Текст книги "Under My Skin"

Автор книги: J. Kenner

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

His words are choppy, and I take his hand.

“That drove it home for me,” he continues, more smoothly, and the knowledge that I’ve given him strength swells inside me. “How much I want you to be the one protecting her. Sticking with her. But I know it’s selfish of me, too, and if you don’t want that—”

“You were an ass about the paparazzi?” The question, voiced as a tease, slips out of me. I regret it immediately, but I’m latching on to anything but the real issue. Anything but the possibility that I will be raising a child alone.

“I was,” he says. “I was pissed and acting stupid and you were right. I need to avoid them, not taunt them. And when we do encounter them, I need to play Evelyn’s game and be polite and friendly. I hate it, but I’ll do it because I know it increases the odds that I won’t end up behind bars. That I’ll stay here with you. With Ronnie.”

Relief flutters through me. That, at least, is one thing I can stop worrying about.

“I’ll call Amy this morning and tell her not to change anything,” he says gently. “It’s too much to ask. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t—”

“No,” I blurt, gripping his hand tighter. “No, I’m sure. Of course I’m sure.”

And I am.

Despite my fears, I am absolutely certain.

Because what other choice do I have?

In Jackson’s world, there is him, there is his daughter, and there is me.

He loves me, I know that he does.

But if he ever has to make a choice, it is Ronnie that he will choose. Because unlike Jeremiah or my parents, Jackson is a good father. And for him, Ronnie’s welfare will always come first.

And as for me?

All I can do is make certain that is never a choice that he will have to make.

All I can do is take a tentative step toward the role of Mommy, and hope that I never have to play that role alone.

But am I taking that step because I love Jackson?

Or am I doing it because I’m afraid of losing him if I don’t?

fifteen

The enticing aroma of yeast and cinnamon wafts through the boat, making my stomach growl. “That smells amazing,” I say, as Jackson opens the oven in the galley-style kitchen and pulls out a tray of cinnamon rolls.

We’d come to the marina before dawn, and had been lucky not to meet many paparazzi hanging around the gate. Presumably they knew Jackson wasn’t on the boat and had gone home to sleep—or to the Tower to camp out.

Now we’re getting close to the island, and making up for skipping breakfast in order to get under way quicker.

Jackson picks up a plastic bag full of gooey white stuff that I assume is a sugary icing for the rolls. I ease up beside him and take it, figuring I ought to contribute at least a little something to our breakfast. He snags the first one I ice, holding it on a paper towel as he nods generally toward the front of the boat. “I’m going to go check our position. I’ll be right back.”

I nod, then focus on my culinary task until he returns.

“Getting close,” he says. “Ten more minutes and I’ll take her off autopilot. But it’s a gorgeous day. Let’s take these up to the deck.”

Since that’s a brilliant idea, I don’t argue. He takes the rolls and I grab some orange juice, plates, and cups, then follow him up.

He’s right. It is a gorgeous day, and I silently decree that today there will be no talk of murder or jail. There will be no worries about Ronnie. No fear that I will be raising that little girl alone.

There will be only work and the island and Jackson and me.

Today, I’m holding tight to normalcy, and these moments at sea are a damn fine start.

The sky is a crystalline blue, and there isn’t a cloud to be seen. The ocean ahead is smooth, the surface only rippled by a soft wind. We’re close enough to both Catalina Island and Santa Cortez for seagulls to be flying overhead, and I watch as a few dive-bomb the water for their breakfast. I toss out a piece of my cinnamon roll and watch the closest one rocket toward it.

“Hey,” Jackson says. “I slaved over those. Took them out of a box and everything.”

“You picked a good box. They’re great.”

We’re sitting on the main deck on a bench on the port side just over from the captain’s chair. It’s cushioned and the back of the bench is also the side of the boat. I’ve poured us both juice and we have the cups tucked into built-in holders. The pitcher is jammed into the center of a life preserver to keep it steady.

I’ve put the rolls between us, and Jackson makes a grab for his third. He takes a bite and grins at me, a tiny bit of white icing stuck to the corner of his mouth. I reach over and wipe it off with my thumb, then put my thumb in my mouth and suck it clean.

And all the while my eyes never leave his.

“Very naughty, Ms. Brooks.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Steele.”

He stands, then pulls me up as well. “I’m talking about the fact that your island is right over there.” He points to Santa Cortez, growing larger by the minute. “And the fact that I need to take the boat off autopilot.” He traces his fingertip over my lips, and I draw him in, then suck and tease his finger with my tongue.

