“Oh.” I’m not sure why, but the words surprise me. I can easily picture me talking about Damien with Jamie, but somehow the idea of Damien chatting with his friends about me isn’t something I’ve contemplated before. I can’t deny that the knowledge feels nice. It’s one more thread in the tapestry that is Nikki and Damien.
“Thank you for rescuing us,” I say. And then, because I can’t help but jump all over this peek into Damien’s life, I add, “How do you two know each other?”
“Alaine’s father practices sports medicine. We got to know each other on tour.”
“Two young men crisscrossing Europe,” Alaine says wistfully. “Those were good times, my friend.”
I am watching Damien carefully. I may not know much, but I do know that his years playing tennis were hardly full of happy, fluffy memories. But when he smiles, it seems genuine. “Those were the best times,” Damien says, and I feel an odd sense of relief knowing that his years on the tennis circuit were not total hell. That there had been one or two moments of sunshine peeking through the gloom.
“The two of us and Sofia,” Alaine says with a laugh. He glances at me. “Two years younger than us, and the little imp was determined to stick like glue. Have you heard anything? How is she?”
“Fine,” Damien says, and I am certain that Alaine catches the curtness of his tone, because his lips curve down in the slightest of frowns before curving back up again in what I can only assume is an attempt to be jolly.
“At any rate,” he says as the elevator glides to a stop, “enough about the old days. You are here now for the food, not the memories.”
The doors open, and Alaine gestures for me to exit first. I do, and find myself in a reception area that can only be described as spectacular. It’s not elegant, and at the same time it’s not casual. It is uniquely its own, with a glass roof that is open to the night sky crisscrossed by colored beams of light. The maitre d’ station is an aquarium, and the hair of the girl who stands behind it is at least as colorful as the fish in the tank.
The wall to the left is entirely made of glass and reveals a chunk of Santa Monica and the Westside, along with a bit of beach, and the tiniest view of the Pier. The wall in front of us seems to be made up of panels that glow in the same colors as the beams of light crisscrossing the ceiling. I’m not sure if the design is modern or futuristic, but I like it. It’s funky and different and so brightly colored that I don’t see how the gray fog that has settled over this evening can stay.
“I must get back to the kitchen,” Alaine says. “But Monica will show you to your booth. Ms. Fairchild, it has been a pleasure. Enjoy your meal, and I hope to see both of you next Friday at the dedication.” His voice rises as if in question, but I can’t answer since I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“I won’t be attending,” Damien says. “But I’ll call you next week. We should have drinks.”
His words are perfectly polite and certainly friendly, but they are spoken from behind a mask. I wonder if Alaine can see it. Does he truly know Damien? Or does he only know the bits and pieces of the man that Damien has selectively revealed over the years?
I have a feeling that it is the latter. I doubt that anyone has ever seen completely beneath Damien’s mask, and the thought that I am included in that group makes me sad. I want so desperately to shine a light into those dark places, and I even believe that Damien wants me to. But he’s spent so long building walls to protect his privacy that I think he forgot to build a door. And now all I can hope is that we can chip away at the stone together.
We’ve been following Monica across the room, weaving between the tables to reach a bright green panel of light. She grabs a handle that I hadn’t noticed and uses it to slide the panel to one side, much like the walls in Japanese movies. Inside, there is a table between two booth-style benches. But it’s not a true booth, because if you slide through or walk behind the bench seats, there is an open area between the table and a window that looks out onto the spectacular, brightly lit Santa Monica Pier.
I follow Damien to the glass, drawn by the allure of both the man and the vibrant colors.
“Your wine is already breathing,” Monica says, gesturing to the table, “and you have both flat and sparkling water. Will you be having your usual, Mr. Stark?”
“Just dessert,” he says. “For two.”
She inclines her head. “It will be right out. In the meantime, please enjoy the wine and the view.”
She leaves, the panel closes, and Damien stands completely still beside me. And then, without any warning at all, he lashes out and slams his palm against the glass.
“Damien!” I expect to hear a commotion from the booth beside us, or at least the clatter of Monica’s heels as she comes to check on us. There is nothing, though. Apparently we’re better insulated than I would have guessed.
“Do you know how much I’m worth?” Damien asks, and I blink at the seemingly random question.
“I—no. Not exactly.”
“It’s more than the GNP of many countries, and it’s damn sure enough to keep me as comfortable as I want to be for the rest of my life and then some.” He turns to face me. “But it’s not enough to keep those bastards away from you.”
My heart melts. “Damien. It’s okay. I’m fine.”
“You’re on the goddamn Internet in a bathing suit because of me.”
“I’m on the Internet in a bathing suit because my mother forced me into pageants from the time I was four. And because I didn’t have the balls to say no to her when I got older. I’m on the Internet because of those jerks out there. I’m not on the Internet because of you.”
“I don’t like that something that comes from me hurts you. I don’t like it,” he repeats. “But I don’t know that I have the strength to change it.”
“The strength?” I repeat, but he doesn’t answer.
I see the shadows cross his face before he turns back to the window. Damien Stark, the strongest man I know, is twisted into knots, and suddenly I am scared. “Damien?”