Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
With a wild sweep of my arm, I send the toppled coffee cup flying off the table to crash on the floor. Then I curse aloud, because that accomplished exactly nothing except to make the mess in the kitchen even bigger.
I mutter another curse, then squat on the floor to start collecting the ragged pieces of ceramic, and as I do, I accidentally slice the edge of my thumb, raising a thin line of blood.
I stay there, perched on my heels, staring at the small red beads as they rise against my pale skin. My breath slows, and I feel a low, familiar craving.
I can quell this rawness inside me. I can control it with pain. I can harness it with blood.
If I just cut--just a little--I can pull myself back to center so that I'm not freaking out about all this bullshit.
I can handle it. I can do it.
I can cut--and then I can move on.
Biting my lip, I hold the biggest piece of the mug, imagining that it's a blade. A perfectly honed razor. I can almost feel the pressure of it against my thigh. The intensity. The release.
Just this once, and I'll be okay.
Just one time, and Damien doesn't even need to know.
Oh, god, what am I saying?
I look down at the shard in my hand, and then hurl it violently across the room.
No. No, no, no, no.
That's not who I am anymore. That's not how I see myself.
And it sure as hell isn't how Damien sees me.
Breathing hard, I stand up, then look around for my phone. My first instinct is to call Damien, but once the phone is in my hand, I hesitate. I won't keep this secret--none of it. And I do need him, always and completely.
But right now, I need to know that I can handle this. Me.
I already know without a shadow of a doubt that I can rely on Damien when the urge to cut overwhelms me. Now I need to be just as certain that I can rely on myself.
And that means I need to do this on my own.
I need to go see Frank.
I leave the mess in the kitchen, both because I'm in a hurry and because those crisp white shards are just too damn tempting. I hurry to pull on jeans and a T-shirt. Wyatt invited Frank over at ten-thirty, and it's already ten-fifteen. I need to get out the door and to Santa Monica quickly if I'm going to catch Frank while he's still there.
Fortunately, luck is with me, and I make the trek in just under half an hour. I park Coop in front of Wyatt's studio, burst through the door, and find the two of them standing there chatting like old friends.
"I need to talk to Frank," I announce. "Alone."
Wyatt frowns, obviously confused by my tone and demeanor, but he doesn't press. "No problem. I need to go get the sublease ready anyway," he says to Frank. "I'll just be in my office when you guys are done."
He hurries off, leaving Frank--Dad?--looking at me with curiosity. And, possibly, with dread.
"Is something wrong?"
"Your name isn't Frank Dunlop," I say without preamble.
His brows rise up almost to his hairline. "It is," he says. "It hasn't always been."
I lick my lips. "What did it used to be?"
He sighs deeply. "If you're asking me that, I think you know."
"Tell me."
"Leonard," he says. "Leonard Fairchild. I'm your father, Nikki. And I've been trying to find the best way to tell you. Please believe me when I say that this isn't what I had in mind."
He moves to sit on the sofa that Wyatt has in the gallery area, then pats the other cushion. I shake my head. Sitting is the last thing I want to do.
"Why 'Frank'?"
"It's my middle name. And since you'll ask, Dunlop is my mother's maiden name. I started using it right after I left. I wanted distance."
"From us," I say, hating that the hurt is so evident in my voice.
"From your mother. Only from your mother."
"You never came back."
He sighs, then shakes his head. "No, and I regret every day I stayed away. At first I was waiting for the divorce to be final. Then I was waiting to figure out what to say. Then so much time had passed that I was afraid it would be confusing for you and Ashley. And then it just seemed too damn late."
"But you came now."
He nods slowly. "I did. It took me more than twenty-five years, but I finally worked up the courage to come see my daughter." A hint of a smile touches his lips. "Of course, at first, seeing was all I could manage. I was on the island this past weekend. I saw you. Watched you more than I probably should have. I think I scared you that night in the rain. I'm sorry."
"Why didn't you talk to me?"
He chuckles. "I'm a sixty-year-old man," he says. "That means I've clocked a lot of time. It doesn't mean I've learned to control my nerves. Honest answer? I was scared to death."
"Of what?" My tone is gentle, and I immediately regret it. I want to stay harsh. Businesslike. I want to get to the root of this, not lose myself in sentimentality for a lost father, or affection for a man I've taken a liking to.
"Of you. Telling me to leave. Telling me it's too late. Of you doing to me what you have every right to do and telling me to go to hell. Telling me to walk away now just like I did when you were a baby."
"If you're so scared of that, then why come at all?"
"I've seen your face a lot over the last few years--hard to avoid, I suppose, since you're married to a man like Stark. And after a while I knew I had to come. You might send me away, but I had to at least try. I wanted--I wanted to see if you would forgive me. And I wanted to get to know you."
"And that's all? Just get to know me?"
"That's a start."
"And the finish?" I ask coldly.
He tilts his head to the side, and he's either a very good actor, or he truly doesn't understand what I mean.
I decide to just lay it out there. "Mother says you called her."
"I did. She gave me your cellphone number. I was going to call if you didn't answer my email requesting an appointment. But you did." He smiles, but it fades quickly.
"Why did you follow me to the island?"
"No, no." He shakes his head. "I didn't follow you, I swear. I'd read about it and wanted to see it. I had no idea you'd be there."
I force myself to stay on topic. "Why did you ask Mother how much Damien is worth?"
His forehead creases as he shakes his head once more, more slowly this time. "I didn't."
"Don't lie to me again."
"Nikki, I swear--why would I? All I have to do is pick up a copy of Forbes or get on the Internet."
I say nothing; he has a point.
"If I were planning to ask you for money, do you really think I would clue your mother in to that fact? That woman is the last person I want in my business."
"If you don't want anything, then why did you come?"
His eyes go soft. "I told you. I'm moving to Los Angeles. I want to open a studio here. I want to settle down."
I lick my lips. "Why here?"
"Because--because I have this crazy idea that maybe I can get to know my daughter. Assuming that she wants to get to know me."
Tears lump in my throat, and I swallow, trying to hold it together.
"Do you believe me?" he asks. "Please say yes. I've done so many things wrong that I'll own up to. But I don't want you thinking ill of me for things I didn't actually do."
"I believe you," I say, surprising myself as much as him. But the moment the words are out, I know they're true. Maybe I shouldn't, but I really do believe him.
I take a deep breath, then realize I'm feeling a little shaky. He pats the cushion beside him again, and this time I do sit down. Right next to my father.
I grin. Because at least in my memory, this is a first.
I'm about to tell him as much when the studio door bursts open.
"Frank Dunlop, you goddamn--"
I hear Damien's voice before I see him, and the moment he rounds the corner and we're in each other's line of sight, he clamps his mouth closed.
"Nikki," he says as Ryan and Dallas hurry to stand on either side of him. "Why are you here?"