He groans. “I’m talking,” he says as he tugs his finger free, “about the fact that we don’t have time for me to fuck you the way I want to fuck you right now. But soon,” he adds as he slides his hand down to cup my crotch through my shorts. He slides lower to my thigh, then back up the inside of the leg. And then his brow lifts as his fingers find me not only bare, but hot and slick and very, very wet.

I bite my lower lip in response to his low groan of masculine satisfaction.

“Good girl,” he says.

I look up, innocently meeting his eyes. “What were you saying about fucking me?”

He slips two fingers inside me, making me gasp. “Soon,” he promises. “Very soon.”

I sigh with disappointment when he steps away, leaving me longing and so sensitive that every brush of the canvas against my cunt is like a sensual torment.

For just a moment, his gaze lingers on me, hot and heavy, and then he turns and heads for the captain’s chair to guide the boat in. And I’m left to my fantasies of what’s still to come.

While he does his captain thing, I take our breakfast stuff back downstairs. I’m covering the leftover rolls with plastic wrap when Jackson calls me, his voice hard and sharp. “Syl. Get up here!”

I abandon what I’m doing and hurry back on deck. I’m asking, “What’s going on?” as I move, but as soon as I’m outside, I can see for myself.

And what I see is that my wonderful day has just gone straight to hell.

The moorings on one side of the dock have been smashed in, so that it tilts at an odd angle and isn’t even close to being safe.

“But how will we get on the island?” I say, and then realize that is the least of our problems. Because when I follow his finger, I see that this entire area has been vandalized. From this perspective, I should be able to see the fuel tanks. For that matter, there are portable toilets, and I can’t see the tops of them, and I really don’t want to think about what it means if those blue boxes have been toppled over.

“Binoculars,” I say. “Do you have some?”

“Dammit, yes.” He hurries to the bench on which we’d just had breakfast and pulls off the cushion, then grabs a pair from the hidden storage area. He puts the bench back together, then steps up before raising the lenses to his eyes. “It’s bad,” he says, then passes the binocs to me.

I look, too, and see that he’s right. Fuel tanks are spilled. The helipad is covered with debris. There are wires and cords everywhere, along with bits of broken machinery. About the only thing that hasn’t been knocked over is the pole upon which the security camera is mounted.

A horrible greasy feeling swirls in my stomach, because this is bad—really bad. This isn’t leaked emails or embarrassing photos or foolish rumors about government weapons. This is vandalism. This is real, honest-to-goodness sabotage.

And I’m taking it very, very personally.

“We need to see the extent of the damage,” I say. “Can we still use the dock in that condition? Or can you get close enough to anchor and we can wade in?”

“No.” Jackson’s voice is firm. “We need to get Ryan and a team here. I don’t want to run the risk of contaminating the scene. And there’s fuel everywhere. I don’t want you out there until we know it’s safe.”

I start to argue that I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, but he’s right and so I say nothing. There’s no cell service on the island yet, but the boat has a complete satellite communication system, and the phone starts to ring even as I am running below deck to get it.

I hurry to answer it, not surprised to find that the caller is Ryan.

“You saw the security feed?” I demand. “Could you see who did it?”

“Not exactly,” he says, which makes very little sense. Clearly he knows what I’m talking about, but how would he without seeing the feed?

“I’ll explain when we get there,” he says, anticipating my question. “Damien and I will be there in forty-five minutes, tops. We’re coming by boat with a full team following about twenty minutes behind. And, Syl,” he adds, “stay off the island.”

I hurry back to the deck, mentally running through the to-do list that is now growing in my head. The clean-up, the investigation, and—oh, hell—the press.

My mind is swimming with details as I relay Ryan’s call to Jackson, who doesn’t have any better idea than I do as to how Ryan could know about the island.

From what I can tell, he’s been pacing the deck the entire time I was gone, but he’d stopped the moment I returned. Now he reaches for me, holding me firmly by the shoulders as he studies my face. “Are you okay?”

I understand what he’s asking, and I nod. “I’m fine. Pissed, but fine.” I offer him a smile. “It’s work,” I say, and with Jackson I know I don’t have to say any more, because it’s the same for him, and always has been. Work is our escape. Our safe place. The thing that drives us and centers us. Trouble at work is an irritation, and it might piss the hell out of me, but it won’t cripple me.

