Claim Me: A Novel

suitcase and hefts it off the bed. For a moment, he stands there, just looking at me. I am scrambling for words, trying to figure out the magic formula to make him take it all back—but this is not a fairy tale and I am learning the hard way that there is no happily ever after. Then he walks to the door.
    He is leaving me. Damien Stark. The man I trusted above all others to never hurt me. He is walking away from me, and he’s ripping my heart out as he goes.
    Cold fury whips through me, laced with desolation. Tears trail down my cheeks as I bend and unfasten the emerald ankle bracelet. I take a breath and hurl it at him. “Damn you, Damien Stark,” I whisper. “Damn you for giving up on us.”
    He pauses and I see the pain on his face. He glances down at where the bracelet has landed on his feet. He starts to reach for it, then stops. I watch his face, expecting words of comfort. But they don’t come. Instead, I hear only the two words I wish were silenced: “Goodbye, Nikki.”
    And then he is gone.
    I am not sure how I manage the drive to Malibu, but I do. And when I pull into Evelyn’s drive, I can barely see, what with the tears swimming in my eyes.
    “Good God, Texas,” she says as she pulls open the door. “What happened to you?”
    “He left me,” I say, choking the words out between sobs. “He thinks he’s protecting me, and so he dumped me.”
    She sucks in air. “Damn fool of a boy,” she says. “I don’t care what everyone says about him being a goddamned genius, he fucked this one up, Texas. He damn sure did.”
    Her words only make me cry harder.
    “Aw, hell, girl, get inside.”
    “Is Blaine here?”
    “He’s in the studio,” she says, referring to a separate building on the property. “It’s okay. Cry all you want.”
    “I don’t want to cry,” I say. “I want him back. But he’s so damned convinced he’s doing the right thing.”
    “What the hell does he think he’s protecting you from?” she asks as she leads me to the kitchen and sits me down at the table.
    “The paparazzi.”
    “Phhht,” she says. “Fuck ’em.”
    “I wish they were that easy to blow off.” I eye her critically. “Blaine didn’t tell you?”
    “Tell me what?”
    I don’t want to go into this, but I need help. And she needs to understand why Damien left. Why he thinks that he has to leave.
    “I have scars,” I finally say.
    She nods slowly. “There’s one on the painting. On your hip. Looks to be some on your thighs, too, but the shadows make it hard to tell. So what happened to you, Texas?”
    I swallow. “I happened to me.”
    The words hang there, and I wait for my tears, but they do not come. I don’t know if it’s me or if it’s Evelyn, but it’s easier to talk about now. No, that’s not true. I do know.
It’s me
. Damien has helped me change the way I look at my flaws.
    I grimace.
Goddamn him for leaving me
.
    “You’re saying that Damien thinks you’re going to start up with the cutting again?”
    I could kiss her for being so focused, so direct. “Yes,” I say. “I haven’t—not since I’ve been in LA. But I’ve come close.”
    “The paparazzi?” She puts a glass of water in front of me, and I sip from it gratefully.
    “And all this craziness about the painting. It—well, it got to me.”
    “Hell, that kind of crap would get to anyone.”
    “Now the press is saying all sorts of shit about me sleeping with a murderer, and Damien thinks—”
    “That he’s got to be the hero and walk away. Goddamn the boy, you two aren’t supposed to be a tragedy.”
    “Trust me,” I say wryly. “I’m not crazy about the last-minute script change, either. So what can I do?”
    “You can haul your ass to Germany and get the boy back.”
    “But he’ll just send me home again. He thinks he’s being chivalrous, remember? I have to prove to him I can handle it, but how? It’s not like I can go a year without cutting, and then say ‘I told you so.’ So what can I do to prove to him right now that I’ll be okay?”
    “Ah, now here’s why you came to the right place. Because this is exactly the kind of sneaky shit you pick up after a lifetime in Hollywood. You just need to give the press nowhere else to go.”
    “I’m not following.”
    “They’re interested in you as a story. So make the story go away.”
    I blink, trying to process what she’s saying. And then it all clicks into place. I leap out of my chair and throw my arms around Evelyn. “You’re