“There’ve been some time-sensitive developments on a couple of matters that I’ve been chipping away at.” His voice is level, his words perfectly reasonable. I, however, don’t believe a word of it.
“Don’t shut me out again, Damien.”
“I’m not,” he says firmly. “Not everything is about us.”
I tense, the sting of his words as potent as a slap. “I see.” I finger the book in my lap. “Well, never mind.”
“Nikki . . . ” His voice is no longer cold.
I tilt my head to look at him, my own mask firmly in place. “It’s fine,” I say.
His eyes search mine, the near-black one seeming to see so deep into me that it is almost dizzying. I hold his gaze for as long as I can before I have to look away or else risk him seeing too clearly that I’m certain his words are all bullshit. What I don’t understand is why.
I turn my head, ostensibly to look out the window as the plane gathers speed, rushing forward to its inevitable climb. And as the wheels lift off, I can’t help but think that we have reached the point of no return, Damien and I. Like this plane, we will either continue to move forward, or we will crash.
There are no other options.
And as I glance sideways at Damien with his papers spread out and his face a mask of secrets and fears, I cannot help but be very, very afraid.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the narrow bed in the stateroom, feeling hollow. I brought the empty champagne flute back with me, and now I hold it like a baton—one hand on the base, and one hand on the rim, the fragile stem stretched out between my hands.
It would be so simple, I think. Just a contraction of muscles. One quick movement and—snap.
One second, maybe less, and I’d have the stem in my hand, its top raw, the edge of broken glass as sharp as a knife.
My skirt is hitched up so that I can sit like this, and beneath the material that is stretched taut across my legs, I can see the marred flesh of my inner thighs. I can imagine tracing the stem along the edge of the most jagged one. The pain as I press the glass into soft flesh. The release as I tug it down, my skin yielding and the horrible pressure in my chest finally lessening as the valve is open and all this shit that has been building can finally explode out of me.
I want it—oh, God, I want it.
No.
I squeeze my eyes tight, desperate for Damien’s hand. But he is not here, and it is just me, and I am not certain that I can do this alone.
Slowly, I run the rounded rim of the flute against my thigh. Just one snap—just a little pressure—
No, no, goddammit, no.
I will not do this, and I lift the glass, prepared to hurl it away from me, but a firm tap on the door startles me and I jump guiltily. I don’t expect it to be Damien—he returned to the jet’s office as soon as we reached altitude two hours ago, and I haven’t seen him since. Instead, I assume it’s Katie, the flight attendant, who promised to wake me when dinner was served.
“I’m not hungry,” I call. “I’m going to sleep a little longer.”
But then the door bursts open and he’s right there. Damien.
And there I am holding the goddamn flute.
I shift my position so that I’m sitting with my legs out and my back against the polished wood siding. I casually put the flute on the nearby table, hoping that he doesn’t realize the dark direction in which my thoughts were traveling.
He stands there for so long, I fear he isn’t going to say a word. His face is firm, his eyes sad. “You should have called me out for bullshit,” he finally says, and I allow myself the tiniest bit of relief. He didn’t see the glass; he didn’t realize what I was thinking.
“Of course it’s about us,” he continues. “There’s nothing in my life that isn’t about us. How could there be when my world revolves around you?”
“Don’t,” I say, still unbalanced and edgy. “Don’t shift the focus by plying me with romantic platitudes.”
I see the spark of anger fire in his eyes as crosses the stateroom in three long strides, the door clicking shut behind him. “Platitudes?” he repeats, his tone hard. “Jesus, Nikki, are you telling me you don’t know what you mean to me?” He reaches out to touch me, but stops with his fingers only inches from my face. “Haven’t I told you every single day that we’ve been together?”
I can feel the heat rolling off him. A violent passion. A sensual need. I close my eyes and draw a shuddering breath as my blood pounds through me in response. Oh, yes. I know how he feels about me; I feel the same way. Alive in his arms. Lost out of them. He is everything to me.
And that is why I am willing to fight so hard.
Slowly, I open my eyes and tilt my head to look at him. “I know,” I say. “But that doesn’t make it relevant. Maynard didn’t call about stock prices or your corporate logo or what they serve in the goddamn lunchroom at Stark Tower.”
He’s staring at me as if I’ve gone mad, and maybe I have a little. But dammit, I want him to understand.
“We’re not attached at the hip, Damien. Everything’s not about us. And that’s fine. Hell, it’s good. I don’t want to steal your autonomy any more than I want to hand you mine. But I have memorized every line of your face, and I recognized the shadows I saw in your eyes. So don’t trivialize something that really does affect us by making it sound like some minor irritation that’s going to require us to reschedule dinner next Thursday.”
He raises an eyebrow as he looks at me. “Well,” he says, and that simple word holds both surprise and acknowledgment.