Текст книги "Under My Skin"

Автор книги: J. Kenner

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

twenty-one

Since we’re leaving for the island in the morning, we decide to go ahead and brave the paparazzi at the marina. Remarkably, though, the herd is thin, and we pass easily through the gate and into the parking area.

“They’ve gotten used to me sleeping at your place,” he says. “After tonight’s show, they’re probably there, wanting me to comment on that poor defenseless reporter I slugged.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” I say, as he hooks an arm around my shoulder.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He stops long enough to brush his thumb over my cheek. He’s calmer now. I know he’s still worried, but for the moment, at least, we can relax. If any more horrors are going to come, they can damn well wait until the light of day. And he knows damn well he doesn’t need to be reminding me of it now. “Join me for a shower?”

“I’ll join you anywhere, Mr. Steele,” I say, and am rewarded by his smile.

“Do you want wine?” he asks once we’ve reached the boat. He’s a few steps ahead of me now, as I’ve paused to take off my shoes. “It’s late, but I could use a glass.”

I don’t answer. Frankly, I’ve barely heard the question.

What I heard instead were footsteps, and when I turn to look back over my shoulder, I see Harriet standing on the dock, as if waiting permission to step onto the yacht. She’s on the approved guest list at the gate, but I have hoped never to see her here.

And seeing her now really can’t be good.

I reach out, managing to grab Jackson’s shirt. He turns back to look at me, his mouth curved into a question. Then he sees Harriet, and I watch as he goes completely stiff.

“Are you here about the concert?” I ask. “Because Evelyn already read Jackson the riot act.”

“No,” Harriet says. She glances down at the deck. “May I?”

I glance at Jackson, who nods stiffly. “Of course.”

She steps onto the deck, and I look around awkwardly. My nerves are raw, and I’m on edge. If someone were to sneeze, I’d probably leap all the way into orbit.

I know this must be bad. It’s well past midnight, and that is not the usual time for lawyers to make house calls. Something has happened, and while I desperately want to know what, I also don’t want to voice the question.

So instead, I say lamely, “Do you want to sit down?”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Jackson. They want you to surrender yourself Monday at nine.”

My chest is too tight. I can barely breathe. So I’m not sure how I even force out the question. “If he doesn’t?”

“Either way, they’re arresting him. If he doesn’t, it will be a media circus. If he does, we can get him inside without the fanfare.”

“Jackson,” I whisper, and he takes my hand, then holds it tight. And in that moment, I know that he’s wrong about me. I’m not strong. I’m weak. Because he’s comforting me, and I should be the one comforting him.

Oh, god. Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god.

Harriet is still talking and Jackson is answering. His voice sounds almost normal. Maybe tighter than usual, but it has an efficient clip. I’m not even listening to what they’re saying. I think she’s going over what will happen tomorrow. How he’ll be processed. How she’ll request bail, but with his temper he might be declined.

“And they want to interview you, Sylvia,” she says, making my head jerk up. “I can postpone that for a day or so, I think. I’ll explain to Detective Garrison that you’re in shock.”

“That’s true,” I say, and she nods with sympathy.

“You both need to understand that this isn’t over.”

She is looking at Jackson when she says that.

“Not over, but also not good,” he says. “The time I assaulted him. The witness who saw me, who heard Reed and I arguing. The movie and Ronnie. All of it,” he finishes. “All of it cuts against me.”

“Yes,” Harriet says. “But now is when we ramp up for the fight.”

He says nothing.

“I know you’re worried. I know you’re overwhelmed. That’s okay. That’s why you have me. This is what I do, Jackson. This is what you’re paying me for. So that I can take over the fight now. Trust me, okay? I’ll get you through this.”

“Getting through it might mean that we enter a plea. End up serving less time, but still years.”

“It might,” she agrees, as my stomach twists at the idea.

He meets her eyes. “I didn’t kill him.”

“I believe you,” she says.

But all three of us know that doesn’t really matter.

After Harriet leaves, I hold tight to Jackson as he practically vibrates with pent-up energy. The need for action. And, yes, the need to fight.

Right now, though, there is nothing and no one to fight.

He pulls me even closer, the motion wild and desperate, and for a moment I think that he wants me again. Wants to lose himself in sex. Wants to pummel his fear with passion.

But that isn’t what he is looking for. Not now. Instead, he holds me to him for a few seconds of blinding solidarity, then he releases me and begins to pace. His long strides eat up the length of the boat, and though he says nothing, by watching his face I can discern his purpose. He is thinking. Planning.

He is making a mental list, making sure that everything that matters to him is either already handled or that it will be by morning.

“Chester,” he says, looking hard at me. “Have him put together a list of architects I’ve worked with. You’ll want someone to monitor the work, just like you’d planned for Dean to do.”

