Complete Me(109)

“I can’t afford to keep the condo, though. So you’ll have to find another roommate. Unless you move in with Damien. If you do that, I might sell. The market’s gotten better. I might even make enough to buy a place in Dallas and have some cash leftover to pay Damien for at least part of the mess I made of his car. I figure my condo should cover about a hubcap, don’t you think?”

“Wait, back up. What are you talking about? You hate Dallas. You’ve always hated Dallas.”

“Look at me, Nik. I’m a mess. I go from f*cking movie stars to screwing strangers. But all I’m really doing is screwing myself.”

“I don’t disagree,” I say baldly. “But moving to Dallas doesn’t change anything but geography.”

“Maybe that’ll be enough. Maybe there’s too much noise here. Too much temptation.”

I want to tell her she’s wrong, but I’m not entirely sure that she is. All I know is that I don’t want her to move fifteen hundred miles away. But what I want and what Jamie needs are two entirely different things. “Just think about it before you do anything rash,” I finally say.

Her eyes meet mine and we both laugh at the irony of my words. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, and we laugh even harder.

We leave the serious shit behind and spend the rest of the ride cranking up the tunes, singing along with Taylor Swift, and downing mimosas. Because, after all, you can never have too much vitamin C.

“Did you see that we’re finally famous?” Jamie asks, about the time we see the skyline of downtown LA.

“What?”

“Or, I am. Damien’s been famous forever, and you’ve been racking up your share of the press, too. But check it out.” She rummages in her purse for her phone and then passes it to me. “I took screenshots of all the stuff I found on the Internet. Just check out my photos.”

I do. There, mixed in with pictures of an absolutely gorgeous guy, are candid shots of me and Damien and Jamie at the shops at Lake Arrowhead. Eating, talking, laughing. There’s even one with Damien’s arms around each of our waists. She peers over my shoulder and taps the screen. “That one’s all over Twitter,” she says. “I’m not sure if it’s because Damien’s famous or because he’s f*ckalicious, but it’s totally gone viral.”

“Maybe it’s because of you,” I say. The photographer caught Jamie in a laugh, her eyes bright, her hair shining. It’s the vibrant and beautiful girl in the picture that I know so well, but I can’t help but fear that the image Jamie has of herself is the one sitting beside me in the limo. Battered and bruised and not quite sure where to go next.

It’s not until we reach Malibu that Jamie presses her hands against the window, peers out at the world with her brow creased in confusion, then turns to me. “This is not Studio City,” she says, as if I am the one who is confused.

“You’re staying at Damien’s Malibu house.”

Her brows rise and her smile turns devious. “I was kidding about that threesome. But if it’s important to Damien . . . ”

I put my hands over my ears. “I can’t hear you,” I say over and over again until she breaks down and starts laughing.

“Seriously,” she says, “why am I staying in Malibu? Because if this is my punishment for wrecking his Ferrari, he kind of missed the mark.”

“Not punishment,” I say. “Pragmatism.” I go on to explain about the rock and the stalker-style text.

Her eyes are wide when I finish. “Whoa. At least you don’t have to deal with your fruitcake of a mother. You can thank me for taking that burden off you, anyway.”