I tremble. I think of how the photos wrecked Damien, a man with so much strength it awes me. What would they do to this fragile girl? “But wouldn’t she call you? Aren’t you the one she’d turn to for help?”
“I don’t know. Sofia is many things, but predictable isn’t one of them. She once disappeared for six months. Turned out she screwed some guy who did time making fake passports, and since I haven’t been able to find any evidence that she left the UK under her own name, I can’t help but wonder if she’s hooked up with him again. She’s smart and she’s fearless. She’s lived on the streets, so if she feels like she needs to hide, she can disappear better than anyone. Most important, she’s fucked up enough to happily fall off the grid.”
“I get that you love her, and I get that she’s not entirely stable, and I get that you’re worried. But, Damien,” I say gently, “she’s an adult. And no matter what your history, she’s not your responsibility.”
“Maybe not, but it feels like she is.”
I can’t help but nod in understanding. After all, Jamie’s not my responsibility, either. I sigh and stretch out beside Damien. He presses a kiss to my forehead, then links his fingers in mine. A moment later, he presses a button on a remote control.
The lights on the court wink out, and we are thrust into a darkness broken only by the gentle glow of a blanket of stars spread wide across the sky above us.
Chapter Nineteen
After Saturday’s drama, I want to bottle Sunday so that I can keep it close and pull it out whenever I need it. We spend the day doing everything and nothing. Even Damien turns off, abandoning his quest to find Sofia or my stalker or the bastard who leaked those photographs in favor of entering a purely vegetative state with Jamie and me.
Jamie and I rouse ourselves from our prone positions around lunchtime in order to take a walk along the beach. Damien doesn’t join us, claiming he’s too engrossed in his reread of Asimov’s I, Robot. Considering Damien’s love of science fiction, I do not doubt that the book has captured him, but I also know that the reason he’s not coming is because I asked him not to. I want some time to interrogate Jamie about her announcement that she is considering moving back home to Texas.
Once we’re actually out with the sun and the surf, though, I can’t seem to find the right moment. Instead, we chatter about nothing as we walk all the way through Damien’s property to the ocean, then north up the beach to our nearest neighbor. He’s tall and muscled and his coffee-colored skin is slick with the sea. He waves at us as he comes out of the water with a surfboard. Jamie, I think, is going to have a heart attack when she sees him.
“Who is he?” I whisper as we turn around and head back toward home.
“That’s Eli Jones. He won the Oscar for best supporting actor last year.” She shakes her head. “You really are hopeless.”
“I am,” I say. And, since I doubt I’ll find a better transition, I add, “It’s going to be hard to focus on your acting career if you move back to Texas.”
She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah, well, we both know that it’s a long shot career. It’s not like I’ve taken LA by storm.”
We’re both barefoot, and now she kicks her toes through the water, sending droplets flying. They twinkle for a moment in the sun, then quickly fall, lost once again to the churning water of the ocean. I can’t help but think of Jamie; I want more for her than fifteen minutes of fame, and I fear that my lack of enthusiasm for her move is more about me than about what is best for Jamie.
“Whatever you decide,” I say firmly. “You know I’ve got your back.”
We’ve crossed the beach and are trudging back up the path to Damien’s house when my phone rings. I pull it out from where I’ve stashed it in the pocket of my terrycloth cover-up and am surprised to see Courtney’s name on the screen.
“Hey, Courtney. What’s up?” Courtney is Ollie’s fiancée, and we’ve known each other for years, though not as well as I’d like since she is constantly traveling for her job. Still, she’s sweet and genuine and I think she loves Ollie. I love him, too, but I don’t love the way he fucks around, and even though Ollie ranks higher than Courtney on the best-friend-o-meter, I can’t help but feel that she deserves someone better.
Beside me, Jamie’s eyes are wide. What is it? she mouths, but I can only shrug.
“Ollie and I want to know if you and Damien are free on Tuesday night. Jamie, too. Is she with you? Ollie said she’s staying with you and Damien this week?”
I glance sharply at Jamie. She hadn’t told me that she’d told Ollie where she’s crashing. I shouldn’t feel suspicious—after all, they were friends before they fucked, and I hope they’ll be friends after—but I can’t help but be nervous.
