And then his hands are on my flesh, rising above the tops of the stockings, and he’s stroking the soft inner thigh, and I know the hard, swollen ugliness he’ll feel as his hands climb higher and higher. I tense, fighting shame and fear and pain and memories. They beat their way in, through the haze of lust and desire. Through the sweet moment of being in Damien’s arms.
I try to battle it back, the voice in my head that tells me to run. I don’t want to run. I want to try. I want to stay and I want to feel and I want to get lost in Damien’s touch. I’m so hot and I almost believe what Jamie has said about him wanting me, me, me.
But then he whispers the one word that destroys everything. The one word that makes the fantasy disappear.
“Perfect,” he says. “Dear God, Nikki, you’re perfect.”
12
I jerk away, twisting sideways and banging my thigh against the side of the bar as I shove free from Damien’s embrace.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t look at him. “I have to go. I’m sorry.” I yank my skirt down and reach back to zip it. My fingers shake as I button my blouse. I don’t bother with my bra, but hold my jacket closed with one hand as I hurry toward his foyer.
“Nikki—”
There’s pain and confusion in his voice, and I feel like shit because I’m the reason it’s there and he doesn’t deserve this. I should have cut this off sooner. Hell, I should have cut it off last night.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, even though it’s lame. I’m at the elevator, and the doors open the instant I press the button. I’m relieved; I was afraid I’d have to wait for it. But then I realize that Damien is on the premises, so of course his elevator is going to be parked wherever he is.
I step inside and stand erect until the doors shut tight. Then I melt against the glass panel and let the tears flow. I have fifty-seven floors to get them out of my system. No, sixty, because my car’s on the third parking level.
When the car eases to a stop, I hastily wipe my face and stand up straight, sliding my mask back into place as I fluff my hair and flash a quick smile at the mirror. Perfect.
But my act isn’t necessary. There’s no one waiting when the doors open. Still, I keep the mask on and the act up as I make the long walk across the Stark Tower side of the parking structure to the area beneath the bank building wherein C-Squared is housed. My car is on the far side, and I’m walking fast now, because I can feel the cracks all over me. I’m going to shatter soon, I know it, and I need to be in my car when I do.
It’s right there, parked opposite the stairwell. The whole corner is dark and despite being open, it makes me twitchy. I reported it to the property manager my first day, but so far they’ve yet to put in a new bulb. Once again, I remind myself to ask Carl for another assigned space, because this corner is too damned creepy.
I hurry to the car and shove the key in the lock—because my Honda’s almost fifteen years old, and I don’t have a keychain remote. I yank the door open, then slide inside, letting the familiar sounds and smells surround me. I tug on the heavy door and the instant it slams shut, I lose it. Tears stream down my face, and I alternately clutch and pound on the steering wheel. Hitting and slamming and pummeling until the heel of my hand is red and raw and sore. I’m shouting, repeating a chorus of “no, no, no,” but I don’t even realize it until my voice fades, raw and raspy.
Finally my tears are spent, but my body doesn’t seem to realize it. I convulse, hiccuping painfully as I try to breathe in and out and gather some control.
It takes a while, but I finally quit shaking. My hand is unsteady as I try to insert the key into the ignition. I can’t manage. Metal scrapes against metal. I drop the key ring. Fumbling, I bend down to pick it up again, only to whack my forehead on the wheel. I clutch the keys tight and curse, and pound my fist against the wheel one more time.
The tears are welling again, and I breathe deep. It’s too much, too fast. The move, the job, Damien.
I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to escape. I want—
I grab a handful of my skirt and thrust it up so that the material is gathered at my hips, exposing a triangle of panties and my bare thighs above the stockings.
Don’t.