Claim Me(86)

“I’m not,” I say. All Damien did was find and report the truth. Bruce is right; Tanner screwed Innovative and he screwed me. And Damien protected us both.

The cold fist around my heart loosens a bit.

“Tanner seemed to think that you gave me the job as a favor to your wife.” The statement is out of my mouth before I can think better of it.

Bruce looks at me sharply, and I can’t help but wonder what sort of quagmire I’ve stepped in. “Did he?” Bruce says. “That’s odd.”

“I thought so, too. What did he mean?”

The corners of Bruce’s mouth turn down. “Not a clue,” he says, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.

“Oh, well,” I say lightly. “Probably just Tanner being Tanner.”

“I’m sure that’s all.” He stands up. “We should probably mingle. I think the rest of the guests are starting to arrive.”

He’s right. In the time that we’ve been talking, a steady stream of people has been coming in. A few I recognize from a similar party at Evelyn’s just a few short weeks ago. There’s even a Damien-approved photographer from the local paper, snapping away for what will undoubtedly be a spread in tomorrow’s Sunday edition.

I find Jamie talking with Rip Carrington and Lyle Tarpin, two sitcom stars Evelyn must have invited. Since Jamie considers them each utterly drool-worthy, I know that no matter what else happens, this party will rate a full ten on the Jamie-meter.

My score? Not nearly so high. Bruce has soothed my embarrassment, but I’m still irritated that Giselle knew my identity in the first place. And I’m troubled and confused by Tanner’s strange comment—and Bruce’s even stranger response.

Bruce has gotten washed away in the crowd, but I’m still standing by the fireplace. I bend over and pick up the string off the table, then twist it between two fingers as I look around this room that has been transformed from someplace warm and familiar into a cold, polished place in which I don’t feel comfortable, especially without Damien by my side.

I search the crowd, looking for him, but all I see are strangers. The third floor is full now, bright shiny people with their bright shiny smiles. They all look polished and fresh, and I can’t help but wonder if any of them feel as raw inside as I do at this moment. Between my thumb and forefinger, I am still twisting the string, rolling it this way and that so that it wiggles as if it were a snake. It has given me something to occupy my hands, but that is not why I picked up the string. I tell myself I should set it back down on the coffee table and walk away, but I don’t. I plucked it off the white melamine tabletop for a reason.

Slowly, methodically, I wrap the string around the tip of my finger. I tug it tight, and the skin around the thread immediately turns white, while my fingertip turns a deep red that quickly shifts toward purple. With each revolution, the pain increases. And with each revolution, I am a little more grounded.

I am like a windup doll, and each twist of the key focuses the pain—focuses me. I will keep turning and turning, taking as much as I can, and then, when the key is just about to snap, I will let go and Pretty Party Nikki will perform, moving in and out among the guests, smiling, laughing, and focusing on that one shining spot of dark red pain to guide her back home.

No.

Goddammit, no!

I jerk my left hand away from my right with such ferocity that I stumble and upset the small table beside me. A young man in a purple sport coat is standing nearby, and he takes a step forward as if to help, but I turn away, frantically scraping at the string, too upset to calmly unwind the thread. Instead, I claw at it, my heart pounding wildly, and when it finally falls off my finger and onto the floor, I leave it there, then back away as if it is something poisonous, like a scorpion determined to strike.