“Yeah,” I say, looking hard at Jamie, whose sheepish expression only makes me more nervous. “She’s here. What’s up on Tuesday?”
“Nothing specific. But I don’t have any trips this week, and we haven’t seen y’all in forever. I told Ollie that we should all go to Westerfield’s. You know it, right? That place in West Hollywood.”
“I know it,” I say wryly. Westerfield’s is one of Damien’s properties.
“So can you come?”
Part of me wants to say no, because I’m terribly afraid that there will be drama. But a bigger part of me still hopes that Jamie and Ollie and I can get back to where we were. “Sure,” I finally say. “We’ll be there.”
By the time evening rolls around, we have lounged by the pool, walked along the beach, played air hockey in a game room that I didn’t even know the property boasted, and watched the first two Sean Connery Bond films while stuffing our faces with popcorn.
For dinner, Jamie suggests that we roast hot dogs on sticks over the fire pit, and then make s’mores. It’s calorie-laden and gooey and fun, and as I lay beside Damien and lick chocolate off his fingertips, I can’t help but wonder if life can go on like this forever.
It can’t, of course, but for these few hours I am enjoying the sanctity of life within this bubble.
It ends all too soon, though. At ten, Sylvia calls to patch Damien in on a conference call with one of his Tokyo suppliers. He kisses me lightly, then heads inside to take the call. I watch him go, sipping my whiskey and enjoying the way his ass looks in his favorite threadbare jeans. Jamie, I see, is also appreciating the view. She meets my eyes, then grins. “What? Like you don’t know he’s hot?”
“Trust me,” I say as I lean forward to grab another square of chocolate. “I am fully aware of his hotness.”
“Making another?” Jamie asks, passing me the bag of marshmallows.
“Nope. Just eating the chocolate.”
“You okay?”
I glance up at her. “Chocolate isn’t always a sign of a deep emotional crisis.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.”
I put down the chocolate, suddenly wary. “Why?”
“No reason.” She holds up a hand as if warding off my nonexistent protest. “Really. I was just wondering what was going on with the whole stalker thing. Not that I don’t totally love it here,” she adds quickly. “But, hey, I like being around my stuff.”
“I don’t know. Sofia is many things, but predictable isn’t one of them. She once disappeared for six months. Turned out she screwed some guy who did time making fake passports, and since I haven’t been able to find any evidence that she left the UK under her own name, I can’t help but wonder if she’s hooked up with him again. She’s smart and she’s fearless. She’s lived on the streets, so if she feels like she needs to hide, she can disappear better than anyone. Most important, she’s fucked up enough to happily fall off the grid.”
“I get that you love her, and I get that she’s not entirely stable, and I get that you’re worried. But, Damien,” I say gently, “she’s an adult. And no matter what your history, she’s not your responsibility.”
“Maybe not, but it feels like she is.”
I can’t help but nod in understanding. After all, Jamie’s not my responsibility, either. I sigh and stretch out beside Damien. He presses a kiss to my forehead, then links his fingers in mine. A moment later, he presses a button on a remote control.
The lights on the court wink out, and we are thrust into a darkness broken only by the gentle glow of a blanket of stars spread wide across the sky above us.
Chapter Nineteen
After Saturday’s drama, I want to bottle Sunday so that I can keep it close and pull it out whenever I need it. We spend the day doing everything and nothing. Even Damien turns off, abandoning his quest to find Sofia or my stalker or the bastard who leaked those photographs in favor of entering a purely vegetative state with Jamie and me.
Jamie and I rouse ourselves from our prone positions around lunchtime in order to take a walk along the beach. Damien doesn’t join us, claiming he’s too engrossed in his reread of Asimov’s I, Robot. Considering Damien’s love of science fiction, I do not doubt that the book has captured him, but I also know that the reason he’s not coming is because I asked him not to. I want some time to interrogate Jamie about her announcement that she is considering moving back home to Texas.
Once we’re actually out with the sun and the surf, though, I can’t seem to find the right moment. Instead, we chatter about nothing as we walk all the way through Damien’s property to the ocean, then north up the beach to our nearest neighbor. He’s tall and muscled and his coffee-colored skin is slick with the sea. He waves at us as he comes out of the water with a surfboard. Jamie, I think, is going to have a heart attack when she sees him.
