Complete Me (6 page)

And then suddenly the judge is finished, and he’s standing, and he’s filing out of the room with the other judges behind him. As soon as the door behind them has shut, the courtroom explodes into a cacophony of sounds, some cheers, some shouts, but some boos and catcalls. One of the attorneys takes pity on me. He turns and faces me. “The charges,” he says in a thick German accent. “The charges have been dropped.”

“What?” I say stupidly.

“It’s over,” Ollie says, pulling me into a hug. “Damien’s free to go home.”

He releases me and I stare at him, my body cold with shock. I’m scared to believe it. Afraid that I haven’t heard right and someone is going to tell me that I’ve misunderstood and the trial will be recommencing any moment now.

I turn to face Damien, but his back is still to me. The prosecutor now stands in front of him, speaking earnestly, but in such a low voice that I cannot make out the words. Maynard stands beside Damien, his hand on Damien’s back, the gesture almost paternal.

“It’s true?” I ask the German attorney. “You really mean it?”

His smile is broad, but his eyes are soft with understanding. “It is true,” he says. “We would not joke about such a thing.”

“No, of course not. But why? I mean—” But he turns away in response to a question from another attorney. Then I see that the prosecutor has moved away from Damien, and a wave of pure joy sweeps through me and I no longer care how or why.

“Damien,” I say, and my voice sounds light. His name feels delicious on my lips, and I want to capture this moment and hold it close to me. This singular instant when I got back the man I feared that I had lost.

He begins to turn, and I anticipate how he will look when I see his face. His eyes alight with joy, his features stripped of the worry that has been weighing on him since the indictment came through.

But that is not what I see. Instead of warmth, I see a chill in his eyes. And there is nothing joyous in his expression. Instead, it is flat and cold and desolate.

I frown, confused, and reach out for him. “Damien,” I say, leaning over the bar to take his hands. His fingers close tight around mine, as if I am a lifeline in stormy waters. “Oh, God, Damien. It’s over.”

“Yes,” he says, but there is a harshness in his voice that sends a shiver through me. “It is.”

Damien holds my hand, but says nothing during the ride back to the hotel. He is shell-shocked, I think. Probably unable to believe that the nightmare is really over.

We are alone—the attorneys having hung back to take care of all the administrative stuff that goes on once a trial reaches its conclusion, and I can only assume that there is even more to do when the conclusion is unexpectedly premature. I let the silence linger until we pull up in front of the hotel, but then I can’t take it anymore.

“Damien, it’s finished. Aren’t you happy about that?” Personally, I’m about to explode simply from the joy of knowing that Damien is free and safe.

He looks at me, and for a moment his expression is blank. Then his face clears as he smiles. It’s not huge, but it is real. “Yes,” he says. “About that, I couldn’t be happier.”

“About that,” I repeat, confused. “What else is there? What’s going on? Why were the charges dismissed?”

But now the valet has opened the door, and Damien is sliding that direction. I mutter a sharp curse and follow. Damien reaches for my hand to help me out, then twines his fingers in mine as we walk the short distance to the hotel entrance.

I’m so wrapped up in my storm of joy and confusion that it takes me a minute to realize that the walkway is lined with reporters, and that the hotel staff are making a human barrier to let us pass.

Damien was news when he was on trial for murder. Now that the charges have been dropped, he’s an even bigger story.

The concierge greets us with a stack of messages that I take since Damien seems utterly uninterested. They are all congratulations, and the concierge himself adds his own. Damien replies politely, thanking the man, and then steers us both toward the elevator.

“I thought we could stop in the bar for a drink,” I say. It’s a lie. I hadn’t thought that at all. But I’m trying to get some sort of reaction from Damien, and at the same time I’m hating myself for manufacturing a scenario where he’ll be forced to actively make a choice.

“Go ahead if you want.”

“Alone?” I feel a bead of sweat trickle from my underarm down my side. I’m starting to panic.

“Ollie will be along any moment. I bet he’d be happy to have a drink with you.”

