Claim Me: A Novel

denied, but the intimacy of a letter really can’t be replicated.
    By the time Edward pulls up in front of the condo that I share with Jamie in Studio City, I have finished the note. I fold it neatly, slide it into the matching envelope I find in the folio pocket, seal it, and print my return address on the top left corner. I realize then that I don’t know the street address of Damien’s Malibuhouse. Odd, considering how much time I’ve been spending there. But it doesn’t matter. The letter will reach him just as easily at his office building, which is also where his downtown apartment is located. I print his name and address neatly across the center of the envelope:
    Damien Stark, CEO
    Stark International
    Stark Tower, Penthouse
    S. Grand Avenue
    Los Angeles, CA 90071
    I can’t remember the street number for the tower, but under the circumstances I imagine that the post office can deal. I find a stamp in my wallet and affix it to the envelope. Then I slip out of the car and smile at Edward. “I need to shower and change and grab a few things. I might be a while.”
    “That won’t be a problem,” he says, and as I head toward the stairs, he slips back behind the wheel.
    I feel absolutely no guilt whatsoever about my plan. Edward undoubtedly has an audiobook, and it’s not as if he needs to go back to Malibu in order to drive Damien around. By the time he realizes that I have snuck down the back stairs to my own car, I imagine he’ll have gotten in quite a bit of quality time with whatever book he’s enjoying.
    I slide the letter through the outgoing mail slot before I hurry up the stairs to the condo, calculating the time I have to shower and change and get to the office. Traffic was worse than Edward had expected—there was a wreck on the 405—and I am going to be more rushed than I’d intended. I know I could have simply worn one of the zillion outfits that Damien has stocked for me, but this new job is my territory. And silly or not, I want to wear my own clothes and drive my own car.
    I expect to find the door unlocked, because Jamie never remembers to lock the damn thing, so I’m surprised to find both the dead bolt and the knob locked up tight.
    I dig my keys out of my purse, then frown as I enter the dark apartment. She’s probably asleep, and I hope that she’s alone. She probably is. Though Jamie drags men home like stray cats, she routinely kicks them out once they’ve given her bedsprings a thorough shaking. It’s dangerous and I worry, because it’s almost become a game with her. Unlike the games I play with Damien, though, I don’t think there’s any sort of safeword for Jamie.
    Her door is closed, and I consider passing by. But this is my first day at work, and I want to see my best friend.
    I tap lightly on the door, then lean close to listen. I expect either a groan or a startled apology followed by a rush to the door and a hug for me on my first day. But there’s only silence.
    “James?” I tap harder, but there’s still no answer. I take hold of the knob and turn, trying to both look and not look, just in case she finally let the guy she dragged home stay for the entire night.
    But the room is both dark and empty. I tell myself not to worry. Jamie probably just had somewhere to be this morning. Or else she crashed somewhere after a night of partying. Except I don’t really believe either of those explanations. Jamie’s not an early riser, and she rarely stays overnight anywhere. She’s not the kind to crash on a couch—she likes the comforts of home too much.
    I hope I’m overreacting, but I pull out my phone and tap out a text. Where r u? Do I need to send out a search party?
    I wait, staring at the screen, but my phone stays silent.
    Well, shit.
    I call, but the phone rolls over to voice mail.
    Now my stomach really is in knots. I can’t call the police—I may not watch much television, but I’ve watched enough to know that they won’t do a thing unless it’s been twenty-fourhours. I almost dial Damien, but my finger hesitates over his name. There might be nothing that he can do, but if I’m worried, I’m almost positive that he’ll cut his meeting short and come to me no matter how much I protest. He may be firmly perched on a white steed in my mind, but I am most definitely not a damsel in distress, and really don’t want to be.
    Fine. Okay. No problem. Jamie’s probably just in the shower, which is where I need to be. I’ll shower and change, and if