“Who is he?” I whisper as we turn around and head back toward home.
“That’s Eli Jones. He won the Oscar for best supporting actor last year.” She shakes her head. “You really are hopeless.”
“I am,” I say. And, since I doubt I’ll find a better transition, I add, “It’s going to be hard to focus on your acting career if you move back to Texas.”
She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah, well, we both know that it’s a long shot career. It’s not like I’ve taken LA by storm.”
We’re both barefoot, and now she kicks her toes through the water, sending droplets flying. They twinkle for a moment in the sun, then quickly fall, lost once again to the churning water of the ocean. I can’t help but think of Jamie; I want more for her than fifteen minutes of fame, and I fear that my lack of enthusiasm for her move is more about me than about what is best for Jamie.
“Whatever you decide,” I say firmly. “You know I’ve got your back.”
We’ve crossed the beach and are trudging back up the path to Damien’s house when my phone rings. I pull it out from where I’ve stashed it in the pocket of my terrycloth cover-up and am surprised to see Courtney’s name on the screen.
“Hey, Courtney. What’s up?” Courtney is Ollie’s fiancée, and we’ve known each other for years, though not as well as I’d like since she is constantly traveling for her job. Still, she’s sweet and genuine and I think she loves Ollie. I love him, too, but I don’t love the way he fucks around, and even though Ollie ranks higher than Courtney on the best-friend-o-meter, I can’t help but feel that she deserves someone better.
Beside me, Jamie’s eyes are wide. What is it? she mouths, but I can only shrug.
“Ollie and I want to know if you and Damien are free on Tuesday night. Jamie, too. Is she with you? Ollie said she’s staying with you and Damien this week?”
I glance sharply at Jamie. She hadn’t told me that she’d told Ollie where she’s crashing. I shouldn’t feel suspicious—after all, they were friends before they fucked, and I hope they’ll be friends after—but I can’t help but be nervous.
“Yeah,” I say, looking hard at Jamie, whose sheepish expression only makes me more nervous. “She’s here. What’s up on Tuesday?”
“Nothing specific. But I don’t have any trips this week, and we haven’t seen y’all in forever. I told Ollie that we should all go to Westerfield’s. You know it, right? That place in West Hollywood.”
“I know it,” I say wryly. Westerfield’s is one of Damien’s properties.
“So can you come?”
Part of me wants to say no, because I’m terribly afraid that there will be drama. But a bigger part of me still hopes that Jamie and Ollie and I can get back to where we were. “Sure,” I finally say. “We’ll be there.”
By the time evening rolls around, we have lounged by the pool, walked along the beach, played air hockey in a game room that I didn’t even know the property boasted, and watched the first two Sean Connery Bond films while stuffing our faces with popcorn.
For dinner, Jamie suggests that we roast hot dogs on sticks over the fire pit, and then make s’mores. It’s calorie-laden and gooey and fun, and as I lay beside Damien and lick chocolate off his fingertips, I can’t help but wonder if life can go on like this forever.
It can’t, of course, but for these few hours I am enjoying the sanctity of life within this bubble.
It ends all too soon, though. At ten, Sylvia calls to patch Damien in on a conference call with one of his Tokyo suppliers. He kisses me lightly, then heads inside to take the call. I watch him go, sipping my whiskey and enjoying the way his ass looks in his favorite threadbare jeans. Jamie, I see, is also appreciating the view. She meets my eyes, then grins. “What? Like you don’t know he’s hot?”
“Trust me,” I say as I lean forward to grab another square of chocolate. “I am fully aware of his hotness.”
“Making another?” Jamie asks, passing me the bag of marshmallows.
“Nope. Just eating the chocolate.”
“You okay?”
I glance up at her. “Chocolate isn’t always a sign of a deep emotional crisis.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.”
I put down the chocolate, suddenly wary. “Why?”
“No reason.” She holds up a hand as if warding off my nonexistent protest. “Really. I was just wondering what was going on with the whole stalker thing. Not that I don’t totally love it here,” she adds quickly. “But, hey, I like being around my stuff.”
