Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

words are hard to force out past the knot of tears that has formed in my throat. I may not know exactly what’s in those pictures, but I get the general idea. And I understand why seeing them would wreck Damien.
    I stand, because right then all I want to do is return to him. To hold him and stroke him and tell him that it will all be okay. That nobody else knows.
    Then a horrible thought occurs to me. “Will the court release that stuff?”
    Maynard shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly. “Damien was given the duplicate set, and the court has ordered the file copy sealed.”
    “Good.” I take a step toward the door. “Thank you for telling me.”
    “Give him time, Nikki. It was a shock, but this doesn’t reallychange anything. There wasn’t anything in those photos that wasn’t already in his past.”
    I nod, my heart breaking for the boy who had to live through that nightmare. “Thanks,” I say again, then step out into the hall and pull the door closed behind me. I take a deep breath and lean back against the door frame. A shudder cuts through me, and I sag to the ground, my legs no longer able to hold me up. I press my forehead against my knees, wrap my arms around my legs, and cry.
    No wonder Damien is wrecked. The one thing in all the world he didn’t want made public came out of the sky like a meteorite and smashed him in the head. And, yeah, the photos are sealed now, but the judges saw them and the lawyers saw them. And someone out there had them. And that someone must still have copies.
    Shit
.
    I need to go to him. I need to hold him and tell him that it will be okay, and I rise to my feet and move slowly to the elevator. I press the “up” arrow to call the elevator to take me back to the suite, then immediately curse my own selfishness.
I
need to go to him?
I
need to hold him? What Damien needs is rest—he as much as told me so himself. What I want—what I need—can wait.
    With almost painful brutality, I jam my forefinger against the “down” button, but I don’t want to wait. I need to move, and if I’m not moving toward Damien, I need to be going somewhere else. I shift my stance in the hallway, feeling suddenly at loose ends. At the end of the hall, a lighted sign marks the stairwell. I hurry in that direction, then slip off my shoes. I hold them by the heels and run down the three flights of stairs in my bare feet. It feels good—it feels right—and when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I slip my shoes back on and exit the stairwell into the lobby.
    I am not sure what I intend to do. It has been such a long dayand I am so exhausted that the sun shining through the windows of the hotel seems like an anomaly. But it is still early afternoon on a stunningly beautiful summer day.
    I turn toward the entrance, but I’m stopped by the vibration of my phone. I yank it out of my purse expecting Damien.
    It’s a text from Ollie. Turn around.
    I do. He’s standing behind me, a few feet from the entrance to the bar. He lifts his hand and waves.
    Despite myself, I grin and wave back.
    He lifts his phone, and I see him typing another message. A second later, my phone buzzes.
    Hey, lady. Can I buy you a drink?
    I can’t help it—I laugh. A little early, isn’t it? I type, but the message doesn’t send because my phone is dead.
Shit
. I think back and remember that I forgot to plug it in when we got back from the lake last night.
    I hold it up so Ollie can see it and then, with an exaggerated gesture, I drop it from two fingers into my purse, as if I’m discarding something useless and slightly gross. Then I start walking toward him. He goes in ahead of me, and when I enter, I find him already sitting at the bar. The bartender comes up to us and slides a martini in front of Ollie and a bourbon on the rocks in front of me.
    “Thanks,” I say, speaking both to the bartender and to Ollie. “It’s a little early.”
    “Doesn’t feel like it,” he says. “Not today.”
    I take a sip of the drink. “No,” I agree. “It doesn’t.”
    He stirs the martini with the olive-skewered toothpick. “I’m glad Stark’s in the clear. I am. I swear.”
    I study his face, because I do not understand where this is coming from. But it is like a bright shiny sparkle of welcomeness in a shitty day that should have been an incredible one. So I do the only thing I can do—I smile and tell him thank you.
    “I figured you’d be locked away celebrating,” he says.
    “Damien’s