Jamie wraps that up, manages to shift seamlessly from the mission of the foundation to the designer of my dress, and then thanks us both for our time. “And be sure to stay tuned in,” she adds before she lets us escape. “There’s big news in the Stark family, and you’ll get all the scoop in my exclusive interview later this evening.”
She flashes a quick grin and I manage an out-of-camera wink as we continue toward the ballroom, and Jamie turns to Academy Award winner Francesca Muratti, who’s coming up the red carpet behind us.
“This really is an amazing event,” I tell Damien.
“It is.”
“Modest much?”
He laughs. “I don’t have to be modest. It’s not my personal doing. That’s why I hire exceptional people.”
I just grin. I know how hands-on Damien is about all aspects of Stark International. But the SCF is his passion project, and he’s been intimately involved in this event from the get-go.
Lyle Tarpin waves to us from the door, where he’s greeting folks individually as they enter the ballroom for the pre-party. Most are celebrities themselves, but some are civilians who bought or were given the pricey event tickets, and in the few moments it takes for us to reach him, I see two young girls practically swoon as they take in his Midwestern good looks and piercing blue eyes.
“I’m never washing this hand again,” the taller girl says to her friend as they enter the annex, giggling.
I’m fighting a smile as we reach him. “Look at you,” I say. “Reduced to a doorman.”
“It was Lyle’s idea,” Damien says, and I can tell from his tone that he’s impressed. Honestly, I am, too. Most celebrity sponsors just mingle inside this kind of party. They believe in the cause, sure. But they don’t usually work the door.
“I want people to see how invested I am,” Lyle says. “You’ve done good here, Damien. I’m proud to help.”
“We’re proud to have you,” Damien says as Evelyn steps up to join us, a drink in each of her hands.
She hands one to Lyle, who sets it on a small table beside him, keeping his hands free for greeting arrivals.
“It’s the subservient side of my role as his agent,” she quips. “He’s going to be huge after tonight’s premiere. I don’t want him getting any ideas about trading me in for a new model.”
“Never,” Lyle says, shaking hands with an A-list actor whose name I can’t remember.
Damien and I continue inside the ballroom, which is set up with standing bars and appetizer stations, all with different themes. The placement of the food and drink stations gently leads party-goers farther inside toward the jazz band and the silent auction.
The main room is decorated with posters taken at the foundation’s summer and after-school camps, as well as images of the kids when they were first brought into the system, usually after being removed from their homes and put into foster care. The laughing, smiling children in the camp photos stand in stark contrast to the somber, sad-eyed faces from the earlier images, and I squeeze Damien’s hand in silent recognition of what he’d hoped to build—and what he’s truly accomplished.
“Mr. Stark!” An enthusiastic young woman bounces across the room and gives him a rib-breaking hug, then bounces some more. “I got accepted! I’m actually going to MIT!”
“That’s wonderful, Karen. I had no doubts at all.”
As he speaks, I notice a picture of the girl on the opposing wall. In the photo, she’s younger than she is now but older than the other kids pictured—probably fourteen or fifteen. For the most part, she looks the same—certainly, there’s no overt sign of abuse—but her eyes in the photo seem dead. Not at all like the vibrant girl now quivering with energy and promise.
She gives Damien another hug and then bounces off. “I wrote her a letter of recommendation,” Damien explains.
I look at him innocently. “Your staff does everything?”
He smirks, then shuts me up with a kiss.
“Don’t you two look cozy?”
I look over Damien’s shoulder to see Sylvia grinning at us, Jackson at her side, with Cass and Siobhan a few steps behind, Siobhan’s red hair practically crackling under the lights.
“We are,” Damien assures her, then pulls me closer.
“You did good,” Jackson tells his half-brother. “This is a hell of an event.”
When I’d first met Damien, neither one of us knew that Jackson existed, though looking at the two of them now, the resemblance is remarkable. Not so much in specific features, but in the way they hold themselves. All power and control and defiant self-assurance.
Jackson had been secreted away by their shared father, a man whom I revile. Jackson had known about Damien, but had been ordered by their father to stay quiet.
Jeremiah Stark had not only kept Damien away from his brother but he’d also known about the horrible abuse that Damien had suffered as a child at the hand of his coach. He’d allowed it to continue because Damien’s athletic success fueled Jeremiah’s financial dreams. And now that Damien has made more of himself than anyone ever anticipated, Jeremiah is still constantly in our lives, popping up here and there as he looks for some new angle that will squeeze a dime out of his son. We haven’t heard from him in months, though, and I have to assume that the rumor that he’s gone to visit friends in Australia is true.
“We’re going to see what kind of trouble we can get into bidding in the silent auction. I’m hoping a cruise is up for grabs,” Sylvia muses. “I’ve never been on a cruise.”
“She’s looking to get into trouble,” Cass corrects from behind them. “I’m looking to see how many bidders I have so far.”
Cass is Syl’s best friend. She owns a tattoo parlor and donated a package to the cause. And, according to Syl, is about the most frugal person on the planet.
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” her girlfriend Siobhan says with a wicked gleam. “I’ll bid if no one else does.”
Cass laughs. “Thanks. I was hoping to not be the silent auction wallflower, though.”
I can hardly imagine Cass being a wallflower anywhere. She’s tall and dark and exotic. Today, her long hair is dyed black with a single streak of blue that matches the tail feathers of the magnificent bird tattooed on her shoulder.
“Well, I’m bidding,” Syl says.
“Another tat?” Cass asks her.
Syl shakes her head mischievously. “I’m thinking it’ll be a gift for someone,” she says with a meaningful glance at Jackson as she taps the base of her neck.
“We’ll see,” he says in a tone that sounds more like, “No way in hell.”
I laugh. “Thank you both for donating,” I say to Cass and Jackson, because Jackson donated a residential design, which considering his standing in the architectural community, is pretty damn generous.
The girls head on to the auction set-up, but Damien pulls Jackson aside, mentioning something about building a rec center on some property in Ventura County that the foundation is looking to acquire.