No wonder Damien is wrecked. The one thing in all the world he didn’t want made public came out of the sky like a meteorite and smashed him in the head. And, yeah, the photos are sealed now, but the judges saw them and the lawyers saw them. And someone out there had them. And that someone must still have copies.
Shit.
I need to go to him. I need to hold him and tell him that it will be okay, and I rise to my feet and move slowly to the elevator. I press the “up” arrow to call the elevator to take me back to the suite, then immediately curse my own selfishness. I need to go to him? I need to hold him? What Damien needs is rest—he as much as told me so himself. What I want—what I need—can wait.
With almost painful brutality, I jam my forefinger against the “down” button, but I don’t want to wait. I need to move, and if I’m not moving toward Damien, I need to be going somewhere else. I shift my stance in the hallway, feeling suddenly at loose ends. At the end of the hall, a lighted sign marks the stairwell. I hurry that direction, then slip off my shoes. I hold them by the heels and run down the three flights of stairs in my bare feet. It feels good—it feels right—and when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I slip my shoes back on and exit the stairwell into the lobby.
I am not sure what I intend to do. It has been such a long day and I am so exhausted that the sun shining through the windows of the hotel seems like an anomaly. But it is still early afternoon on a stunningly beautiful summer day.
I turn toward the entrance, but I’m stopped by the vibration of my phone. I yank it out of my purse expecting Damien.
It’s a text from Ollie. Turn around.
I do. He’s standing behind me, a few feet from the entrance to the bar. He lifts his hand and waves.
Despite myself, I grin and wave back.
He lifts his phone, and I see him typing another message. A second later, my phone buzzes.
Hey, lady. Can I buy you a drink?
I can’t help it—I laugh. A little early, isn’t it? I type, but the message doesn’t send because my phone is dead. Shit. I think back and remember that I forgot to plug it in when we got back from the lake last night.
I hold it up so Ollie can see it and then, with an exaggerated gesture, I drop it from two fingers into my purse, as if I’m discarding something useless and slightly gross. Then I start walking toward him. He goes in ahead of me, and when I enter, I find him already sitting at the bar. The bartender comes up to us and slides a martini in front of Ollie and a bourbon on the rocks in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say, speaking both to the bartender and to Ollie. “It’s a little early.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he says. “Not today.”
I take a sip of the drink. “No,” I agree. “It doesn’t.”
He stirs the martini with the olive-skewered toothpick. “I’m glad Stark’s in the clear. I am. I swear.”
I study his face, because I do not understand where this is coming from. But it is like a bright shiny sparkle of welcomeness in a shitty day that should have been an incredible one. So I do the only thing I can do—I smile and tell him thank you.
“I figured you’d be locked away celebrating,” he says.
“Damien’s asleep.”
“Must be exhausted,” Ollie says. “I am. It’s been a hell of a wild ride.”
This is small talk, and I can’t stand it. “Do you know?” I demand. “Do you know why they dismissed the charges?’
He tilts his head as he studies me. “Is that really a line you want me to cross?”
I think about it. About how shattered Damien seems. I’ve refused to hear what Ollie’s had to say about Damien in the past, but now I’m afraid that if I don’t know exactly what is in those photos, I can’t help.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “I want to know.”
He exhales loudly. “Oh, hell, Nikki. I don’t know. For once, I can’t tell you a damn thing. I’m sorry.”
The wave of irritation I expect doesn’t come. Instead, a swell of relief washes over me. Whatever is in those photos, I don’t want Ollie to know. “It’s okay,” I say, then close my eyes. “It’s okay.”
He takes a long sip of his martini. “So, you want to go grab a late lunch? Hang out? Make up conversations between the folks at the other tables?”
My smile is tremulous. Part of me wants to say yes—wants to try and mend whatever has gone wrong between us. But the other part . . .
“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “I’m not ready yet.”
The muscles of his face seem to tighten in what might be a flinch. “Sure,” he says. “No problem. We’ll do it when we get home.” He runs his fingertip idly around the rim of his martini glass. “So, have you been talking to Jamie?”
“Not a lot,” I admit. “I’ve been preoccupied.”
“I guess you have. She tell you that fuckwad Raine got her fired from the commercial?”
My shoulders sag. “Shit,” I whisper. “When?”
“Right after you left.”
“She didn’t tell me.” I know that she didn’t want to bother me with it, what with Damien’s trial, but I still feel like I’ve made a major best-friend blunder. “So, how’s she doing?” I ask. “Has she been auditioning? Any other bites?”
“Don’t know. I haven’t seen her since. I’m staying away from temptation.” He doesn’t quite meet my eyes.