“I don’t want to have a drink with Ollie,” I say, proud of myself for keeping my voice calm, when all I want to do is scream. Because the Damien who would willingly park me at a happy hour table with Ollie McKee is not the Damien I know and love. I take a step closer to him. “Damien, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I just need to get up to the room.” The elevator car arrives, and as if in proof of his words, Damien steps inside.

I follow, then frown as my gaze takes in his face. For the first time I see the beads of perspiration at his hairline. I see his bloodshot eyes and pale, waxy skin. “Jesus, Damien,” I say, reaching out to press my palm against his forehead as the elevator whisks us up to the Presidential Suite.

He turns away. “I don’t have a fever.”

“Then what the hell is it?”

For a moment, he says nothing. Then his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. “I’m just upset.”

“Upset?” I hear my voice rising and force myself to keep it down. “Because the charges were dropped?”

“No. Not because of that.”

The elevator door opens, and I follow him into the hall, then halt at the door of our suite.

“Then what?” I ask as he slides his keycard into the lock. My speech is unnaturally calm. “Dammit, Damien, talk to me. Tell me what happened today.”

The light turns green and he pushes open the door and steps into the suite. I am not sure if it’s real or my imagination, but he seems unsure of his steps, as if he’s afraid that the floor is going to disappear out from under him. I have never seen him like this, and he is starting to scare me.

He may say that he’s upset, but I don’t believe him. When Damien is upset, he lashes out. That famous temper rises and he takes control of the surroundings. Hell, he takes control of
me
.

But right now he looks as though control is slipping through his fingers like sand. This isn’t upset—this is damn near shattered. And I am terribly, terribly afraid.

“Damien,” I repeat. “Please.”

“Nikki—”

He yanks me toward him and though I’m startled, I almost cry out with joy.
Yes,
I think
. Kiss me, touch me, use me.
Whatever he needs, I will give. And he knows that—dammit all, he knows it only too well.

But he does nothing. Nothing except thrust his fingers into my hair and hold me tight.

“Damien
.
”
His name feels ripped from me, and I force my head up, then crush my lips against his in a bruising kiss. He responds immediately, his mouth hard and demanding under mine, his hands on the back of my head forcing me closer. The kiss is brutal. Violent. Our teeth clash, he bites down on my lip, I taste blood, and I don’t care. On the contrary, I feel as though I am soaring, set aloft by the passion in his touch, by the desire coursing through him.

His body is hard against mine, and one hand has moved down to cup my ass. He holds me hard against him, and I can feel his erection straining against his slacks. I grind against him, almost melting from the white-hot relief that boils within me.
He’s back,
I think.
He’s back.

But it’s only an illusion, because suddenly he’s shoving me away, his eyes wild and lost, his breathing hard. He reaches to steady himself on the back of a chair and tilts his face away from me. But it’s too late, I’ve seen too much, and what I saw in his eyes was horror.

I stand frozen, not by fear, but by the knowledge that right then I am impotent. He has shut me out, and I don’t know the way back to him.

“Don’t,” I whisper. It is the only word I can manage and I have to force it past my lips.

I think that he will ignore me, but he looks up, and I gasp from the gray pallor of his skin. Immediately, I am at his side. I brush my palm over his cheek. His skin is cold and clammy.

“I’m calling the hotel doctor.”

“No.” He looks right at me and I see pain in his amber-colored eye, but the black one is as empty and distant as the night. He moves to the sofa and sits down, his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands.

“Damien, please. Can’t you tell me what’s going on? Can’t you talk to me?”

He doesn’t move. “No.” That simple word slices through me, not quick and neat like sharpened steel, but hot and raw and brutal. A serrated blade across unprepared flesh.
I could do it,
I think.
Just one quick motion. I could do it, and I could follow the pain back here. Back to Damien. I need the anchor. I need—

No!

I flinch and look away; if he looks up, I do not want him to see the direction in which my thoughts have traveled. I do not want him to see the effort it takes not to move. Not to bolt to the bathroom and dig into his brown leather shaving kit. Not to unscrew the top of his safety razor and remove the fresh blade, so small yet so sharp. So sweetly tempting . . .

I focus on breathing—on finding my center. I’ve come to rely on Damien’s strength, and now I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be able to do this alone again.

