Claim Me(144)

“Decided to try a classic,” he says. “The Count of Monte Cristo. Not bad, so far. Not bad at all.”

I smile at his assessment of one of my favorite books, then hurry up the stairs.

I can hear the loud bangs coming from our neighbor Douglas’s apartment, and I wince. I know it’s not Jamie in there burning up the sheets with him, but I still scowl at his door.

Inside, I toss my purse on the bed that still looms in the living room, head for the two stairs that lead up to the bedroom, then scream as the door to the bathroom jerks open on my right.

Ollie.

“Jesus Christ!” I shout. “You almost gave me a heart attack. What are you doing here?” He looks like hell. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin splotchy, and his hair hangs limp around his face. I take a step toward him. “Are you okay?” A horrible thought occurs to me. “Oh, shit,” I say. “You and Jamie didn’t—I mean, she’s out with Raine right now.” The idea that he and Jamie had been doing the nasty only hours before she went out on a date with her new boyfriend bothers me almost as much as the idea of Ollie cheating on his fiancée.

Actually, the whole thing makes me ill, and I’m not thrilled about finding Ollie in my apartment. I don’t want to think about their drama. More than that, I’m still stinging from the fact that Ollie hasn’t called since I saw him at The Rooftop. Sure, he could be busy, but once the million-dollar-painting news broke, surely he could have at least texted. Yet days have passed, and he hasn’t said even one word to me about all the gossip that’s been swirling around me like leaves in a windstorm.

Or, as Damien would say, like sharks smelling blood.

“I didn’t do anything with Jamie,” he says sullenly. “Courtney and I had a fight.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” I say, though I am not surprised.

“Yeah, me, too.” He sighs, then checks his watch. “We’re meeting for dinner. Patch things up. At least I hope so.”

“So do I.” I don’t mention that I am dubious. Ollie doesn’t have the best track record, and though he is my friend—at least I think he is still my friend—I can’t help but think that Courtney deserves better.

Ollie runs his fingers through his hair. “Jamie let me crash here. I slept in your room.” He shoots a questioning glance at the bed that fills the space between the dining table and the door. I say nothing, and after a moment, he shrugs and continues. “I didn’t figure you’d mind if I slept in your bed.”

“I do mind,” I say, the words snapping out before I think about it. I see the hurt on his face, but I don’t care. I’m pissed, and it’s all just spilling out of me. “You just grab my bed like everything is like it always was? It’s not. I’ve needed a friend, and you haven’t even called.”

“Maybe I didn’t call because you didn’t tell me about the painting,” he says. “A million dollars. Is it true?”

“It’s true,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Stark’s bad news, Nikki.”

“No,” I say firmly. “He’s not. And did you ever think that that’s exactly why I didn’t say anything about the painting to you?”

“Why the hell are you so f*cking obstinate? Are you afraid to learn the truth about him? Or are you afraid I’ll learn the truth about what you do with him?”

He’s spewing words at me, clearly as pissed off as I am. Then, without warning, he grabs my arm and tugs it toward him. He jabs a finger hard on the bruise around my wrist. I jerk my arm back, blushing, and undoubtedly erasing any possible question in Ollie’s mind as to the cause of those marks.