His other hand snakes around my waist, and he pulls me tighter against him. I gasp, both in surprise from the quick motion and from the pressure of his denim-clad c.o.c.k against the swell of my a.s.s.

"Damien," I whisper, my voice a plea. But whether I'm begging him to stop or continue, even I don't know.

His mouth is at my ear, his voice so carnal, so full of l.u.s.t, it makes my c.l.i.t throb. "I'm going to f.u.c.k you, Nikki. Pleasure? We're going to blow the roof off pleasure. I'm going to make you beg for it. I'm going to claim you. I'm going to tease you. I'm going to torment you. And you're going to come for me like you've never come in your life."

I can barely breathe I'm so turned on by the power of his words. And as he's talked, his hand has been snaking down under the waistband of my skirt, over my panties to cup my swollen, dripping c.u.n.t.

"You're so wet," he whispers. "Oh, baby, you're soaking."

I make some sort of rough noise in my throat. Maybe a response, I'm not sure. I'm shifting my weight shamelessly, wanting to feel his fingers against my swollen c.l.i.t. What was it he'd said about making me beg? I was on the verge right then.

He roughly yanks my panties to the side, and in what feels like one movement, he slides two fingers into me. "Tell me you like that." His voice is rough, demanding.

"Yes. G.o.d, yes." My v.a.g.i.n.a spasms around him as his fingers move in and out, finger-f.u.c.king me, teasing my c.l.i.t, and sending me higher and higher until I'm close, so close, so close.

I cry out as he pinches my nipple, and the delicious pain triggers my release. I come in violent, shuddering waves, his fingers still inside me, my body trying to draw him in, to keep him there, to hold on to the moment.

"Nikki," he whispers, gently pulling out of me. He turns me around-I am a limp rag-and his mouth closes over the tender nipple. He suckles it, pinching and pulling at the other one, the sensation of near-pain keeping my sensitive s.e.x throbbing. Slowly, he kisses his way down my cleavage, my belly. I'm still in my skirt, and as his tongue dips into and out of my belly b.u.t.ton, I hear the rough sc.r.a.pe of his palms over the raw silk of my skirt.

I am jelly. I am lost in a haze. I am floating.

But even here in my new heaven, that low rumble of fear is growing. I know what's coming, and even though I want it-want him-I don't think I'm strong enough yet to stand it. But maybe ... maybe ...

He wants you. Your snark. Your att.i.tude.

I cling to Jamie's words, hoping, even as Damien whispers that I'm beautiful, beautiful, so very, very beautiful. "I have to taste you," he says. "I want to lick all of that sweetness up and then kiss you. I want you to know how f.u.c.king amazing you taste."

His hands have reached the hem of my skirt, and now his fingers graze along my stockings as he pushes the skirt up, up until he's reached the band of my thigh-high stocking, and I'm no longer breathing and holding so tight to his shoulders that I fear I may break a bone.

And then his hands are on my flesh, rising above the tops of the stockings, and he's stroking the soft inner thigh, and I know the hard, swollen ugliness he'll feel as his hands climb higher and higher. I tense, fighting shame and fear and pain and memories. They beat their way in, through the haze of l.u.s.t and desire. Through the sweet moment of being in Damien's arms.

I try to battle it back, the voice in my head that tells me to run. I don't want to run. I want to try. I want to stay and I want to feel and I want to get lost in Damien's touch. I'm so hot and I almost believe what Jamie has said about him wanting me, me, me.

But then he whispers the one word that destroys everything. The one word that makes the fantasy disappear.

"Perfect," he says. "Dear G.o.d, Nikki, you're perfect."

12.

I jerk away, twisting sideways and banging my thigh against the side of the bar as I shove free from Damien's embrace.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I say. I don't look at him. "I have to go. I'm sorry." I yank my skirt down and reach back to zip it. My fingers shake as I b.u.t.ton my blouse. I don't bother with my bra, but hold my jacket closed with one hand as I hurry toward his foyer.

"Nikki-"

There's pain and confusion in his voice, and I feel like s.h.i.t because I'm the reason it's there and he doesn't deserve this. I should have cut this off sooner. h.e.l.l, I should have cut it off last night.

"I'm sorry," I say again, even though it's lame. I'm at the elevator, and the doors open the instant I press the b.u.t.ton. I'm relieved; I was afraid I'd have to wait for it. But then I realize that Damien is on the premises, so of course his elevator is going to be parked wherever he is.

I step inside and stand erect until the doors shut tight. Then I melt against the gla.s.s panel and let the tears flow. I have fifty-seven floors to get them out of my system. No, sixty, because my car's on the third parking level.

When the car eases to a stop, I hastily wipe my face and stand up straight, sliding my mask back into place as I fluff my hair and flash a quick smile at the mirror. Perfect.

But my act isn't necessary. There's no one waiting when the doors open. Still, I keep the mask on and the act up as I make the long walk across the Stark Tower side of the parking structure to the area beneath the bank building wherein C-Squared is housed. My car is on the far side, and I'm walking fast now, because I can feel the cracks all over me. I'm going to shatter soon, I know it, and I need to be in my car when I do.