He shifts on the sofa so that he is lying back, but his eyes are open and he reaches a hand out for me. I go and kneel at his side, holding tight to him, my heart swollen to bursting. I am terrified—so afraid that happiness is only fleeting and that the universe is in the process of self-correcting, and is transforming our story from a romance into a tragedy.

“I love you,” I say almost desperately. What I mean is, “You’re scaring me.”

He draws my hand up and softly kisses my knuckles. “I’m going to take a nap.” His lids are heavy.

“Yes. Of course.” It’s an excuse that makes sense, and I pounce upon it and clutch it tight. After all, we didn’t get much sleep last night, and I know that he did not sleep well even when we returned. I know, because I didn’t either, and every time I woke up he was either awake and staring at the ceiling or tossing in the bed. He was calm only when he held me close.

It’s that memory that soothes me. I do not know what is going on with Damien right now, but at the heart of it all, I know that he needs me as much as I need him.

I give his hand a squeeze before releasing it. I slide off his shoes, then grab a blanket and gently spread it over him. His eyes are already closed, his chest rising and falling in time with his breathing.

I start to tiptoe from the room into the bedroom, but as I do, I hear the familiar buzz of his phone. I curse and sprint back to the couch, because I do not want the phone to wake him.

I find his phone in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, and I pull it out. I don’t recognize the number, and I press the button to answer, planning to take a message.

“Damien Stark’s phone,” I say softly as I move away so as not to wake him. I hear something that sounds like a sharp breath, and then nothing. “Hello?”

And then there is simply the dead silence of a dropped call. I frown slightly, but don’t think much of it. Then I switch the ringer off and leave his phone on the worktable where he can easily find it.

I go into the bedroom and take off the conservative Chanel suit I wore to court. I change into a bright yellow dress, hoping that the cheery color will improve my mood. I keep the pearl choker, my fingers drifting to it as I recall the texture of Damien’s fingertips as he fastened it around my neck that morning. I lie on the bed and try to sleep, but sleep is not coming and my mood is not improving. Finally, I can take it no longer. I have to have answers, and I can think of only one way to get them.

I pull out my own phone and send a text—It’s Nikki. I need to see you. Are you in the hotel? Can I meet you?

I hold my breath as I wait for the reply, hoping he will answer and not simply ignore my plea. So much time passes that I’m beginning to think that’s exactly what he’s going to do. Then the reply comes, and I sag with relief.

Room 315.

I gather my things and hurry to the elevator. I want to get there before he changes his mind. I stand by the elevator call button, my finger repeatedly jabbing the down arrow even though the light is already illuminated. Finally it comes, and I join a teenage couple who stand next to each other, his hands in her back jeans pocket and vice versa. The sight makes me smile, and I turn away, afraid that the simple public display of affection is going to make me cry.

I get off before them on the third floor and take a moment to get my bearings. Then I turn and hurry down the hall until I’m standing at the door to suite 315. I knock and wait, then sigh in relief when Charles Maynard opens the door and ushers me in.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I say. “Damien is—well, he’s asleep.” It’s a euphemism for “he’s a wreck,” and I think Maynard knows it.

He gestures toward the sofa. “Sit down. You want a drink? I just walked in the door when you texted. I was considering ordering a late lunch.”

“I’m fine,” I say as he walks to the wet bar and pours himself a very large Scotch.

“You must be relieved,” Maynard says, which is probably the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever said to me.

“Of course I am,” I snap, with more irritation than I intend.

He glances at me over the Scotch bottle. “Sorry. That sounded patronizing.”

My shoulders sag. “I came here because I don’t understand what happened. And I need to know. I need to know because Damien—”

But I can’t finish the sentence. I can’t say—even to this man who has known Damien since childhood—that for some reason this non-trial seems to have broken him.

At the same time, I can’t leave. Maynard is my only chance for answers, and I cannot leave this room without some.

So I wait, and the only sound between us is the hum of the air conditioner. I fear that Maynard will say nothing, and that I will be forced to tell him how Damien walked through the hotel like a zombie. How he now lays asleep on the couch. How he seems shell-shocked, like someone who just went through a battle.