesn't always mean no," I say. I ease myself down onto my knees, thankful for the gym mat below me. His c.o.c.k is straining against the briefs. I find the fly, then tug it out.

"Nikki ..."

"I'm going to take care of you." I run my tongue down the length of his c.o.c.k, so hard and velvety. I taste salt. I taste me. And I want to take him all the way in. "Sunset," I say. "It can be your safeword, too."

Before he can say it, though, I rim the head of his c.o.c.k with my tongue, teasing it as if it were a very large, very decadent lollipop. He gets harder and harder, and when I'm certain that I've brought him close to the breaking point, I draw him in, stroking and sucking and getting myself even hotter in the process.

I can feel the change in his body and I know that he's close, but then he s.h.i.+fts position, pulling out of my mouth and then drawing me up until I'm pressed hard against him. He kisses me, this time softly and sweetly, then eases us both down to the mat.

I open my mouth to speak, but he presses a finger to my lips. "Shhh. No talking."

He unties my robe and leaves it open, laid out beneath us as he climbs on top of me. I spread my legs and draw my knees up, and then close my eyes in pleasure as he thrusts inside me.

He moves in a slow rhythm, the complete opposite of the way he f.u.c.ked me upstairs. This is making love, and his eyes never leave mine. He takes my hand and slides it between our bodies, and his silent command is easy enough to understand. I'm so aroused my body tingles all over, but I stroke my c.l.i.t, getting hotter and hotter, my rhythm matching his thrusts until, finally, he explodes, and I do, too, just moments after.

Spent, he lays beside me, sharing the silkiness of my robe.

"I'm so sorry," he says, his fingers tracing a lazy path on my shoulder. "And I'm so angry."

"At me?"

"No. At me."

"But why? I thought we already established that what happened upstairs was okay."

He looks at me, his eyes hot with need. "Because now that I have you, I can't stand the thought of ever losing you."

27.

Despite the drama, the evening takes a right turn toward normal. Blaine comes and I pose and he paints and Damien sits quietly in a chair and watches for four solid hours. After that we sit and drink wine and watch the moon on the ocean. Damien offers to let Blaine crash on the mat in the gym, and so we repeat the entire thing bright and early the next morning, finally wrapping at nine when Damien heads out for his office.

When I get home around ten, I find Jamie's note that she's gone to an audition. I cross my fingers for her and settle in for a lazy morning. Damien's in meetings until lunchtime, and though I'd rather be snuggled in his bed, I'm also happy to veg with the television, the newspaper, and Lady Meow-Meow.

I make a pot of coffee, tune the television to a cla.s.sic movie station, and debate whether or not I should do a load of laundry today.

My Man G.o.dfrey is just about to start, and since that's one of my favorite screwball comedies, I decide that laundry can wait.

The opening credits are still rolling when the phone rings. I see that it's Ollie and s.n.a.t.c.h it up.

"Can you do lunch?" he asks. "Early, because I have a one o'clock meeting. Like maybe eleven? You could come here? I'll have my secretary order us sandwiches."

"Um, sure. Why the sudden urge?"

"I just want to see you. Does there have to be a reason?"

There doesn't have to be, but of course I know there is. And I'm afraid it's about Courtney. Or worse-about Jamie. I a.s.sure him that I'll be there, then set the DVR to record the movie. No time to watch the whole thing now.

When I arrive in Ollie's office just shy of an hour later, the receptionist is expecting me. She leads me to a conference room where Ollie has spread out sodas and Subway sandwiches. Not exactly high cla.s.s, but it'll do.

He's not there yet, so I sip my Diet c.o.ke and open my bag of chips, all the while reminding myself that I need to be supportive. Lecturing him about how he screwed up won't do anyone any good at this point.

"Hey," he says, pus.h.i.+ng into the conference room with a stack of files.

"Please tell me those aren't for me."

For a moment he looks confused, then his face clears. "No, no. These are for my meeting. Sorry. It's been a crazy couple of days."

"So what's going on?" I ask. It must be serious if he's interrupting work insanity to bring me here.

