Complete Me(83)

“Your doing?” I ask Damien.

He says nothing, just holds out his hand for my key, then gathers my mail.

I follow him up the stairs, a little amused, a little exasperated.

The front door is more or less the same, the “more” being the addition of yet another deadbolt to the two locks that were already there. I glance at Damien in question.

“Better,” he says, but he’s tapping out another text, and I know that “better” doesn’t mean “good enough.” Apparently Ryan can look forward to a busy Friday.

Inside, my apartment looks exactly the same, right down to the huge iron bed that dominates the living room and the white cat that blends in with the pile of pillows on the couch. Lady Meow-Meow lifts her head as we enter, then stands, stretches, and leaps daintily to the floor. I expect her to come over for a scratch and cuddle, but instead she just blinks her huge, accusing eyes at me, then turns around and strolls to the back of the apartment, tail lifted high, butt in the air. She pads up the stairs, turns into Jamie’s room, and disappears.

“I guess she told you,” Damien says, amusement lacing his voice.

“At least she looks well fed.” Jamie told me she left Kevin, our cute but spacey neighbor, in charge of feeding the cat. Considering I sometimes wonder how Kevin makes it through the day, I can’t say that I fully endorsed her choice of pet sitter.

I drop my bag on the floor and toss the mail onto the bed. “I can’t believe she left it here,” I say, though of course I can. If left up to Jamie, the bed will become a permanent fixture, much like the pile of clothes at the bottom of her closet or the science project that is undoubtedly growing in the fridge since I wasn’t around to detox the condo every few days.

Damien has left the suitcase by my bag, and now I unzip it, then rock back on my heels with a frown. This is the part about traveling I really don’t like. It’s crammed full, and I am not looking forward to sorting through everything—to wash, to hang, to iron. I fall back on the time-honored ploy of procrastination, ignoring my luggage while I sort through the mail. Bills, bills, junk, magazines. While I’m doing that, Damien stalks my apartment, checking out the newly installed motion sensors and other gizmos that his team has hooked up throughout the place.

As he returns from my bedroom, I notice one letter that stands out from the pile. Its return address catches my attention—Stark International. I smile and glance up at Damien, expecting a knowing grin. He is focused on his phone, however, tapping out a response to yet another text message that has recently pinged.

Since I’m not inclined to wait, I slide my finger under the flap, unsealing the envelope. As I do, I notice that Damien is returning his phone to his pocket, which I take as a sign that he’s finally done. Ryan, I think, must be relieved.

I tug the single sheet of paper from the envelope and unfold it. I expect sensual words and decadent language. What I find makes my blood run cold.

HIS PAST WILL ALWAYS HURT YOU

I gasp and drop the paper to the floor.

“Nikki?” Damien is at my side immediately, but he has approached from the opposite side of the bed, climbing on and clutching my shoulders. “What is it?”

I take a deep breath and force myself to get my shit together. Someone is playing with me—the text, my car, now this. But it’s only a piece of paper. Just a goddamn piece of paper. A frisson of fear snakes through me, but I force it under. I can deal with this. I can handle it.

“Nikki.”

“There.” I point to the floor, then slide off the bed to retrieve it, but Damien is too fast, and he snatches it up before I am able.