It’s the personal shit that can destroy me. Moments like last night that can conjure the nightmares and the fears and the need to just dig deep and hide inside myself somewhere.

At least, it used to have the power to destroy me. Now, I have Jackson and the strength he’s helped me find.

My lover, my friend, my protector.

I slide into his arms, then tilt my head back for a kiss. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go make a list of everything we need to check once Ryan clears us to go on the island.”

In his office, he works at his computer and I pace behind him as I try to cover every contingency.

I’m mentally calculating what the cost of overtime for a cleanup crew is going to do to my budget when the phone rings again. I grab it up. “What’s your ETA?”

“Sylvia?” It’s not Ryan, it’s a woman. And it takes me a moment to realize it’s Harriet Frederick.

“Ms. Frederick.” My throat has closed up, and it’s hard for me to push her name out. “I . . .”

I give up. I have no idea what to say.

“May I speak to Jackson?” Her words are soft, as if she understands that a normal tone might actually hurt me.

He’s already at my side, having risen at the sound of her name. I hand him the phone, feeling a little numb, then immediately hug myself.

Jackson stays at my side. “I’m here, Harriet. What’s going on?”

I struggle to hear the conversation, wishing that Jackson would put it on speaker but knowing that he can’t because that could mess up the attorney-client privilege. So I try to interpret Jackson’s facial expressions.

Considering he’s standing as still as a statue, I’m not having much luck.

After a moment, he says, “I see. And worst case, when are we looking at?”

Worst case.

Oh, fuck. Oh, shit.

I don’t bother with a chair. I just drop down and sit on the floor.

“All right,” he says. “Thanks for calling.” He laughs. “No, I won’t. It’s tempting. But no.”

Then he ends the call and bends toward me, his hand held out to help me up.

I shake my head. “Until I know what that was about, I’d rather stay down here.”

His small smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Apparently the police know that I was at Reed’s house.”

“Oh.” I suddenly wish I’d gone for the small couch. At least it has a blanket that could ward off my sudden chill. “How?”

“A witness. Halloween night, remember? Reed’s porch light was off because he wasn’t doing candy, but a mother saw me under a streetlamp. She noticed a man walking alone.”

“You? She identified you?”

“They showed her a photo line-up. She picked me out.”

I close my eyes, and when I open them again, Jackson is crouched in front of me. “Syl, there’s more. She heard Reed and me arguing.”

“Oh, god.” I tremble, then grab hold of his hand. “You said worst case. You were talking about an arrest?”

He nods.

“So?” I demand. “When?”

“She doesn’t know. This may be the pivotal piece of information and they arrest tomorrow. Or they may try for more.”

“You didn’t do it.” My throat is thick. “They can’t take you away from me if you didn’t do it.”

“Hey.” He takes my hands in his. “This isn’t the problem we need to deal with right now. That’s not why we’re on this boat. It’s not why we’re at the island. We work now, okay? We work now, and we worry later.”

I nod. Because he’s right. And because worrying won’t solve anything, and neither will fear.

And because I meant what I said earlier—work is my solace, just as it is his. And right now, we both need it.

“Okay,” I say, forcing myself to think again. “Okay. We need—” My breath hitches as I say the words. “We need to prepare for the worst. The resort, I mean. We need a plan.” I push myself up to my feet. “If you do . . .” I trail off, hating even having to say it out loud.

“If I end up in cell block A?”

“Don’t,” I snap. “I can function, okay? But I can’t joke about it.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He pulls me into his arms and kisses my forehead. “Finish what you were saying.”

“I was just thinking that maybe we should hire someone who can step in and make sure your plans get executed the way you envisioned them.”

Jackson nods. “You’re right. I should have already thought of that.” He drags his fingers through his hair. “I would suggest Chester,” he continues, referring to one of his interns who has joined him in Los Angeles from the New York office. “But he’s not licensed yet, and I don’t think that would go over well with the investors.”

“And to be honest, I’d like someone I’ve worked with before.”

Jackson nods. “Are you thinking Nathan Dean?”

“Actually, yeah.” Dean was the architect for Damien’s Malibu house, and I’d worked closely with him during design and construction. Jackson met him briefly at a cocktail party not long ago at that very house, and they’d bonded over arches and trusses.

