Claim Me: A Novel

surprise me. I can easily picture me talking about Damien with Jamie, but somehow the idea of Damien chatting with his friends about me isn’t something I’ve contemplated before. I can’t deny that the knowledge feels nice. It’s one more thread in the tapestry that is Nikki and Damien.
    “Thank you for rescuing us,” I say. And then, because I can’t help but jump all over this peek into Damien’s life, I add, “How do you two know each other?”
    “Alaine’s father practices sports medicine. We got to know each other on tour.”
    “Two young men crisscrossing Europe,” Alaine says wistfully. “Those were good times, my friend.”
    I am watching Damien carefully. I may not know much, but I do know that his years playing tennis were hardly full of happy, fluffy memories. But when he smiles, it seems genuine. “Those were the best times,” Damien says, and I feel an odd sense of relief knowing that his years on the tennis circuit were not total hell. That there had been one or two moments of sunshine peeking through the gloom.
    “The two of us and Sofia,” Alaine says with a laugh. He glances at me. “Two years younger than us, and the little imp was determined to stick like glue. Have you heard anything? How is she?”
    “Fine,” Damien says, and I am certain that Alaine catches the curtness of his tone, because his lips curve down in the slightest of frowns before curving back up again in what I can only assume is an attempt to be jolly.
    “At any rate,” he says as the elevator glides to a stop, “enough about the old days. You are here now for the food, not the memories.”
    The doors open, and Alaine gestures for me to exit first. I do, and find myself in a reception area that can only be described as spectacular. It’s not elegant, and at the same time it’s not casual. It is uniquely its own, with a glass roof that is open to the night sky crisscrossed by colored beams of light. The maitre d’ station is an aquarium, and the hair of the girl who stands behind it is at least as colorful as the fish in the tank.
    The wall to the left is entirely made of glass and reveals a chunk of Santa Monica and the Westside, along with a bit of beach, and the tiniest view of the Pier. The wall in front of us seems to be made up of panels that glow in the same colors as the beams of light crisscrossing the ceiling. I’m not sure if the design is modern or futuristic, but I like it. It’s funky and different and so brightly colored that I don’t see how the gray fog that has settled over this evening can stay.
    “I must get back to the kitchen,” Alaine says. “But Monica will show you to your booth. Ms. Fairchild, it has been a pleasure. Enjoy your meal, and I hope to see both of you next Friday at the dedication.” His voice rises as if in question, but I can’t answer since I have no idea what he’s talking about.
    “I won’t be attending,” Damien says. “But I’ll call you next week. We should have drinks.”
    His words are perfectly polite and certainly friendly, but they are spoken from behind a mask. I wonder if Alaine can see it. Does he truly know Damien? Or does he only know the bits and pieces of the man that Damien has selectively revealed over the years?
    I have a feeling that it is the latter. I doubt that anyone has ever seen completely beneath Damien’s mask, and the thought that I am included in that group makes me sad. I want so desperatelyto shine a light into those dark places, and I even believe that Damien wants me to. But he’s spent so long building walls to protect his privacy that I think he forgot to build a door. And now all I can hope is that we can chip away at the stone together.
    We’ve been following Monica across the room, weaving between the tables to reach a bright green panel of light. She grabs a handle that I hadn’t noticed and uses it to slide the panel to one side, much like the walls in Japanese movies. Inside, there is a table between two booth-style benches. But it’s not a true booth, because if you slide through or walk behind the bench seats, there is an open area between the table and a window that looks out onto the spectacular, brightly lit Santa Monica Pier.
    I follow Damien to the glass, drawn by the allure of both the man and the vibrant colors.
    “Your wine is already breathing,” Monica says, gesturing to the table, “and you have both flat and sparkling water. Will you be having your usual, Mr. Stark?”
    “Just