It's right there, parked opposite the stairwell. The whole corner is dark and despite being open, it makes me twitchy. I reported it to the property manager my first day, but so far they've yet to put in a new bulb. Once again, I remind myself to ask Carl for another a.s.signed s.p.a.ce, because this corner is too d.a.m.ned creepy.

I hurry to the car and shove the key in the lock-because my Honda's almost fifteen years old, and I don't have a keychain remote. I yank the door open, then slide inside, letting the familiar sounds and smells surround me. I tug on the heavy door and the instant it slams shut, I lose it. Tears stream down my face, and I alternately clutch and pound on the steering wheel. Hitting and slamming and pummeling until the heel of my hand is red and raw and sore. I'm shouting, repeating a chorus of "no, no, no," but I don't even realize it until my voice fades, raw and raspy.

Finally my tears are spent, but my body doesn't seem to realize it. I convulse, hiccuping painfully as I try to breathe in and out and gather some control.

It takes a while, but I finally quit shaking. My hand is unsteady as I try to insert the key into the ignition. I can't manage. Metal sc.r.a.pes against metal. I drop the key ring. Fumbling, I bend down to pick it up again, only to whack my forehead on the wheel. I clutch the keys tight and curse, and pound my fist against the wheel one more time.

The tears are welling again, and I breathe deep. It's too much, too fast. The move, the job, Damien.

I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to escape. I want- I grab a handful of my skirt and thrust it up so that the material is gathered at my hips, exposing a triangle of panties and my bare thighs above the stockings.

Don't.

Just a little. Just this once.

Don't.

But I do. I spread my legs and press the key into the soft flesh of my inner thigh. Once upon a time, I kept a knife on my key ring. I wish I still had it. No. No, I don't.

The key's teeth bite into my skin, but it's nothing. Mosquito bites. I need more if I'm going to keep the storm at bay-and it's that realization of my need that hits me like a slap in the face.

Oh, G.o.d, oh, G.o.d, oh, G.o.d, what the f.u.c.k am I doing?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I shove open the door and toss the keys out into the dim parking garage. I hear them skitter across the asphalt. I don't see where they land.

I sit there breathing deeply, telling myself that's not who I am. I haven't cut for over three years. I fought, and I won.

I'm not that girl anymore.

Except of course, I am. I'll always be that girl. I can wish all I want, and I can run across the country, but those scars don't go away, and they won't stay hidden forever.

I guess I learned that the hard way. That's why I ran from Damien, isn't it? And that's why I'll keep on running.

A wave of loneliness crashes over me, and I think about what Ollie said. About how nothing would change. About how I could call him anytime I needed him.

I need him now.

I reach into my purse and pull out my phone. I have Ollie on speed dial and I punch in the number. It rings. Once. Twice. On the third ring, a woman's voice answers. Courtney.

"h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo, who is this?"

I forgot to give Ollie my new phone number. I'm not in his contacts, and she has no idea who's on the other end of the line.

I hang up, breathing hard. After a moment, I dial another number. This time, Jamie's voice mail answers.

"Never mind," I say, forcing a cheer into my voice that I don't feel. "I'm going shopping and thought you might want to meet up. But no big."

I hang up thinking that shopping sounds like a d.a.m.n fine idea. Retail therapy won't cure the world's ills, but it works pretty well to take your mind off them. On that point, at least, I agree with my mother.

I take a deep breath, then another. I'm calmer now, ready to go. Ready to crank the radio up on a cla.s.sic country station and let George Strait sing about how his problems are so much worse than mine.

I glance out my window, but don't see the keys. With a sigh, I push open my door and get out of the car, adjusting my skirt as I do. I'd thrown them hard, so they're probably yards away near the dark green Mercedes or the ma.s.sive Cadillac SUV. The only flashlight I have is the app on my iPhone, and I hope it'll be enough.

My heels click on the asphalt as I cross the garage to the Mercedes. The area with the Mercedes and the Cadillac isn't as dark as the corner with my car, but it's still dim, and I frown as I contort my body and shine the light, trying to look under the two cars without getting down on my knees and putting huge runs in my stockings.

It takes a while, but after circling the cars twice, I finally see the keys hidden in a shadow behind the Mercedes' back tire.

I s.n.a.t.c.h them up, then freeze when I see movement in my peripheral vision. There, near the stairwell by my car, I see the shadow of a man.

"h.e.l.lo?"

The shadow doesn't move, and I shiver, unnerved by the sensation that he is watching me.

"Hey," I call. "Who's there?" I stand, debating whether I should move forward-toward the shadow and the car-or whether I should start walking back toward Stark Tower and get a security guard to escort me.

I hold up my phone. "I'm calling security. You might want to take a hike."

At first, the man doesn't move. Then the shadow moves backward and is absorbed by the deeper darkness. A moment later, I hear a metallic creak, followed by the heavy thunk of the stairwell door slamming shut.

I shiver and hurry to my car. Right then, all I want is to get out of there.

By the time I arrive at the Beverly Center in West Hollywood, I've had my fill of George Strait and have twirled the dial back to the cla.s.sic rock station. I'm jamming to Journey as I pull into a s.p.a.ce right near the brightly lit escalator that leads into the fashionable mall.