He presses a b.u.t.ton on the credenza and the vertical blinds that hang in front of the two picture windows that make up the open sides of the conference room begin to close. A moment later, we have complete privacy.

"You're not going to like it," he says.

I lean back in my chair, already irritated. "s.h.i.+t, Ollie. Is this about Damien again? Can you please quit playing the role of big brother? I'm all grown up. I can take care of myself."

He doesn't flinch or react. As far as I can tell, he hasn't even heard me. "Do you remember Kurt Claymore?"

I swallow. The infamous Kurt. Of all the things he might say, this really wasn't on my radar.

"Yeah," I say blandly. "I have a vague recollection."

"He's been working the past five years as a manager at a Houston-based manufacturing company."

"So?"

"So your friend Damien had him fired this morning."

"What?" I realize my fingernails are digging into the armrest of his guest chair. "You can't be sure."

"Yeah," Ollie says. "I can. I said I never worked for Stark directly, but I do the work for Maynard. I'm the one who hired the investigator to find Kurt. I'm sorry, Nik."

My heart is pounding painfully in my chest and my skin feels clammy. Damien tracked down Kurt. He got him fired. And he never asked me. Never talked to me. Just did it.

"He's rich and arrogant and as far as he's concerned he owns the world and it d.a.m.n well better behave the way he wants it to."

"No," I say automatically. My voice is soft. I feel numb. "Damien's not like that. He was protecting me. That was his way of protecting me."

"Protecting you? The way he protected Sara Padgett?"

My head snaps up. "What are you talking about?"

"You know who Eric Padgett is, right?"

My stomach clenches. I'm terribly afraid of what he's going to say. "Yes," I manage. "You know I do. He's the dead girl's brother."

"He keeps threatening to go to the press and say that Stark killed his sister. For weeks we've had all of Stark's resources aimed at stopping this one a.s.shole, and he just keeps pus.h.i.+ng back saying he wants his money, and he's going to screw Stark, and there's more dirt out there than just his sister, but it all sounds like the same old smear routine. Just like I told you in Beverly Hills-we figured Eric Padgett was just one more a.s.shole looking for a payday."

"What's happened?" My voice is completely flat. I just want to hear the horrible thing and get out of there. I need to be alone. I need to process this.

"Stark paid him off yesterday. That's right," Ollie adds in response to my openmouthed gape. "The same Damien Stark who wanted a b.a.l.l.s-to-the-wall defense against the guy did a complete 180 and paid the f.u.c.ker off. Forget fighting. Forget all his talk about not backing down, about taking it all the way as far as it would go. He just caved. Quickly and completely."

"Caved how?" I ask, so softly I'm surprised Ollie can hear me.

"Caved to the tune of twelve-point-six million dollars."

"Oh, G.o.d." I don't mean to speak, but the words fly out. I press my hand over my mouth and blink back tears.

Ollie is watching me, but I'm not really seeing him. Instead I'm seeing Damien on his terrace pacing with a phone to his ear, talking to Charles Maynard about something I don't understand. And about twelve-point-six million dollars.

"Oh, G.o.d," I repeat.

There's no compa.s.sion in Ollie's eyes as he looks at me. "Maybe Stark just got tired of the bulls.h.i.+t. But I don't think so. I think he's covering up what he did. He's dangerous, Nik, just like I've been saying. He's dangerous, and you d.a.m.n well know it, too."

My thoughts bounce randomly through my head as I steer my battered Honda to Damien's Malibu house. Anger, loss, fear, denial, hope. I don't know what I'm thinking or even what to think. All I know is that this isn't good.

All I'm sure of is that it hurts like h.e.l.l.

It's just past noon, but I'm certain I'll find him there. I called his office from the road and his secretary told me he was heading home.

Home, I know, means our third floor studio.

"Hey, Blondie," Blaine says as I step off the landing and into the studio.

"I didn't think you'd still be here."

"Been doing some color studies. Trying to get the d.a.m.n sky right." He shakes his head. "Getting close, but I'm not quite there yet." Then he gets a closer look at me, and his brow furrows with concern. "Okay, what's wrong?"

