Complete Me(22)

I find his phone in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, and I pull it out. I don’t recognize the number, and I press the button to answer, planning to take a message.

“Damien Stark’s phone,” I say softly as I move away so as not to wake him. I hear something that sounds like a sharp breath, and then nothing. “Hello?”

And then there is simply the dead silence of a dropped call. I frown slightly, but don’t think much of it. Then I switch the ringer off and leave his phone on the worktable where he can easily find it.

I go into the bedroom and take off the conservative Chanel suit I wore to court. I change into a bright yellow dress, hoping that the cheery color will improve my mood. I keep the pearl choker, my fingers drifting to it as I recall the texture of Damien’s fingertips as he fastened it around my neck that morning. I lie on the bed and try to sleep, but sleep is not coming and my mood is not improving. Finally, I can take it no longer. I have to have answers, and I can think of only one way to get them.

I pull out my own phone and send a text—It’s Nikki. I need to see you. Are you in the hotel? Can I meet you?

I hold my breath as I wait for the reply, hoping he will answer and not simply ignore my plea. So much time passes that I’m beginning to think that’s exactly what he’s going to do. Then the reply comes, and I sag with relief.

Room 315.

I gather my things and hurry to the elevator. I want to get there before he changes his mind. I stand by the elevator call button, my finger repeatedly jabbing the down arrow even though the light is already illuminated. Finally it comes, and I join a teenage couple who stand next to each other, his hands in her back jeans pocket and vice versa. The sight makes me smile, and I turn away, afraid that the simple public display of affection is going to make me cry.

I get off before them on the third floor and take a moment to get my bearings. Then I turn and hurry down the hall until I’m standing at the door to suite 315. I knock and wait, then sigh in relief when Charles Maynard opens the door and ushers me in.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I say. “Damien is—well, he’s asleep.” It’s a euphemism for “he’s a wreck,” and I think Maynard knows it.

He gestures toward the sofa. “Sit down. You want a drink? I just walked in the door when you texted. I was considering ordering a late lunch.”

“I’m fine,” I say as he walks to the wet bar and pours himself a very large Scotch.

“You must be relieved,” Maynard says, which is probably the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever said to me.

“Of course I am,” I snap, with more irritation than I intend.

He glances at me over the Scotch bottle. “Sorry. That sounded patronizing.”

My shoulders sag. “I came here because I don’t understand what happened. And I need to know. I need to know because Damien—”

But I can’t finish the sentence. I can’t say—even to this man who has known Damien since childhood—that for some reason this non-trial seems to have broken him.

At the same time, I can’t leave. Maynard is my only chance for answers, and I cannot leave this room without some.

So I wait, and the only sound between us is the hum of the air conditioner. I fear that Maynard will say nothing, and that I will be forced to tell him how Damien walked through the hotel like a zombie. How he now lays asleep on the couch. How he seems shell-shocked, like someone who just went through a battle.

I don’t want to tell him, because in some small way it feels like I am betraying Damien if I do. Damien Stark is not a man who shows weakness, and that he has shown me is only more proof that he trusts me. I can’t break that trust now. But that leaves me tongue-tied, with no way to explain why I’ve come here.