The music is still loud and fast with such a heavy bass that the roof beneath our feet seems to throb. I imagine we must look ridiculous, holding each other as if in a slow dance, but I don’t care. And soon, to my surprise, the music changes to match our pose. I glance up, curious, and see that a small crowd has gathered around us. Damien Stark is at least as famous as Garreth Todd, and we have stolen Mr. Todd’s spotlight.
I can only presume that the DJ is among the spectators, and has decided to match the music to our mood.
Since we do nothing more than sway in each other’s arms, interest soon wanes. The crowd either drifts away or joins us on the floor, and I begin to feel less like a fish in a bowl. A chastised fish, ready to be scolded.
He holds me through one song and then another, and though I am happy to spend my entire life inside the circle of his arms, I have reached the point where I can no longer stand the suspense. “Say something,” I plead.
He stays silent, and a cold dread curls through me. I am about to beg again when he speaks, so low and so gentle that I have to strain to hear him, and even then I am not sure that I have actually caught his words.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re—what?” I step back so that I can see his face, because I am certain that I have not heard right.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. We have stopped swaying and now we stand still on the dance floor.
“Is this some sort of reverse psychology? Because I know you pretty well, Damien Stark, and that wasn’t repentance I saw in your eyes when you crashed through the crowd. More like scary megalomaniac fury. Besides,” I add with a small grimace, “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
Damien’s expression doesn’t change, but for the tiniest of instants, I think I see a flicker of amusement. “First off,” he says, “I didn’t crash through the crowd. I walked, and quite calmly, too, considering the circumstances.”
I swallow. I knew he was pissed.
“Second,” he continues, “I believe a megalomaniac is someone who suffers from delusions about their own power. Trust me,” he says, and this time I am certain I see mirth dancing in his eyes, “I suffer no delusions about the extent of my power. And finally, you may have reason to be sorry. I, however, have more.”
“I—oh.” I have no idea what to say. This conversation isn’t going at all the way I expected. But he’s right; I do have reason to be sorry. “I should have told you that Jamie and I were going out with Ollie.”
“So you knew at the time?”
“No. Raine called later and told Jamie about the party. Then Ollie called and ended up coming along. I actually picked up the phone to call you. But then I didn’t,” I finish with a shrug.
“Because you knew I’d be pissed.”
I nod. “And that’s why I’m sorry.”
“Then we have that in common.”
I watch his face silently, waiting for him to explain.
“I don’t want to be the asshole who keeps you away from your friends,” he says. “And I don’t want you to feel like you have to keep things from me in order to see them. And I’m sorry because you obviously felt exactly that way.”
Polite Nikki starts to protest, but what he’s saying is the truth. Slowly, I nod.
“I won’t keep you from your friends, Nikki. But dammit, I don’t like the son of a bitch.”
This is not exactly breaking news, but I still take a moment to consider how to respond. “I get that,” I say. “He hasn’t exactly earned your trust. But I’ve known him forever, and he’s one of my closest friends.”
“He’s seen you naked, Nikki. He’s touched your scars.”
I blink at him. Surely he’s not—“Are you jealous?” The possibility shocks me. I’ve already told Damien that Ollie and I never slept together. It was never like that between us.
“Hell, yes, I’m jealous. I’m jealous of anyone who comforts you. Who pulls you into his arms and makes the hurt go away.”
“I didn’t even know you back then,” I whisper.
“And I’m jealous of the time that he’s had with you that I haven’t.”