“It’s your money,” he says. “Or it will be soon. But if you need help, all you have to do is ask. I’ve gotten pretty good at this stuff,” he adds with a grin.
“Damien, please. I just—I just feel like I need to be the one who does this. On my own, you know?”
“No one survives in business going entirely on their own.”
“Damien …”
“Fine,” he concedes. “But let me give you some advice. If you’re looking to make a splash in the tech field, the time is now. I don’t know what ideas you’re developing, but I promise that you aren’t the only one. Screw around too long, and someone will hit the market first.”
“Like what happened to Carl.”
“Exactly.” He squeezes my hand. “Will you tell me your idea? I’m curious.”
I hesitate only a second. I don’t want to work for or with Damien, but I do value his opinion. And I’m proud of my idea and want to share it with this man who now fills my world.
“I have several smartphone apps already out there, and they’ll be part of the company, of course. But the marquee product will be a cross-platform note-sharing system for use on the Web.”
“I’m intrigued. Explain.”
I do, roughing out my idea of a web-based software that allows users to leave virtual sticky notes on webpages that their friends and colleagues can see when they access the same website. “That’s just the most obvious use. There are all sorts of permutations. But I think it has real potential.”
“So do I,” he says. “When you’re ready, I’ll help.”
Maybe it’s foolish to feel so proud of myself simply because my idea has the Damien Stark seal of approval, but I do. I beam at him and squeeze his hand. “How about you? How was your trip to San Diego? Did you buy a conglomerate? A country? A chain of gourmet cupcake bakeries?”
I’m being a goof, but his reaction doesn’t match my words. His face turns cold, the familiar ice returning, and I wonder what I could possibly have said. He picks up his water glass and takes a long drink. When he sets it down, he keeps his eyes on it for what feels like a very long time, but probably is only seconds. He turns the glass, the condensation making patterns on the polyurethane tabletop. Finally, he looks at me. “I was there to visit my father.”
The words come out level. Almost bland. But I realize how much he’s telling me. He could have simply told me he had a bad day. I would have believed him. Instead, he’s keeping his word. He’s giving me another glimpse into himself—and he has to know how much that means to me.
“How long has he lived in San Diego?” I ask. I keep my tone conversational, as if there was nothing monumental about this exchange of words.
“I bought him the house when I was fourteen,” he says. He takes another sip of water. “That was the year I fired him and hired a new manager.”
“Oh.” I had missed that on Wikipedia, but I hadn’t really been paying attention to the mentions of the people surrounding Damien. Only Damien himself. “It was nice of you to visit him. I’m guessing you two don’t have the best relationship.”
He looks at me sharply. “Why do you say that?”
I shrug; it seems obvious to me. “Him taking such tight control of your career. Making you play even when you wanted to quit and go to the science academy.”
“Right.” He leans back against the booth, and I’m struck by the odd sense that he’s relieved, but that doesn’t make sense.
“It was nice of you to go see him.”
“An unpleasant necessity.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, but I’m saved by the arrival of our waitress with the meal. As we eat, our conversation shifts to a rundown of our spa adventure. “It was amazing,” I say, telling him in great detail everything we did. “I’ve never had a mud bath before.”
“I’m sorry I missed it.”
“Me, too,” I say, smiling from the heat in his voice. My body clenches, and I’m reminded of the little silver egg tucked away inside me. I feel sexy and decadent—and a bit on edge, since I have no clue when Damien may pull that trigger.
“Did Jamie have a good time?”
“Are you kidding? She thinks you’re the world’s greatest humanitarian now. Seriously, it was wonderful of you to invite her. She’s been having a tough time of it.”
“How so?”
“She’s an actress,” I say, because that pretty much sums it up in Hollywood.
“Has she gotten any work?”
“A few local commercials and some equity waiver stuff. But considering she’s been here for years, she’s not exactly making progress. She’s frustrated. I think her agent’s getting frustrated. And I know finances are a concern. She’s not, you know, walking the streets in patent leather, but I think she may have actually slept with a few guys just because she knew they’d feed her well or cover her mortgage for the month.”
“And now you’re living there.”
“Well, that takes the pressure off, sure. But still. She has to find work.” I finish my steak and take a sip of wine. “What’s so frustrating is that she’s genuinely talented, and the camera loves her. If she could just get that break …” I trail off with a shrug. “Sorry. I’m rambling. But I love her and I feel bad for her.”
“You want to help her.”
“Yeah.”