“Jackson. Stop. I can handle it.”

He meets my eyes, his haunted.

“I can handle it,” I say again.

“Can you? Can you really? Because I’m not sure that I can.”

I step to him, then gently brush his cheek. “Yes,” I say. “You can. This is just a step. One step on the path, just like Harriet said. You’re going to get past this. You’re not going to prison.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes,” I say, because I’ll be damned if I’ll tell him anything else tonight.

He rakes both of his hands through his hair. “I need to call Ronnie.”

“It’s past midnight in Santa Fe.”

“I know. But I might not—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. “Go on,” I say. “She’ll think talking to you in the middle of the night is a grand adventure.”

He flashes a grateful smile, then disappears below deck. I hesitate, not sure what I want to do. I feel that same need for action. The need to move. To do.

But do what? There’s not a goddamn thing I can do.

I know, because if there was, I would have done it a long time ago.

Finally, after standing there too long feeling impotent, I take one of the blankets out of the waterproof chest and curl up on the lounge chair. I pull out my phone and dial Cass, but I only get her voice mail. I don’t bother leaving a message. She’ll call me back simply from seeing that I called. But considering the hour, I don’t expect to hear from her before morning.

I close my eyes, thinking that perhaps sleep will be a good refuge, but I don’t want that, either. Not now. Not with Jackson being arrested. That’s a surefire trigger for a nightmare, and I cannot afford a nightmare tonight.

Not because I couldn’t survive it, but because I don’t want Jackson to feel compelled to soothe it.

I pick my phone up again, and this time I dial Ethan. He answers on the first ring with a drunken, “It’s my big sister! Dudes, it’s Syl!”

I hear more drunken male voices behind him shouting things like, “Hey!” and “Yo, baby!” and despite the day I’ve had I can’t help but smile.

“Where are you?” I ask, when the commotion dies down.

“Mexico,” he says. “Gracias, por favor. Arriba!”

I laugh. “Your Spanish stinks. Are you really in Mexico?”

“Just for the weekend. I’m with Larry and Jim,” he adds, mentioning two friends from college. “I figured if I’m going to go, I might as well do it while I have leave. No diving. Just snorkeling and drinking. And enjoying the buffet of female companionship.”

I roll my eyes. “God. My brother the hound dog.”

“And proud of it. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” I say, to which my brother, who knows me well, says, “Bullshit.”

“Fine. It’s Jackson. He’s being charged Monday. He’s supposed to surrender himself at nine.”

“Holy shit.” His voice has lost the drunken happy tone. “Syl, I’m—that’s just fucked up.”

“I know.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.” My voice cracks a little, but I’m determined not to cry. “No, but I guess I’ll have to be.”

“Do you want me to come back?”

I hug the blanket close, completely in love with my brother. “Thanks, but no. I’ll be okay.” I’m not sure how, but I have to believe it is true. “But I love you for offering.”

“Anything, Syl. You know that, right?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“How’s Jackson holding up?”

“Stoic. Scared. Pissed.” I close my eyes and sigh. “Pretty much everything you’d expect.”

“What about his little girl? Is she—I mean, are you going to take care of her?”

I lick my lips, because my mouth has gone suddenly dry. That possibility hadn’t occurred to me. “I don’t know,” I admit. “She’s in Santa Fe right now. I don’t know what Jackson wants to do. He’s talking to her right now. He wanted—” My voice breaks, and I have to try again. “He wanted to talk to her before he’s taken into custody.”

“Yeah.” I hear him draw in a long breath. “Listen, I should let you go. It’s late.”

“Sure. I’m glad I caught you. Have fun. I’ll talk—”

“Samantha was pregnant.” He blurts out the words.

I replay that in my head, not entirely certain I heard right. “Say again?”

“That’s why we broke up,” he says. “Why I left London. She was pregnant. I didn’t want a kid—didn’t figure I could handle a kid. We fought. I left.”

“Oh.” I lick my lips. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“Because you left?”

“No.” He sounds suddenly tired. “No, I mean it when I say I’m not cut out to be a dad. But I’m sorry for ragging on you about the kid thing. I was talking at you through a curtain of my own shit.”

“So you do think I can handle it?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I can picture him tilting his head back with exasperation the way he does. “I really don’t know. Look at our role models, you know? But then again, we turned out okay.”

At that, I really do have to laugh. “I’m not entirely sure that’s the best argument.”

“I guess I’m saying that if you think you can, then you should trust that. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

“Does that help?”

“Yes,” I lie. Because the truth is, I don’t know if I can at all.

And if that’s the feeling I should trust, where does that leave me?

More important, where does that leave me and Jackson?

twenty-two

I wake to sunshine and the wonderful sight of Jackson’s blue eyes looking down at me.

