Goddammit, no!
I jerk my left hand away from my right with such ferocity that I stumble and upset the small table beside me. A young man in a purple sport coat is standing nearby, and he takes a step forward as if to help, but I turn away, frantically scraping at the string, too upset to calmly unwind the thread. Instead, I claw at it, my heart pounding wildly, and when it finally falls off my finger and onto the floor, I leave it there, then back away as if it is something poisonous, like a scorpion determined to strike.
I push past the guy in purple then lean against the stonework that surrounds the fireplace. The stones press against my bare shoulders uncomfortably, but I don’t care. I need something to hold me up. And until I find Damien, the wall will have to do.
“Are you okay?” the guy in purple asks.
“Yes,” I say, though I’m not okay. I’m not okay at all.
The guy still stands by me, but I barely notice him. Instead, I’m searching for Damien, and the swell of relief that rushes through me when I find him is so forceful that I have to reach back and hold tight to the stones. He is standing to the side, away from the bulk of the crowd near the hallway that leads to the bedroom. He is alone except for Charles Maynard, his attorney, who stands beside Damien looking harried.
I can’t see Damien’s expression, as his back is to me. He has one hand in his pants pocket and the other holds a glass of wine. It’s a casual position, but I see the tension in his shoulders, and I wonder if he is thinking of me, just as I am thinking of him.
Damien.
As if my thought calls to him, he turns, his gaze finding me immediately. I see everything on his face. Worry. Passion. Need. I think that he is fighting hard to give me space. But I no longer want the distance, and I take a step toward him.
As I walk, I see Maynard reach out for Damien’s shoulder and hear his voice, suddenly raised in frustration. “—not listening. This is Germany we’re—”
Damien turns back to his attorney, and I stop cold, as if the connection between us has been broken. I consider continuing on my way, but then rule it out. I am, after all, the one who is mad at him. So why am I so desperate to run to him?
I glance down at my left forefinger. The indentations from the string are still visible, and the tip is still slightly purple. That pain satisfied a need. It grounded me and kept at bay my anger, my fear, my humiliation. It gave me strength and focus, and once again I wonder if Damien gives me the same thing. Is he a new kind of pain?
The thought makes me shiver, and I want nothing more than to erase it from my mind.
A waitress passes in front of me and I signal for her to come over. Right now, I need a drink.
I’ve downed the glass and have just grabbed another when Jamie rushes up. “Those two are so funny. And they told me what’s going to happen on the show next week.” She grabs my elbow. “If you forget to remind me to set the DVR, I will never forgive you.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
“You’re getting pictures, right? I want to post them on Facebook. Sorry,” she immediately adds. “I know you’re avoiding social media.”
It’s true. I’ve never used it much, but once all the gossip and speculation about Damien and me started, I took all the social media apps off my phone and have been doing my damnedest to avoid anything that smells of tabloid. As for the photographs the paparazzi take of Damien and me, I rely on Jamie to find those and either email them to me or cut them out. Without the accompanying text.
“It’s okay,” I say. “And, yeah. I’ve taken some,” I add, though I’ve taken very few.
She narrows her eyes at me. “You okay?”
I almost smile brightly and reassure her that of course I’m okay. Why would I not be okay? But this is Jamie, and even if I could, I don’t want to deceive her. “It’s been a strange evening,” I admit.
“Want to talk about it?”
I lift my glass. “Hell no.”
“Where’s lover boy? Or is that the part we’re not talking about?”
“He’s doing the host thing.” I look around for him and see that he’s left Charles, and is now at the center of a small cluster of guests.
“So who is she?” Jamie nods toward the group, and I see that the people have shifted, revealing a lithe brunette at Damien’s side.
The muscles in my face suddenly seem uncomfortably tight. “That’s Giselle,” I say. “She owns the gallery that sells Blaine’s work.”
“Ah. The hostess to Damien’s host. No wonder you’re in a pissy mood.”
“I am not in a pissy mood,” I say, but of course I am. And although the whole Hostess Giselle thing hadn’t occurred to me before, it is now at the top of my list of affronts and irritations. Gee, Jamie. Thanks so much.