Complete Me (Stark Trilogy, #3)(95)

I hear the softness in her voice as she says, “I don’t know. I wish that I did.”

“What else can you do?” Jamie asks, as soon as I’ve ended the call.

“I don’t know, I don’t know.” I’m pacing the living room, my fingers running through my hair, as I try to think where he could be. I have to find him. I can imagine how wrecked he is, and I can’t bear the thought of him suffering through all that alone.

And then, suddenly, I remember. I snatch my phone and turn back to Jamie. “It’s okay,” I say. “I know how to find him.”

The trouble with the phone-tracking app is that it doesn’t narrow the area to anything remotely useful. Which is why I’m wandering blind near the Santa Monica Pier. I am thankful—so thankful—that he is back in LA. But I’m beyond frustrated that I cannot find him.

I think that he might be at the Ferris wheel, since he once took me up in it, but when I arrive, there is no Damien. I wander all the way to the end of the pier, check in all the little shops, circle around all the rides.

I cannot find him.

Frustrated, I take off my flip-flops and start schlepping down the beach, but after fifteen minutes of that, I’m no closer to locating him. I cut perpendicular across the beach from the shore to the parking lot and start heading south again, this time through the lot. There aren’t many people out, and the lot is thinning, so I have a pretty good view, and I scan the distance looking for Damien’s gait, his build, his raven-black hair.

I don’t see him.

But I do see his Jeep.

At least, I think I do, and as I say a silent prayer, I take off running across the lot to the black Jeep Grand Cherokee that is parked in a secluded corner. I press my face up to the window so that I can see the interior, and my heart does a twist. It’s Damien’s all right; there’s his phone sitting right on the console.

Now I just have to sit here and wait.

It is a full hour before he returns. I see him walking up from the beach, looking desperately sexy in faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt. I know the moment he sees me. His perfect gait stumbles, and then he pauses. I cannot see his eyes in the dark and from this distance, but I know that he is looking at me. And then he continues forward again, that same long stride, only this time it’s just a little bit faster, as if now he has somewhere that he wants to be.

He passes beneath a circle of light thrown by one of the parking lot towers. I see the weariness on his face along with something else. Something harder.

I stand up straighter. I want to run to him, but I hold back, wanting more to watch him. I have missed seeing him move. Hell, I’ve missed everything.

And then he is here, right in front of me, his face all hard lines and angles, his black eye dark and accusing, and his amber one flat. I gasp, suddenly afraid. My heart pounds, then I cry out as he roughly grabs my arms, and yanks me to him. His mouth slams against mine, his hands closing painfully around my upper arms. The kiss is violent, harsh. A demand and an accusation all rolled into one. He bruises my lips, our teeth clash, I taste blood. And then he pushes me away so swiftly my back slams against the Jeep. “You left,” he says. “Goddammit, Nikki, you left.”

Tears stream down my face, and I open my mouth to apologize—to tell him I had to, that I didn’t have a choice—but then he’s pulling me to him again, only this time his embrace is soft and his mouth is full of need, consuming me, tasting me, as if he can’t quite believe that I’m real. “Nikki,” he says when he breaks the kiss. “Nikki, oh, God, Nikki.”

I cling to him, my hands in his hair, then press my mouth to his again. I cannot get enough of him. His hands slide over my body, his mouth opens to me. My tongue wars with his. I will never have my fill of him, and all I want is this moment, this reunion. I want to drop down to the asphalt and strip him bare right there, and in that singular moment I do not know how I have survived without him.

Then it hits me—I haven’t survived. I have been sleepwalking, not living. Because how can I really be alive without Damien?

“I’m sorry,” I say when we finally break the kiss. “I’m so sorry she did that. I can’t believe she’d do that. She said if I broke up with you—” I cut myself off. I hadn’t intended to tell him that.

“I know,” he says flatly. “Ollie told me. He told me what you did, and he told me why you did it.”

I’m not sure whether I want to slap Ollie or kiss him, but the conundrum soon evaporates under Damien’s touch. He strokes a hand along my cheek, his familiar touch firing nerve-endings throughout my body. “You’re a goddamn fool, Nikki Fairchild. And I love you desperately.”

I swallow tears and cling to him even tighter, savoring our connection and the way he makes me feel.

His hands roam my back, over my ratty Bermuda shorts, up along the backs of my thighs. I moan, craving a more intimate connection.

“I think maybe we should get in the car.” He unlocks it and we climb in. The backseats are down and the area has been filled by a mattress. I glance at Damien, amused. “Roughing it?”

“I haven’t wanted luxury. I’ve been living in motels, the backs of cars. I’ve been all over Europe and I don’t think I’ve really seen one inch of it.”

I swallow. Ollie was right. Damien has been just as broken as I have.