He’s a nice guy and a solid architect, though he’s not anywhere close to Jackson’s level. I know that Aiden thought Damien would veto Dean as the primary architect for the resort—apparently he’d committed to designing a bungalow for Damien and then backed out about the time we were getting started with Cortez—but this isn’t about Dean being the main guy. It’s about having someone on the team who’s capable of bringing Jackson’s vision to life if the worst happens.

“He seemed like a decent guy,” Jackson says. “If he’s got the time and Damien gives the okay, I think bringing him on board is a great idea.”

I nod. “I’ll feel him out about his schedule first, and if it sounds like he’d be free, I’ll run the idea past Damien and then we’ll go from there.”

I turn my attention back to the tentative list I’m making for cleaning up the island, and Jackson goes back to his drafting table.

By the time we hear the speedboat approaching, my list has gotten long, and I know it will get even longer once I see the damage up close and walk the island’s perimeter.

“How did you know?” I ask Ryan as he and Damien board Jackson’s yacht.

“Our saboteur is a bit of a show-off,” Damien says wryly. He passes me his phone, on which he’s saved a photograph of the destruction. It was taken at night, so only the parts illuminated by the flash are clear, and those bits are overly bright. It gives the image a haunting quality, as if we’re looking at some sort of futuristic mechanical graveyard. “That arrived by email this morning.”

“You’ve traced the email?” Jackson asks.

“Of course,” Ryan answers. “One of my guys just got back to me, actually. Sent from a burner smart phone. A dummy email account to a fake ID. All we know is that it was sent from the LA area, but that doesn’t do us much good. I’ve been assuming all along that the son of a bitch we’re chasing is local. And most likely in-house.”

“At least you’re no longer looking at me,” Jackson says, a wry edge to his voice.

“You said it yourself,” Damien says. “You have too much pride in your work. You wouldn’t fuck it over for a vendetta. Especially not one against me. I don’t mean that much to you.”

Damien glances at me. “There was a time you might have thrown your work under the bus if it meant getting back at Ms. Brooks. But I think that time has passed.”

“It has.” Jackson’s voice is as stiff as his posture. “And you’re right—you didn’t mean that much to me. Or if you did, I wouldn’t have wanted you to realize it.”

Damien chuckles. “And now I can?”

Jackson looks as confused as I feel.

“You said I ‘didn’t’ mean that much to you. Do I detect your growing respect and admiration?”

His voice is light, almost teasing, but Jackson answers seriously. “Yeah. I guess you do.” He locks eyes with Damien, then smiles thinly. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

The corner of Damien’s mouth twitches. “I’ll do my best.”

“Any leads?” I ask Ryan. So far, the investigation has hit dead ends and rabbit trails. “Surely the security team caught something today? They can’t possibly have done all this damage and stayed out of range. That area’s the whole reason we have the security cam.”

Ryan glances at Damien and frowns. “They looped the feed.”

“What?” I heard his words. I even know what he means. But somehow I just can’t process what he’s saying.

“How long?” Jackson asks.

Ryan shakes his head. “It’s a thirty-minute loop. Looks like it was recorded about two A.M., and they started the repeat at two-thirty. There was no moon last night, so it’s only the infrared, and nobody at the monitoring station noticed.”

“So how did you find out?”

“Once Damien got the email, we knew what to look for.”

I glance at Jackson, who is doing a valiant job of holding in his temper. I can see it though, pushing at the edges, building toward release.

He turns to me, the tension in his body palpable. “I may end up in prison after all, because I swear I will kill whoever is fucking with us.”

“You’ll have to fight me for the privilege,” Damien says.

I look between them. “Don’t even joke about that, you two.”

They look at each other, and despite everything, I see a hint of amusement in their eyes.

I can’t help it—I have to smile. They’re brothers, all right.

sixteen

I spent most of Tuesday and all of Wednesday on the island with Jackson organizing cleanup and wading through the vile remnants of that horrible, massive act of vandalism. My stomach started hurting the moment I stepped onto the island and saw the destruction—machinery destroyed, storage sheds toppled. And that was only the tip of the iceberg.

It was horrible and vengeful, and all I want now are two things: to find the bastard and to fix the damage. Because fixing it will be like lifting my middle finger and telling the fucker he lost.

Thursday morning I’m back in the office, but I can’t say that the day is shaping up to be much better. Damien has back-to-back international calls all day, which means that I arrived at my desk by four A.M. The only good thing about Damien’s early calls is that I have no time to brood about the sabotage or worry that a detective is going to show up to arrest Jackson. Both Tuesday evening and all of Wednesday were blissfully arrest-free, but I’m still on edge.

