Claim Me: A Novel

scared. “In that case I think you would listen when I tell you to get out. And for the record, Nikki is a woman, not a girl. And the choice she made was her own.”
    Her mouth drops open, but she doesn’t reply. Instead she turns back to me. “Your mother expected better things from you.”
    I can do nothing but stand there. I’m frozen, my body chilled to the bone. And, goddammit, I’m starting to shake. Deep, trembling shudders that I cannot control, and that I do not want Susan Morris to see.
    Throughout all of this, Ollie has stood stock-still, Courtney’s hand tight on his arm. But now he, too, takes a step forward. “Do what Mr. Stark says and get the hell out of here or I will have you fired from this pageant right here, right now.”
    “I—” She shuts her mouth, gives each of us a hard look, then leaves.
    I do not remember sliding into Damien’s embrace, but that is where I am, and it feels warm and safe, and my trembling starts to subside. I don’t want him to open his arms, because I don’t want to face the world. I want to be home with him. Back in the penthouse where ghosts from my past don’t pop up. Where I’m not accused of being a whore. Where my personal life isn’t gossiped about by people who don’t know me and know even less about the choices I’ve made.
    “Are you okay?” Courtney asks.
    “No,” I say. “I’m not.”
    I see Ollie shoot Damien a vitriol-filled look. He may have sided with me against Susan Morris, but it’s clear that he’s still not on Team Damien.
    “I’ll take you home,” Damien says.
    I nod, then hesitate, then shake my head. “No. I want to stay.”
    “You’re sure?”
    I hesitate only a moment, then nod. “I just need to go to the bathroom. Then I want to find Jamie. We haven’t looked at all the booths yet.” I am proud of myself. I sound so steady even though I’m anything but.
    Damien’s phone buzzes and he glances at the screen, then types out a quick response before sliding it back in his pocket.
    “Not important?”
    “Charles,” he says. “He’s at one of the cash bars and wants to have a quick talk. I told him I was with you, and business could wait until morning.”
    “Can it?”
    He looks right into my eyes. “Right now, the only thing I care about is you.” He takes my arm. “It looks like the ladies’ room is over there.”
    While Damien waits, I go in—then immediately clutch the counter. I’ve been working so hard not to let Damien see my cracks. Susan Morris. My mother. The rumors of sex for money, of being a whore. It’s all tied up in my head like so much noise and I want to sort it out. I want Damien—but I know he blames himself, and if I can just gather myself a little. If I can just make one tiny inroad on keeping myself collected …
    I look around for something sharp, but there is nothing. Only the granite counter, the mirror, and the ceramic soap dispenser.
    I remember the apartment and the glass vase that Damien shattered. I close my eyes, feeling the imaginary shard in my hand. Glass cuts on all sides. It’s perfect. It’s like a tiny miracle biting into the palm of your hand.
    Wildly, I open my eyes and look around for something with which to break the glass. I snatch the soap dispenser, stand back, and start to hurl it.
    That is when I see my reflection.
Oh, God. What am I doing?
    My fingers go slack, and the dispenser crashes to the ground—and in the back of the room, from behind a closed stall door, I hear someone yelp.
    I jump—I hadn’t realized anyone was in there—then immediately relax when I see it is Jamie. Her face is splotchy and her makeup is smeared, but I must look worse because she takes one glance at me, looks down at the ceramic shards on the floor, and says, “I’m finding Damien.”
    “Jamie!” I call, trying to get her back, but it’s too late. She’s out the door, and only moments later, Damien is in the ladies’ room.
    “I didn’t,” I say immediately. “I just dropped a soap dish. That’s all. Jamie overreacted.”
    He is looking at me with such intensity that I am certain he can see the lie inside my head. “All right,” he says slowly. “Now tell me the rest of it.”
    I sigh, then drop my gaze. I count to five, and then look back up to him, my composure restored. “I was going to,” I say. “But I talked myself out of it. And then, really, I dropped the dispenser. It’s slippery.”
    “You talked yourself out of it.” It’s a statement, not a