I glance at the painting. My image is there on the canvas, more fleshed out, but still unfinished. I look raw, as if the top layer of me has been stripped away, and in that moment I think that Blaine has truly captured me. Because that is how I feel. Like Damien has ripped his way through to see what I kept hidden, and then left me exposed and vulnerable.

Damien steps in from the kitchen. "Nikki." I hear the pleasure in his voice, then the s.h.i.+ft as he truly looks at me. "What's going on?"

"I'm going to cut out," Blaine says.

Damien doesn't look at Blaine or answer. His eyes are only on me.

I wait until I hear the door shut, and then I draw in a tight breath. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely get the words out. "Did you control her the way you do me?"

I see confusion in his eyes, and it p.i.s.ses me off. I hold on to the anger, because it gives me strength. "Sara Padgett," I say. "G.o.ddammit, Damien, do you think I don't know?"

"What is it you think you know?" His voice is as cold as ice.

"I know you need to be in control. Your life. Your business. Your women. Your bed. I even get it," I say. A tear has escaped and is snaking its way down the side of my nose, but I'm holding it together. Right now, it's me who's the expert on control. "You were abused, weren't you? And now you need it. You need to be in control."

I watch his face, looking for confirmation, but there's nothing there. His face is blank and unreadable.

"I do like to be in control, Nikki. I don't think I've ever made a secret of that."

No, he hasn't. But there have been so many other secrets. "Did it start as a game?" I ask. "Did you tie her up, too?" I move toward the bed and take one of the drapes in my hand. "Did you put this oh so gently around her arms? Then around her throat? Did you tell her about pleasure and pain?" The tears are flowing freely now, and my voice is thick with them. "Was it-was it an accident?"

His face is no longer blank. Now it's dark, like a violent storm, and just as dangerous. "I did not kill Sara Padgett."

I manage to look him straight in the eye. "I've got twelve-point-six million reasons to believe that you did."

His face goes white. It's true. Oh, dear G.o.d, until that moment, I don't think I really believed that it was true.

"How the h.e.l.l did you hear about that?"

My skin feels clammy and my stomach is roiling. I think I'm going to be sick.

"Certainly not from you," I say. "I guess that's not the kind of thing you were going to try to be more open with me about, huh? Well, I suppose I can't blame you."

"How?" he repeats.

"I overheard some of your phone conversation," I snap. I leave out the rest.

He shoves his fingers through his hair. "Nikki-"

I hold up my hand. "No," I say. I just want to get out of there. I shove my hand into the pocket of my jeans and pull out the ankle bracelet. I take a deep breath and then I drop it onto the bed.

I pause only long enough to look at the raw, unfinished painting. I feel a lump in my throat. Then I turn and hurry down the stairs.

Damien doesn't come after me.

I'm not sure how I get through the next two days. They are a haze of ice cream, cla.s.sic movies, and really depressing country songs. Twice, Jamie makes me go sit by the pool, saying that the vitamin D will be good for me. But it doesn't feel good. Nothing feels good.

My sleep schedule is all screwed up, and I don't worry about fixing it, because I don't need to get up early since I don't have a job. I called Bruce from the car after leaving Damien's house and told him I couldn't accept the job. I need to cut all my ties with Damien Stark because if I don't, I know I'll get reeled back in. I can feel the part of me that's already tugging in that direction, I miss him so terribly.

My nights are turning into days and vice versa and I'm learning all sorts of things about products that are sold only by infomercial. That's why I know neither what day it is nor what time it is when I'm awakened from a cat nap on the couch by a determined knock at the door. I yell for Jamie to answer it, but of course she's not home. She's had two more auditions and a callback, and while I'm thrilled for her, I'm also feeling lost and lonely.

The pounding continues. I groan and sit up.

Once the blood starts flowing I wonder who could be that persistent. Damien? I doubt it. I haven't heard a word from him. Not to offer me explanations, or even to check on me.

Because you made the right decision. You really were just chattel. He's moved on.