The morning has been a blur of calls and emails and minor crises, both professional and personal. The professional all center around Damien’s schedule and the resort. We’re trying to get him ready for the China trip. He’s spending only a week in Beijing, but with all the preparations we’re making, you’d think he was staying a month. He’s leaving Sunday night, and everything in the office is crazy.

The personal is entirely centered on me. We’d returned to the marina late last night, and as soon as we were back in range, my phone pinged with a dozen messages from Ethan asking if I was okay and telling me that he loves me.

As for Cass, as far as I can tell, she spent all of yesterday and Wednesday repeatedly texting me.

You there?

Hello?

Why did Ethan go racing out after you?

Do you want to come by?

Should I come there?

Jackson’s not in custody is he?

Why aren’t you answering me?

Dammit, Syl, you’re pissing me off.

Sorry. Sorry. (Not that sorry, but dammit, call me or text back!)

WTF?

Hello?

Called work. You’re not in.

Where. The. Fuck. Are. You.

As soon as Damien is squared away on his eight A.M. call, I answer the ones from Cass:

Sorry! Sorry!

Was at the island. No service.

Everything is a mess with the island and with Jackson. But not scary. Not much. Not yet.

Gotta go. Work insane.

Her answer is almost instantaneous. Clearly, she’s been waiting for me to reply.

You sure?

Don’t go yet: Ethan. What was that all about?

I scowl as I remember that my dad dragged Ethan into my personal horror, a little fact that had gotten buried in the hell of sabotage and pending arrests.

Dad told him everything—really NOT happy.

Her answer is short and to the point.

Holy fuck.

U okay?

I hesitate, then answer honestly.

I am now. Mostly. Wasn’t before.

Seriously—gotta go.

Don’t worry about me. No new tats needed.

Promise.

Her reply—XXOO—makes me smile.

For Ethan, though, I can’t just send a text. But I also know that I can’t call him before ten. The company he works for—an online company that books travel packages—gave him a week off with pay and two weeks without so that he could get settled back in the States. For my brother, that means sleeping in.

To be honest, I’m okay with not talking to Ethan right now. My dad is the last person I want to be thinking of, and so I dive back into work with a vengeance. At nine, Damien gets on a conference call that is scheduled to last an hour, and Mila arrives at my desk.

She’s one of the floating secretaries, and I’d asked for her to be assigned to me today since I’m doing double duty as Damien’s assistant and as the Cortez project manager. I would have preferred leaving it all to Rachel, but she’s off until Saturday and is up in Monterey with her sister.

But even with Mila, I still can’t squeeze in a break because the press has gotten wind of the island sabotage and I’m fielding call after call, making statements about how we have everything under control, and that the leaked photo of the destruction entirely exaggerates the damage, and that the cleanup will in no way impact our projected opening date. And every time I say those words I want to strangle whoever the asshole is who caused that damage, took that photo, and fucked with my life.

But it’s not just the press. No, the investors are calling, too, and while I’ve been able to assuage most of them, another one has dropped out. And although my contact didn’t specifically say that he was shifting his dollars to Lost Tides, I can’t shake the feeling that’s the case. And that without planning it or wanting it, I’m now in a duel to the death with that damn resort in Santa Barbara.

And in the midst of all of that, I’m trying to actually do what I’ve been saying is already in progress—organize and oversee the cleanup of the island, which is scheduled to begin as soon as Ryan says that his team is finished investigating and documenting.

In other words, I’m both exhausted and frustrated. And, frankly, I’m still pissed off that someone is screwing with me.

Well, technically they’re screwing with the resort. But I’m taking everything related to Cortez pretty damn personally.

By eleven, Damien is on yet another conference call, this one scheduled for half an hour. Miraculously, it’s calm enough that I can hand the reins to Mila and run to the break room for coffee.

I pass Trent on the way in, and seeing him reminds me of the conversation I’d had with Jackson about Nathan Dean. I know that Dean is working on Trent’s new house, but if he doesn’t have any other projects going on, he might be interested in being Jackson’s second in case Jackson gets arrested. And, worse, convicted.

Just thinking about it makes me jumpy. Then again, I’m already jumpy. Every time the elevator opens I turn that way, expecting to see two detectives with handcuffs.

