Claim Me: A Novel

takes a moment for those words to come, and when they do, they surprise me. “Come with me,” he says with an enigmaticsmile. He holds out his hand, then leads me to a reading area tucked away against the east wall. It’s the most private area of the mezzanine, and there is no line of sight to the third floor. It is dark here, the only illumination coming from the twinkling lights upon the railing.
    “What are you doing?” I ask as he pulls me to the wall, then flips a switch. Immediately, soft light fills the long, glass-topped display case in front of us. There are only two things inside, as if this case is meant for treasures, and only two have been located.
    They are battered copies of
Fahrenheit 451
and
The Martian Chronicles
, both by Ray Bradbury. I’m confused, but I trust that Damien has a purpose.
    “Bradbury’s one of my favorite writers,” he begins.
    “I know.” He’s told me about his love of science fiction as a child. In a way, it was his weapon against his father, his coach, and his life. I understand; how can I not when I’d relied on weapons of my own?
    “He lived in Los Angeles, and one day I heard that he was going to be signing books at a store in the Valley. I begged my father to take me, but he’d scheduled an additional practice with my coach, and neither one of them was willing to cut me a break.”
    “What did you do?”
    His grin is slow and wide. “I went to the signing anyway.”
    “How old were you?”
    “Eleven,” he says.
    “But how did you get there? Didn’t you live in Inglewood?”
    “I told my dad I was going to the courts, hopped on my bike, and headed for Studio City.”
    “At eleven? In Los Angeles? It’s a miracle you survived.”
    “Trust me,” he says dryly. “The trip was much less dangerous than my father when he learned what I’d been up to.”
    “But that’s an insane distance. You rode all that way?”
    “It’s only about sixteen miles. But with the hills and the traffic,it took me longer than I thought it would. So when I realized that I’d be late, I hitched a ride.”
    My chest is tight, my mother’s warning to avoid strangers and never, ever, ever pick up hitchhikers ringing in my ears. I am terrified for the boy he was, taking horrible chances because the father that he was supporting was too much of a shit to grant him the one small request that could make him so happy.
    “It was close,” he says. “But I made it on time.”
    Obviously I already know that he survived the journey, but even so, my shoulders sag with relief. “And you got the books,” I say, with a nod to the case.
    “Unfortunately, no. I got there during the scheduled time for the signing, but they were all out of books. I decided to ask Bradbury to sign a bookmark instead, so I told him my story and he told me he could do better than a bookmark. Next thing I know, his driver is putting my bike in the trunk of his car and we’re off to his house. I spent three hours chatting with the man in his living room, then he let me pick two books off his shelf, signed them, and had his driver take me home.”
    I feel ridiculously weepy at this story and blink back the threatening tears. “And your dad?”
    “Never told him. He was pissed as hell, but all I confessed to was taking my bike and riding along the beach. I paid for it,” he adds darkly, “but I had the books. I still have the books,” he adds, nodding toward the case.
    “You do,” I say. “Bradbury sounds like a really nice man.”
    “He was.”
    “This is a wonderful story,” I say, and I mean it. These are the kinds of tidbits from his life that I want inside me. Bits of Damien, to fill me up. “But I’m not sure why you’re telling it to me now.”
    “Because the things in this house mean something to me. Not the props I had brought in for the party, but the real things. There’s not much yet, but it’s all precious to me. The art. Eachknickknack. Even the furniture.” He looks at me, and I see passion in his eyes. Not sexual, though. This is deeper. “You are no exception, Nikki. I brought you to this house because I want you here, just as I wanted your portrait.”
    I lick my lips. “What are you saying?”
    “I’m saying that I don’t think you could have made me happier than to say you felt jealous watching Giselle act as hostess of the party. But let’s be clear. She’s not the hostess in this house, and she never could be. Do you understand?”
    I nod awkwardly. I am