Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(99)

“Blaine’s still mortified, of course,” she adds. “Thinks it’s his fault.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say. “I’m the one who accepted money to pose nude, and then I consented to be tied up. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

“We didn’t have any idea how much Damien paid you,” Evelyn said, “but now that we do, I have to confess that I agree with Blaine. You sold yourself cheap.”

I laugh, remembering that Sylvia said the same thing. At times like this, when I’m with friends and people who don’t have shark’s blood running through their veins, I feel almost proud of what I did. I negotiated a deal. I got my start-up money. And what the hell is wrong with that?

“Aw, hell, Texas. I see it on your face. Now I’ve gone and got you thinking about it. We can’t have that. You want some wine?”

“Love some,” I say.

She disappears inside, then returns a moment later with a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and two glasses.

She sits at the wrought-iron table then indicates the chair opposite with the tip of her cigarette. “So tell me the rest of it,” she demands.

“The rest of it? The rest of what?”

“What’s going on in your life, Texas. Fired twice—excuse me, once was a layoff. Dating one heck of a fine catch if I do say so myself. Your roommate’s got a commercial in the works. Lot of life crammed into not very much time. You’ve certainly made quite the landing in our fair city.”

Put that way, I have to agree. “Despite the firings and the tabloid stuff that we’re just going to ignore, things are great. I’m going to take some time to get a couple more apps on the market.”

She points at me. “An art app for Blaine. I haven’t forgotten.”

I grin, not sure if she means it or not. “I’m ready when you are. But that’s my short-term plan. Long term is still in the development stages.”

“And Damien? You said he’s in London? On business?”

“Yeah, but I think he took some time to visit a friend. Sofia. I guess she’s in some sort of trouble.”

“That’s too bad,” Evelyn says. She props her hand on her fist and looks at me seriously. “He say what kind of trouble?”

“No.”

“Hmm,” she says. “What about Jamie? What’s she up to?”

I hesitate before answering, wondering about the shift in conversation. Does Evelyn know Sofia? Does she know what kind of trouble she’s in? It’s possible, I realize. Sofia is from his tennis past, and Evelyn was Damien’s agent when he was a young sports icon endorsing tennis shoes and God knows what else.

I think about asking, but hold my tongue. Evelyn has become a solid friend, and I don’t want to muddy the waters by using her as a conduit between me and Damien’s past.

“Jamie’s in heaven,” I say, focusing on the original question. “She’s really hit it off with the guy she’s doing this commercial with. Bryan Raine. You know him?”

“I do,” Evelyn says, and she doesn’t sound pleased. “I like your friend. Nice girl. A little green, but she’ll get there. Bryan Raine, though … That one’s a climber, and I’m not sure your friend is tough enough to deal with the shit he’ll eventually throw her way.”

My heart is sinking. “You’re serious?”

“Afraid so. He won’t be happy until he’s banging the next big thing. And while he’d prefer a female, I think he’ll f*ck anything that moves if he thinks it’ll ease his climb to the top. Male, female, or small farm animal.” She looks at me hard. “Your friend got the skin to make it when he ditches her?”

I open my mouth to say that Jamie’s as tough as they come, but I can’t speak the words. They aren’t true. She’s got a tough veneer, but inside she’s soft and vulnerable.

“I hope you’re wrong,” I say.

“So do I, Texas. So do I.”





22


The nice thing about limos is that they have a driver. I take full advantage of that knowledge, and I arrive back at Damien’s apartment more than a little tipsy after downing half of Evelyn’s very excellent bottle of Chardonnay.

I am interested in nothing but sleep, and I make my way to the bed, hesitating only long enough to feel a pang of regret that I am in it alone.

I’ve dropped my phone on the bedside table, and I reach for it, then tap out a text: In your bed. Drunk. Wish you were here.

I have no idea what time it is in London, and have had too much wine to bother with the math to figure it out. So I’m not sure if Damien is even awake. But only a few seconds pass before I get his response. Wish I were, too. At airport. Coming home to you. Tell me you’re naked.

I smile and tap out a reply. Very. And wet. And wanting you. Hurry home. I have been Damienized, and I don’t think I can last long without you. [Damienized, v. To be needful of Damien, especially in the sense of f*cking and dirty talk. See, e.g., Nikki Fairchild.]

His answer is almost immediate. I like the new addition to your lexicon. And now I’ll be hard for all of a long flight home. Plane boarding. See you soon. Until then, imagine me, touching you.

I don’t know if he will get the text, but I send one final message. Yes, sir, I type. And then I hug my phone, and drift off to sleep.