But I can’t just push it out of my head. I need to get this wrapped up. I need to know there is someone in place if the worst happens. I consider waiting to run it past Damien, but the bottom line is that I’m the project manager, and this is the kind of call the manager makes.

So as soon as I’m back at Damien’s desk, I pick up the phone. “Can you grab Damien’s line? I need to make a call about the resort.”

“Sure.” Mila is smart and competent and in another month or two she could work Damien’s desk alone. With any luck, it will be Rachel’s job to train her because I’ll be in my new office in the real estate division. Right now, though, she’s my shadow.

Dean answers on the first ring, sounding a little out of breath. “Ah, Nathan Dean.”

“Nathan, good morning. It’s Sylvia. How are you?”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Sorry. I was—I was just in the middle of something. I thought you were Damien. Is he—”

“He’s fine, but I’m not calling on his behalf.” As a rule, Nathan’s quiet and pretty easy to intimidate. Hopefully if he knows Damien’s not about to jump on the call, he’ll chill. “I was hoping to set up a meeting. I’ve got a potential project coming up, and if you have time to add it in, we should talk. You know I’m working in the real estate department now, right?”

“Of course, of course. I—well, I’m flattered you’d think of me, but the truth is that my schedule is jam-packed through the spring at least.”

“That’s wonderful.” I’m genuinely pleased for him. Since I hadn’t read anything about him in the trade papers, I’d feared he didn’t have many projects. “I know about Trent’s house, of course, but what else have you got on your plate?”

“Well, there’s another with Trent and—”

“With Trent?” I know it’s not for Stark Real Estate Development. “Is he building a vacation house in Santa Barbara?”

I’d asked the question lightly, just as a toss-away because of Trent’s recent trip up there. So I’m surprised when Nathan stumbles over the answer, saying, “Santa Barbara? No. No. I mean, he’s not—actually, you know, I’m running late for a meeting.”

“Sure. No problem.” We end the call, and now I’m wondering what’s up with Trent. I can’t think of any reason why he’d want to keep a project secret. Unless he’s relocating and doesn’t want anyone at work to know yet? I frown, because that’s actually a real possibility. He was genuinely pissed off when I got Cortez and he didn’t. But I hadn’t thought that he was pissed enough to go shopping for a new job.

I’d hate to see him go, but I can’t silence the selfish little voice that points out that without Trent in the real estate division, there will be more opportunity once I shift permanently into that department.

I’m making a mental note to ask Rachel if she has any gossip when Mila glances up from the phone by the couch, where she’d just ended a call that had come in for Damien. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” I frown. “Except that the one guy I’d hoped to entice with the promise of steady work is all booked up.”

“But that’s good, right?”

“It is for him.” I puff out my cheeks as I take a breath, then blow it out, feeling edgy and frustrated and slightly off. “Not so great for me.” I press my fingertip to my temple. “I need another coffee. Want one?”

“No, thanks. But I can get you one if you want.”

I wave off the offer. “I need to move anyway.”

I’m standing as my cell rings. It’s Ethan, and I answer as I’m stepping away from my desk. “I’m so glad you called. I was on the boat and didn’t get your texts, and I’m—”

“Sylvia, honey, it’s Dad.”

I reach out one hand to grab the side of the desk. “Why are you calling on Ethan’s phone?”

“You know why.” His voice is somehow both gruff and soft. As if he’s frustrated, but trying hard not to show it.

“I can’t talk to you right now. You had no right to tell him.”

“Honey, you—”

“You need to stop calling me that.”

“Please, let me talk to you. I love you.”

I cringe, those words sounding harsh and horrible from this man. “You have a funny way of showing it. And you need to stop calling me. I’ll talk to you when I’m ready.”

“When will that be?”

“Never,” I whisper as a chill snakes up my spine. “That will be never.”

I end the call, then start to slide my phone back onto my desk, but my fingers aren’t working very well, and it tumbles from my hand and onto the ground. I spit out a curse, and I see Mila’s forehead pucker. “Are you okay?”

I smile. “I’m fine. I’m just—not enough sleep, you know. I’m going to take a walk. Ten minutes. Okay.”

I don’t wait for her to answer. I hurry to the stairwell, shove through the door, and lean back against the cool metal. I want to cry. I want to scream.

But I don’t do either.

Instead, I remind myself that I’m strong.

I hear Jackson’s voice telling me that I can get through this.

In my mind, I clutch hard to his hand.

And then—because I know that he is right—I close my eyes, tilt back my head, and breathe.