Jamie hasn't called me back, and to be honest, I'm grateful. I'm feeling centered again, the Hyde to my Jekyll buried deep once more, and the thought of rehashing the whole day with Jamie just seems overwhelming. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to push those b.u.t.tons or tug on those triggers.

And I really don't want to think about the way I ran from Damien Stark.

What does he think about me now?

No. Not going there.

I get out of my car, lock it tight even though no one in this part of Los Angeles would be caught dead with my piece of s.h.i.t vehicle, not even a criminal, and head into the mall, my thoughts on makeup and shoes and purses. Thoughts of Damien Stark are not allowed.

The escalator moves me up, up, up, like I'm rising out of a dark h.e.l.l into the light of a shiny bright heaven. Beautiful people are everywhere, and we are alike in our plastic-ness. Me, the people, even the mannequins in the windows. We're all hiding behind our masks, strutting our stuff, pretending to be perfectly perfect.

Beautiful clothes call to me like sirens from window displays, and I dip in and out of the stores like flotsam moving with the tide. I pull things off racks. I try them on. I twist and turn in front of three-way mirrors and smile politely when the sales-clerks tell me how darling an outfit is. How it makes my legs look so, so s.e.xy. How I'll turn heads everywhere I go.

I put them all back.

In Macy's, I find a display of colored T-shirts, along with some cotton drawstring pants in a blue and white pinstripe material. I buy the pants and two T-shirts, also blue and white. I carry my little bag to the Starbucks and order a coffee loaded up with cream and a blueberry m.u.f.fin. Comfort clothes, comfort food.

I sit by the window and watch the world go by. Once again, I'm caught without my camera, and I wish I had it. It's been like a security blanket since Ashley gave it to me for Christmas during my freshman year of high school. I'd like to capture some of these pa.s.sing faces. They are mysteries, all of them. I watch them and try to guess their secrets, but it's impossible. I have no clue. She might be having an affair. He might beat his wife. The clean-cut teen might have shoplifted a pair of lacy underwear. There's no way for me to know, and that hollow, empty question mark lifts my spirits. If I can't look at them and read their secrets, then they can't know mine, either. I am a mystery, too. To them and, I hope, to Damien Stark.

I'm not proud of the way I burst out of his apartment. I know I owe him an apology. I probably owe him an explanation, too, but that will have to wait. I need to come up with something plausible. Stark may not be able to guess my secrets, but I'm certain he will know if I lie.

I finish my m.u.f.fin and stand up, taking the rest of my coffee with me. As I do, the full import of my thoughts. .h.i.t me. I'm planning to see Damien Stark again.

The thought twists through me, trepidation mixed with antic.i.p.ation. And a tiny bit of fear mixed in there, too. Will he even want to see me again? More important, will he accept that this thing between us has to come to an abrupt and permanent end?

Of course he'll accept it. Wasn't he the one who said it was my decision? Who'd put the power very firmly with me?

I'd blown it, though. I'd forgotten the depth of my own weakness, and it's never safe to think that you're stronger than you are.

My thoughts have propelled me through the mall back to the escalator. I take it down to my parking level and climb back in my car. I feel better even if I don't feel whole. But it's good that I've made the decision about Stark. I will see him, and I will apologize. But not yet. A few days. Maybe a week. I need time to get centered again. Time to grow strong.

Because Damien Stark is like crack to me. Seductive and very, very addictive.

13.

Jamie's car is parked in her spot when I get back to the apartment, and I'm glad. With luck, she won't have plans for the evening. It's Sat.u.r.day, and on the drive over the hill I decided that we should do the whole best friends hanging out thing. Maybe a hike in the hills above Studio City, then hit the showers, get dressed up, and do dinner and drinks in some trendy Los Angeles hot spot. After all, I'm still new in town. Los Angeles and I are still in the honeymoon phase.

I'm not overtly planning on telling her the details of my day, but I know that after a few gla.s.ses of wine I'll probably reveal all. The thought cheers me, actually. I've had my few hours to brood. Now I want to dish with my best friend and let her remind me that as screwed up as I might be, I'm not the biggest head case in the world. That's Jamie's special talent. No matter how many knots I twist myself into, she's the one who can unravel me. She and Ollie. I suppose that's why they're my best friends.

I circle the building, then take the stairs two at a time to 3G, our unit.

The door's unlocked, and I throw it open and stomp inside. "Dammit, Jamie, why not just post a sign on the door inviting every whack job in the city to waltz right in and-oh."

She's home, all right. Sitting on the couch, the television blaring out an old episode of Jeopardy! And sitting right next to her is Damien Stark.

At least he was sitting when I first burst through the door. Now he's standing and moving toward me. Jamie shifts position, pulling her feet up onto the couch and raising herself up so that I can't help but see her face over Damien's approaching form.

OMG, she mouths. He is so f.u.c.king hot.

Yes, he is.

He's still wearing jeans, but the sport coat and b.u.t.ton-down shirt are gone, replaced with a simple white T-shirt that accentuates his broad shoulders and strong, tanned arms. I imagine those arms holding a racquet. Then I imagine them holding me.