“Damien Jeremiah Stark!”
I glance at Damien, but his hard expression reveals nothing. I straighten, then peer over the roof of the limo. The reporters have shifted the aim of their cameras, and now their lights are focused on an older man making his way across Flower Street.
“Get into the car,” Damien snaps at me.
“We need to talk,” the man calls out.
I stand frozen.
“Get in,” Damien urges, his voice more gentle.
I comply, but I peer out the far window at the man, and then once more up at Damien. “Who is that?” I ask.
He meets my eyes, his jaw tight, his expression hard. “My father.”
11
Damien slides in beside me and tugs the door closed. “Go,” he says to Edward, who nods and starts to pull slowly out into the street. Reporters scramble to get in front of the car, taking pictures of the limo and of Damien’s father, who is now pounding on the side window and yelling for Damien to stop.
I grab Damien’s hand, then look left at the old man’s face. “Damien,” I say. “Let him in. If you don’t, those reporters are going to eat him alive.”
Silence.
“Damien,” I say gently. “You need to find out why he’s here.”
Damien’s face is tense, his breathing even, and I wish that I knew what he was thinking.
Finally, he squeezes my hand and nods. “Stop,” he tells Edward. “Unlock the doors. And as soon as he’s in, run those goddamned piranhas over if you have to.”
A moment later the old man is inside the limo and Edward is pulling hard to the left and accelerating. I hold my breath, not really caring if a reporter gets squashed, but also not wanting Edward to get into trouble. Then we’re clear and the limo is traveling smoothly down Flower Street. “Make the block,” Damien says. He looks at his father, who’s settled on the seat facing us. “What do you want?”
The old man ignores him, instead focusing on me. “You must be Nikki,” he says. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper with my boy. I’m Jeremiah, but you can call me Jerry.”
“What can we do for you, Mr. Stark?” I ask.
“We,” he repeats, then looks between the two of us. “We,” he says again, then actually guffaws.
I squeeze Damien’s hand tighter. I didn’t like this man before I met him, and I like him even less now.
“Ms. Fairchild asked you a question,” Damien says. “What can we do for you?” I can sense the low bubble of anger rising off Damien, and I hold tight to his hand. I’m certain that this man sitting so casually across from me either abused his son or was complicit in it, and I’m not sure if I’m holding on to Damien to give him support—or to keep from leaping across the limo and slapping the old man’s face.
Jerry shakes his head as if in defeat. “Damien,” he says, then leaves the name hanging.
My initial impression of him is someone oily and untrustworthy, but as I look more closely, I realize that he’s actually attractive, although a little too smooth. Like a man who discovered luxury late in life and has spent the rest of his time trying to play catch-up.
“I repeat,” Damien says, “what can we do for you?”
Jerry leans back in his seat, and his face takes on an unattractive, calculating edge. I can see a bit of how this man managed, despite his low income and working-class background, to maneuver his son onto the international tennis circuit. “What can you do for me? What can you do for me? Not a goddamn thing now. But this ain’t about me. It’s about you. And you managed to fuck it up real good.”