Play with Me

He lifts a hand. “No comment?”

“Ah, well, if I had balls, he’d have me by mine, too.”

He barks out laughter. “Good answer.” His cell beeps and he glances at a message, sobering instantly. “That would be Damion wanting to know why I’m not in the meeting.”

“Don’t—”

“I’ll wait until after his meeting,” he assures me. “Do you have an accounting of what you believe was stolen from the charity event?”

“The accounting manager has it, or I can send it to you.”

“I’ll need to talk to her, anyway. Our insurance will cover the theft, and the shelter will still get the money.”

Relief washes over me. “Oh, good. I was worried about it.”

“Damion would write a personal check before he’d let the shelter get screwed.”

“It’s important to him.”

“Yes, and since I can read the unasked question, here is your answer: It’s not my place to share his story.”

A story I want to know. I stand up. “Thanks, Terrance. For more than you know.”

I don’t wait for his reply. I leave, determined to tear down the walls with Damion, and with a plan: I have to give him the freedom he gave me by offering me a job in PR. Funny, days ago I didn’t appreciate what he’d been trying to do.

I head to the bank and ask for a notary. Once I’m in the notary’s office, I ask her for a sheet of paper and handwrite my statement.

I will not sue Damion Ward, or any connected organization, corporation, or entity, for sexual harassment unless I give him written warning that I no longer wish to be intimate with him. I consider what I learned just being a fly on the wall with Kent and my father, and I add, I will deliver any warning by certified mail.

I start to hand it to the notary, but first I fold it so she can’t read it. Fifteen minutes later, I stuff it in an envelope and seal it, then scribble Damion’s first name on the front. I leave it on his chair.

* * *

Two hours later, Damion appears at my desk and motions me inside his office. “We should talk.”

“Yes, I know.”

Dana buzzes through to my phone as Damion heads into his office. “There’s a Kent Smith here to see you,” Dana announces.

I suck in a breath and almost choke on it, snapping up the receiver. “What do you mean he’s here to see me?”

“He’s at the front desk. He wants to be allowed up.”

I am suddenly on my feet and I don’t know how I got there. “I’ll go down to him.” I slam down the phone and stare at it.

“Ms. Miller.” I whirl around at the sound of Damion’s voice and find him standing in the doorway with the letter I left on his chair in his hand. Ms. Miller. He has the letter and he’s still calling me Ms. Miller. My world is spinning. Nothing is going right. I have failed at … everything. “I’ll be right back,” I announce, and round the desk.

“Kali!”

I stop dead in my tracks at his use of my first name, which he has not spoken softly, and turn around. “Please come talk to me,” he says, and I see the tenderness in his eyes. I was wrong. I have not failed. The letter does matter to him. I matter to him. But I can’t do this now. “Delivery downstairs,” I lie, and I hate lying to him but I do not know what else to do. Kent poisons everything he touches. “It’s important. I’ll be right back.” I turn to leave and almost run into Terrance, and I know I’m saved. I sidestep him and dart out to the elevator, determined to make my past go away.

* * *

Seeing Kent again is like someone holding a shotgun to my face and pulling the trigger. For a few moments I feel as if my identity, my confidence in who I am, which I’ve worked hard to create, has been violently blown away. I want to be sick. And, yes, I want to run.

He turns, though, and sees me, all Mr. Perfect in his blue suit and silver tie, his blond hair finger-rumpled, his body as athletic and toned as ever. I know his body. I lived with him for a full year. Had plenty of sex with him but never experienced the kind of all-consuming desire I feel for Damion. Never got aroused just being near him, talking to him, looking at him. But I do with Damion. I didn’t finish Kent’s sentences—or he mine—but in only a short time Damion and I do. Kent was comfortable. He was supportive of my career. He worked for my father and fit into my life. But I did not love him—I guess in the way a friend would, maybe, but I wasn’t in love with him.

He starts toward me, and I steel myself for his touch, which I know will come. He pulls me into an embrace and my skin crawls. I shove back from him, breaking the connection. “What are you doing here? How are you even in Vegas?”