Claim Me: A Novel

International dealing with the kind of problem huge corporations deal with.
    “I thought your company had broken some regulation about zoning codes or paid too little in taxes or something. This is—”
    “Worse,” Damien says. “Much worse.”
    I wait for him to say more. To explain. To lie. Something. Anything.
    He stays silent.
    I suck in air through my teeth, then press my fingers to my temples. I need to think. Mostly, I just need to be alone. “I’m going,” I say. “I need to check on Jamie.”
    “All right,” Damien says, his voice a little too calm. “Edward and I will drop you at home.”
    “I’ll get home on my own. Thanks.”
    “I’ll drive you,” Ollie says.
    “The hell you will,” I snap. With Damien, I’m lost in a maelstrom of anger and sadness and confusion and God knows what else. With Ollie, I’m just plain old pissed. “I’ll take a taxi.”
    I turn once as I walk away, and my eyes find Damien’s. I hesitate, expecting him to call after me, but he doesn’t, and I fight the urge to hug myself to ward off a coming chill. Slowly, I turn my back to Damien and I continue toward the street. I’m hurt and I’m confused, but right now I just need to focus on one thing. I just need to get home.
    It’s an easy shot over the hill from Beverly Hills to StudioCity, and I’m home in no time. I hurry inside, expecting to find Jamie in tears on her bed.
    She’s not home.
    Okay, okay
. I just have to think. Where could she be?
    I know Jamie well enough to know that she may try to soothe a bruised ego by banging some other guy, and I mentally start running through the single men in our complex that she hasn’t already gotten horizontal with. That’s one thing about Jamie—she rarely goes in for repeat performances.
    As if to underscore the brilliance of my thinking, a series of moans and groans floats in from next door. Douglas, once again getting lucky.
    At least I can cross him off my list. Although Douglas has made it clear he’d be up for round two, Jamie has repeatedly said no.
    I pace the apartment, wondering where she could be. I call the divey bar on the corner near our condo, but she hasn’t been there in days. I call Steve and Anderson, but they haven’t talked to her. They give me the names of a few other mutual friends. I call them, but nobody’s heard from her tonight.
    Shit, shit, shit
.
    Even though I know it will do no good whatsoever, I call the police. I’m coherent enough to forgo 911 and call the station directly. I speak to the officer in charge, explaining that my roommate came home plastered, but she’s not here now and I’m worried that she’s dead in a ditch somewhere.
    He’s nice enough—but he’s also not sending anyone to help. Not until she’s been gone for a hell of a lot longer than a few hours.
    I close my eyes and think. Maybe she said something to Edward? That she was going to change and go clubbing? That she was going to visit a friend? That she was going to LAX to splurge on a red-eye to New York?
    I don’t have a number for Edward, and my finger hesitates over Damien’s name. I’m not ready to talk to him, but I have to know. I suck in a breath, count to three, and call.
    He answers on the first ring and, damn me, I can’t even get the words out because of the tears that are clogging my throat.
    I’m still on the phone with him, choking out the story, asking him if I can speak to Edward, when he walks through the front door. I blink in confusion as he walks to me and very gently takes the phone from my hand and ends the call.
    “How did you get here so fast?”
    “Edward is parked at the end of the block. I was planning to come over anyway, but I was giving you time.”
    “Oh. Did you ask him?”
    “She didn’t say anything to him,” Damien says. “And he walked her to the door and heard her lock it after he left. He assumed she’d be asleep in minutes.”
    I press my hand against my forehead. I need to figure out what to do next, but it’s all blank. I don’t know what to do. I am completely lost—and I’m scared to death.
    “She’s drunk and she’s pissed and she’s going to do something stupid.”
    “Did you check for her car?”
    “Dammit,”
I say. “I didn’t even think about it.”
    “She could have taken a taxi or had a friend pick her up, but if it’s still here, it’s a start. I can get one of my security guys calling the taxi services to see if there was a call, and then—”
    I’ve been