Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

her to move fifteen hundred miles away. But what I want and what Jamie needs are two entirely different things. “Just think about it before you do anything rash,” I finally say.
    Her eyes meet mine and we both laugh at the irony of my words. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, and we laugh even harder.
    We leave the serious shit behind and spend the rest of the ridecranking up the tunes, singing along with Taylor Swift, and downing mimosas. Because, after all, you can never have too much vitamin C.
    “Did you see that we’re finally famous?” Jamie asks, about the time we see the skyline of downtown LA.
    “What?”
    “Or, I am. Damien’s been famous forever, and you’ve been racking up your share of the press, too. But check it out.” She rummages in her purse for her phone and then passes it to me. “I took screenshots of all the stuff I found on the Internet. Just check out my photos.”
    I do. There, mixed in with pictures of an absolutely gorgeous guy, are candid shots of me and Damien and Jamie at the shops at Lake Arrowhead. Eating, talking, laughing. There’s even one with Damien’s arms around each of our waists. She peers over my shoulder and taps the screen. “That one’s all over Twitter,” she says. “I’m not sure if it’s because Damien’s famous or because he’s fuckalicious, but it’s totally gone viral.”
    “Maybe it’s because of you,” I say. The photographer caught Jamie in a laugh, her eyes bright, her hair shining. It’s the vibrant and beautiful girl in the picture that I know so well, but I can’t help but fear that the image Jamie has of herself is the one sitting beside me in the limo. Battered and bruised and not quite sure where to go next.
    It’s not until we reach Malibu that Jamie presses her hands against the window, peers out at the world with her brow creased in confusion, then turns to me. “This is not Studio City,” she says, as if I am the one who is confused.
    “You’re staying at Damien’s Malibu house.”
    Her brows rise and her smile turns devious. “I was kidding about that threesome. But if it’s important to Damien …”
    I put my hands over my ears. “I can’t hear you,” I say over and over again until she breaks down and starts laughing.
    “Seriously,” she says, “why am I staying in Malibu? Because if this is my punishment for wrecking his Ferrari, he kind of missed the mark.”
    “Not punishment,” I say. “Pragmatism.” I go on to explain about the rock and the stalker-style text.
    Her eyes are wide when I finish. “Whoa. At least you don’t have to deal with your fruitcake of a mother. You can thank me for taking
that
burden off you, anyway.”
    “You’ve been dealing with my mother? How? Why?” I have no idea what she’s talking about, but since I wouldn’t sic my mother on my worst enemy, I’m already sympathizing with Jamie.
    “She called me about a week ago—in a total Elizabeth Fairchild snit, I might add—and told me that since I was your best friend, could I please get you a message. Apparently—her words, not mine—you are emotionally confused, overwhelmed by your rich and bossy new boyfriend, and taking the whole thing out on her by ignoring her calls and emails.”
    “Shit,” I say. “Sorry.”
    “No, it’s okay. When she called, I was pissed off at my mom for some bullshit thing I don’t even remember now. After talking with your mother, I was practically giddy about my entire family tree.”
    “Thanks,” I say dryly. “Now I feel better.”
    She just grins. “Anyway, I guess she’s pissed that you sent someone to get all those old pictures of you, but then you ditched her calls. I’d ditch the calls, too, Nik, but why on earth would you tell someone to see your mom for old pictures? Who do you dislike so much you’d send them her way?”
    “I didn’t,” I say as a finger of worry trails down the back of my neck, making me shiver.
    “It may not be bad,” Jamie says, obviously seeing the concern on my face. “It’s probably just a reporter. Someone putting together the definitive article on the girl who got Damien Stark.”
    Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.
    She cocks her head and points a finger at me. “As of now, we’re entering a worry-free zone. For the rest of the day, nothing but sand and surf and margaritas.” She thrusts out her hand. “Deal?”
    “Deal,” I agree, because that sounds pretty damn good to me.

18
    My margarita-inspired