Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

recognition. Then he nods and starts to type something into his machine as Damien takes the stage. My chest tightens, and suddenly I’m having a little trouble breathing. Damien, however, doesn’t look nervous at all. He’s standing there in front of the screen upon which some lyrics will begin to flash, the lights from above shining down on him. He’s wearing jeans and a casual linen shirt, and I can’t help but think that he’s the sexiest man in this bar. And he’s all mine.
    He taps the mic, and a soft
pop
reverberates through the room, making me jump. I shift in my seat and see Jamie hurrying over, her eyes as wide as mine feel.
    On stage, Damien focuses on the crowd, looking as cool and confident as if he were in his own office about to give a presentation to a client. “I’d planned on doing Elton John and Kiki Dee’s ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,’ but I’m having a little trouble working out the logistics of a duet.” I feel the eyes of the pub’s patrons as they turn to look at me. I’m not hard to find, especially considering Jamie’s hoot of laughter and then her fingers aimed shotgun-style in my direction. I cup my hand over my forehead and duck my head to hide my blush, not certain if I’m amused at Damien or desperately pissed off.
    Then again, I got myself into this mess. It may have been Jamie’s idea to start out with, but I adopted it fully. I should have known he’d find a way to turn it around to his full advantage.
    I draw in a breath, drop my hand, and lean back in my chair as Damien continues speaking.
    “So I’m going to go with a serenade.” He looks right at me. “For you, baby.”
    I brush away the tears that have welled and give him a shaky, happy smile. The music starts, and I’m enough of a fan of big band music and the Rat Pack that I recognize the song right away. The tears that I’d brushed away return immediately as Damien begins to croon the lyrics to Dean Martin’s “You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You.” It’s not a perfect voice, but it’s strong and on-key, and he has captured the audience.
    Then he’s stepping off the stage, the mic in hand, and coming to our table, his voice filling the place, even rising above the claps and catcalls from the patrons who are loving every second of this spectacle. Half of them are holding up smartphones, and I’m certain that this will be all over the Internet by tomorrow, but when Damien reaches his hand out for me, I suddenly don’t care. I take it, the world falling away. He’s casting a spell over me, and for a brief, wild second, I think that Sinatra’s “Witchcraft” would be more appropriate, because I am completely enchanted.
    I’m not sure how it happens, but suddenly I’m standing up, and Damien’s eyes are fixed upon mine, and everyone else in this pub has been swept away. It is only Damien and the music and me. He’s singing as if he means it, and as the famous lyrics come out of his mouth, I melt.
    Then it’s over and I’m crying and the crowd is applauding. Damien’s arms close around me and I’m vaguely aware of the applause and the camera flashes and the cheering. None of that matters, though. All that matters is Damien.
    Beside us, I see Jamie smiling tremulously, her eyes wistful but happy.
He’s a keeper
, she mouths.
    I nod in reply and cling tight to Damien.
I know
, I think.
I know
.

12
    It’s late when we get back from the bar, but the cool night air and Damien’s terraced stone patio are too enticing to resist. It looks out over a manicured lawn leading down to a private dock and the smooth surface of the lake. The sky is clear and the moon is full. It reflects off the sails and hulls of the various boats dotting the shore, adding a wash of muted color to what would otherwise be a gray tableau.
    Jamie immediately flops down on the huge daybed. The waitress had suggested flavored vodka in response to Jamie’s query as to what would be fun, and now she is in a whipped-cream-vodka-induced fog. I glance at Damien, then head into the house to get sparkling waters for all of us. When I return, Jamie’s humming “Come Josephine, In My Flying Machine” and staring up at the stars as Damien looks on, bemused, from where he sits on the nearby love seat.
    I meet Damien’s eyes. “She loves
Titanic
,” I say, by way of explanation.
    “I hope this doesn’t mean you’re drowning,” he says to Jamie.
    She just smiles and slowly shakes her head back and forth. “No,