“Good. Can you do me a favor and pick up some—”
And that is when my phone decides to die. I curse it, but at least I got to talk to him about Carl.
Even though Damien isn’t troubled, I am, and it stays on my mind as I poke through Ralph’s, grabbing coffee and ice cream and other staples of living. I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but as my list is on my dead phone, I’ll just have to wing it.
I end up with two plastic bags full of various essentials, and after I park my car at the condo, I leave the parking area and follow the sidewalk around to the front stairs. There’s a crowd gathered there, and it takes me a second to realize that they are waiting for me.
Shit.
I may have been in the mood to confront them earlier, but that has passed. All I want now is to get inside, eat ice cream, and wait for Damien.
I square my shoulders, make sure every trace of emotion is wiped off my face, and soldier on.
Immediately, they swarm me.
“Nikki! Nikki, look over here!”
“Was the portrait completely nude?”
“Does it have the usual Blaine elements like bondage?”
I’m breathing hard, and my body feels suddenly cold and clammy. I don’t understand where these questions are coming from, and I’m afraid—so very afraid—to think too hard about it.
“Why did you do it, Nikki? Was it for the money or the thrill?”
“Nikki! Can you confirm that you accepted a million dollars from Damien Stark to pose nude for an erotic painting?”
I freeze, too horrified to take another step, as camera flashes burst around me. I feel sick, and I am certain that any moment now I’m going to throw up.
“Have you ever posed nude before?”
“Is the painting a reflection of your sex life with Damien Stark?”
“Why did you agree to be tied up?”
They’re all around me, circling me, and I reach out for Damien’s hand, but of course he’s not there. My knees feel weak, and I have to force myself to stay upright. I will not fall, I will not react, I will not give them the satisfaction of knowing they’ve gotten to me.
But they have. And as variations of the same questions are thrown at me—as I try to get to the stairs but can barely move even an inch—I know that I’m going to scream soon, just for the shock of it. Just so I can get away.
A loud squeal cuts above the din, and for a moment I think that I have screamed, because suddenly the crowd is parting, and I look up and gasp.
Damien. He’s running toward me from the street, his black Ferrari left idling in the road. And if I have ever been uncertain about Damien’s capacity for murder, I no longer am. I see it in his eyes. In the line of his jaw. In the tenseness that fills every muscle of his body. Right then, in that moment, he would kill to protect me.
He reaches out and grabs my arm, and I’m so relieved he’s here I almost cry. He pulls me roughly to him, and hooks his arm around my shoulder, holding me close as he shoves us through the crowd toward the car.
He tosses the groceries onto the floorboard, then gets me settled in the passenger seat. As he straps me in I see something break inside him. “Baby,” he says, and though the word is barely loud enough for my ears, I hear the apology and the bone-deep regret.
“Please,” I whisper. “Let’s get out of here.”
He’s in the car and accelerating toward Ventura Boulevard before my mind even catches up. His right hand is on the stick, but once we’re on the freeway, he reaches for me. “I’m so sorry. The painting. The money. I never thought—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “Later. Right now, I want to pretend that it didn’t happen.”
The look he gives me is heartbreakingly sad. For a moment, we are silent. But the stillness is broken by Damien’s single hard smack of his hand against the steering wheel.
“Who did this?” he asks. “Who the fuck leaked this?”
I shake my head. It still feels like cotton. I realize from somewhere outside of myself that I am not coping well.
I slide my right hand down so that it is between my body and the door, and then I clench it tight into a fist, letting my manicured nails dig deep as I squeeze and squeeze.
I bite my tongue, drawing blood.
And I wish—oh, how I wish—that I still had that tiny knife I used to keep on my keychain.
“Look at me,” Damien snaps.
I comply. I even smile. I’m starting to get some control back.
I take a deep breath, relieved that I’m functioning. But oh god, oh god, this isn’t going to stop. It’s out there, and they’re going to keep coming, and it isn’t going to stop.
“Carl,” I whisper. “This is what he was warning me about.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”
“Who then?”
“Does Ollie know about the painting?”
“No!” The word comes fast and hard, but then I immediately falter. Could he have found out somehow? “No,” I say again. “And even if he did, he’d keep quiet. I’m not the one he wants to hurt.”