“Hey,” I say, blinking a bit as I try to wake up. I’m still on the deck, but I’m under a blanket, and I realize with surprise that I’ve slept here all night, and apparently alone. “Did you stay up all night?”

He doesn’t answer my question. Instead he sits on the edge of the chaise, his expression so serious that it scares me. “We need to talk.”

I shake my head, because whatever he has to say, I don’t want to hear it.

“I have been up all night,” he admits. He leans forward, then presses his head into his hands.

I sit up, too, my fear now taking on the color of panic. I force it down. With everything else that has been going on, the last thing Jackson needs is to see me losing it, too.

With some effort, I pull myself together, then press my hand to his thigh. “Hey,” I say. “I know you’re scared, but Harriet’s right. This is why you hired her. It’s not over, Jackson, and we both have to believe that.”

His nod is perfunctory, as if I’m talking about some irrelevant topic at a cocktail party. “I’ve done a lot of thinking,” he finally says. “I think it makes more sense if I ask Damien and Nikki to take guardianship of Ronnie.”

“I—oh.” This is not what I was expecting, and I’m scrambling a bit to mentally shift gears. “Okay.” I swallow. I should be turning cartwheels. After all, the thought of being the parent figure in Ronnie’s life has had me terrified. But instead of joy, I feel an overwhelming disappointment. “I guess that makes more sense,” I add. “After all, Damien’s her uncle.”

“That’s part of it,” Jackson says. “It’s not all of it.”

A strange sort of prickling builds at the back of my neck, then starts to trickle down my spine. “You’re scaring me, Jackson.”

“I know,” he says, and there is pain in his eyes. “I’m sorry. But there’s something I need you to do for me. No arguments, Syl. No questions.”

I don’t answer. These words are too much like the words I said to him in Atlanta. And those words just about destroyed us both.

He takes my hand. His is cold. Even a little sweaty. And I feel suddenly ill.

“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t say it.”

“I have to.” The words sound like nails sealing a coffin. He draws in a breath, and his voice when he speaks is heavy with pain. “I need you to walk away.”

“No.” I’m shaking my head, but I don’t even realize it until I have to stop because the world is moving back and forth, and I am getting dizzy. “No,” I repeat. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but you don’t need it. You don’t want it. And I’m sure as hell not doing it.”

“I’m not playing a game.” The pain is gone, replaced by a firm intensity. “I should have done this at the airport. I should have sent you back to LA the moment those detectives showed up in Santa Fe.”

“That is such bullshit.” I’m searching for words, for arguments, for understanding. But I’m finding none of those things. “Why are you doing this to me? To us?” Tears are streaming down my face, and I don’t even care.

Jackson’s fingers twitch, as if he wants to wipe them away, but he doesn’t reach for me. On the contrary, it looks as though he’s fighting hard to not touch me.

“Goddamn you, Jackson. You said you’d never do anything if the price was breaking me.” My voice is cracking and it sounds far away, as if I’m standing at the end of a very long tunnel. “What the hell do you think you’re doing now?”

“I am protecting you, baby. And I’m doing it the only way I know how.”

“The hell you are.”

“I once told you that where you are concerned I’m neither brave nor strong because the thought of losing you destroys me. And that’s true. But, dammit, Syl, I’ve found that strength. And it’s not you but the world that has destroyed me.”

“Jackson—” My voice is full of pain. And, yes, of understanding. But he doesn’t let me continue. Just shakes his head and pushes on.

“I’m strong enough for the both of us, baby. And this is over. It has to be. So as of this moment, we’re done. Because I won’t live like this, knowing that you are tied to a man who can’t even touch you. You deserve a life, Syl. I won’t have you thrown into a cage of our making just because I’m being tossed into one.”

“That’s not a decision you can make for me,” I say.

“The hell it’s not. You’ve handed me control, baby.”

My brows rise. “Control? In bed, sure. But about this? No fucking way.”

“Do you remember the photo I took of you?”

I know what he’s talking about, of course. I’d asked him to take it after Reed had sent me the blackmail photos. I’d needed to grab back some of what Reed had stolen, and so I’d had Jackson take a photo of me, bound and naked.

So, yeah. Of course I remember the photo.

I say nothing, but he knows that I do. How could I not? “That photo was the ultimate submission,” Jackson says.

“Bullshit. I asked you to take it.”

“You did,” he agrees. “But now it’s mine. I hold it. I control it. That wasn’t just about sex, Sylvia. The minute you asked me to take that photo you handed me control in your life, too. Because I could destroy you in a heartbeat.”

“You wouldn’t.” Despite everything he’s said tonight, I know that much is true.

His smile is a little sad. “No. Never. But that doesn’t change the basic fact—you gave yourself to me. Trusted me fully with your reputation. Your privacy. And now, baby, you have to trust me on this.”

“But I don’t,” I say.

He sighs. “Fair enough. But I know I’m right. And if you won’t walk away, Syl,” he says in a voice that breaks my heart, “then I will.”

“Are you sure about this?” Damien asked Jackson. They were on the Malibu property, meandering down pathways that led from the house to the beach. Now, they paused beside the tennis courts, and Damien opened the gate.

Jackson followed him onto the green surface, and took a seat at a courtside table across from his brother. “Believe me,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about little else.”

For hours now, he’d felt lost. Hollow. He’d really left her.

He was really going to move forward without Sylvia at his side. He’d fought so damn hard for her, and now he was throwing it away.

No.

No, he couldn’t look at it like that. He was fucking saving her. She deserved more than some sad life as a prison widow. And while he believed her when she said she would take care of Ronnie, how the hell could he put that on her? Only by being a selfish prick, that’s how.

Yes, he wanted his daughter with the woman he loved.

But even more than that, he wanted Sylvia happy and free. Not trapped.

So, yeah. As much as he hated it, he was sure about this. Sure enough that he’d walked away from her. Sure enough that he’d cut her to the core.

“I’m sure,” he said once more to his brother.

Damien didn’t nod, didn’t argue. He just looked at him, those dual-colored eyes seeing more than Jackson wanted to reveal.

“She loves you,” Damien finally said. “Do you really think that walking away will make her love you any less?”

Jackson ran his fingers through his hair, the words hurting him more than he wanted them to. “I think it will make her live her life.”

Damien lifted a brow, the expression almost smug. “Like you did after she left you in Atlanta?”

Jackson’s gut twisted as he fought against the truth of Damien’s words. This was different, dammit. He was going to fucking prison. “I just need to know if you’ll stand as Ronnie’s guardian, Damien. The rest isn’t up for discussion.”

For a moment, he thought his brother would argue. But then Damien nodded. “Of course I will. I need to talk it over with Nikki, but I’m certain she won’t have a problem. Ronnie’s my niece, after all.”

Jackson nodded slowly, relieved. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Everything around him was going to shit. But Ronnie, at least, was going to be okay.

“Damien told me what happened,” Nikki says. She’s arrived at my apartment with a bottle of wine. “It may only be lunchtime, but I figured you could use this.”

“Thanks.” I step back to let her in. I’m not entirely sure I want company, but I can’t deny that I appreciate the thought. And I know that Nikki understands what I’m feeling. Damien walked away from her once, too. I’d been working his desk, and even I hadn’t known where he was. And like Jackson, he’d done it supposedly to protect her.

So if I’m going to commiserate with someone, it makes sense that it’s Nikki.

“How are you doing?” she asks as I open the wine and pour two glasses.

We’ve moved to the patio, me on the chaise and Nikki in the chair. But right now, I don’t feel like sitting, so I stand up and walk to the rail, then look out at the neighboring building and the ocean beyond.

“Like the world is falling down around my ears,” I admit. “The resort is a mess. Just this morning, we lost two more investors because the word is out that Jackson is surrendering himself on Monday. And of course the press is all over that, calling Santa Cortez ‘troubled.’ How fucking annoying is that?”

“Very,” she says gently. “But I meant about Jackson.”

“I know you did.” I sigh deeply and return to the chaise. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’m angry or hurt or something else all together.”

“All of the above, I’d imagine.”

I nod. “The thing is, I know that I can be alone.” And it’s true—it’s true because Jackson taught me how to let go of my security blanket. How to find the strength inside myself. “But I don’t want to be alone. I want Jackson beside me.”

“Even though he might not be beside you?” she asks. “He’s right, you know. Damien talked with Charles and Harriet. With all the evidence against Jackson—especially the prior assault, his temper, the argument that witness overheard—Harriet’s pretty certain the DA is going to play hardball. And she’s even more certain that they’ll be able to get in evidence of the underground fighting he does.”

My eyes go to hers. “You know about that?”

“I do now. The court will soon.”

“Fuck.” She’s right; a history of violent behavior is only going to make Jackson look like a hot-head who lost his temper and killed the man who refused to back off the movie.

“Maybe he’s right.” Her voice is soft. “Maybe you should walk away.”

My answer, when it comes, is fierce. “Hell, no. I want Jackson. I want Ronnie. I want the man I love and everything that comes with him.”

Something sparks in her eyes, and when she says, “I know you do,” I sag a little with relief at this proof that she really does get it.

“So how do I get him back? How do I make this goddamn stubborn man change his mind?”

“I don’t know,” she admits.

“What did you do?” I ask, knowing that she will understand I’m talking about Damien.

She lifts a shoulder. “I cried a lot. And then I fought.” She looks at me, then actually smiles. “Actually, with Jackson, fighting’s probably a damn good way to go.”