Текст книги "Under My Skin"
Автор книги: J. Kenner
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
twenty-nine
The only reason Jackson got through the rest of Sunday was because he had Ronnie to take care of. And the only reason he survived Monday morning was because Stella took care of Ronnie, and Jackson buried himself in work.
But by mid-afternoon, even the pull of the resort wasn’t keeping him on track. He was edgy. Lost. Angry.
He wanted to lash out, and more than once during the morning he’d considered calling Sutter and getting him to open the gym. Maybe even go a few rounds. But the idea of losing himself to the dance and weave, the sweat and pain, the screaming muscles and pumped up adrenaline wasn’t doing it for him today.
No, he knew what the goddamn antidote for his misery was—and she’d up and left him.
Goddammit.
And for that matter, goddamn her. He wanted to be patient. He wanted to help. But at the same time he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. And it frustrated the hell out of him that while he could grab control from her in bed, in life, she had to make her own choices, her own decisions.
He only hoped she made the right one. Because he loved her, and he knew that she loved him. He wanted to make a family with her, a life. And he believed with all his heart that she wanted the same thing. But it was fear that had pushed her away. And all he could do was hope that her innate strength would bring her back. She had a lot of strength, after all. She’d pulled him back, hadn’t she?
Hell.
He glanced at the clock, saw that it was Ronnie’s snack time, and decided to go see if he could share a PB&J with his daughter and her nanny. He was almost to the elevator bank when his assistant, Lauren, called out to him. “Mr. Steele? Rachel just called down. She says there’s someone to see you on thirty-five.”
Sylvia? Surely not, but maybe she was being coy. He allowed himself the pleasure of the fantasy that she was waiting for him at her desk, but when he arrived, he was disappointed to see that it wasn’t her—and confused that it was Graham Elliott instead.
“Mr. Steele,” Graham said, walking to him and holding out his hand. “I’m sorry to bother you at the office. I’ve met Evelyn Dodge a time or two socially, and when I said I wanted to talk to you, she suggested I come by.” He shot a Hollywood smile toward Rachel, who looked like she was going to float out of her chair. “Ms. Peters has been nice enough to entertain me.”
“I, um, water? Would you like water? Or coffee? Or—”
Graham shook his head. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
Jackson slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “What can I do for you?” He tried to say it politely; he wasn’t sure he succeeded. This was the man who wanted to play him in a movie about the Fletcher house, after all. This was the man willing to foment the kind of scandal that would throw slime all over Jackson’s daughter.
“Two things, actually. I wanted to say congrats on getting your name cleared. And I wanted to tell you that I’m off the movie.”
Jackson shifted his weight. Not relaxing—not yet—but interested. And dubious. “Is that so?”
Graham seemed to deflate a bit. “Look, I’m breaking a confidence, but you should know that your dad was in bed with Reed. He was keen on getting the movie made. Figured it would be one hell of a payday. Even dropped that bombshell about you and your brother when interest waned. Guess he figured it would pick back up.”
Jackson stood perfectly still. “And you? Why were you involved?”
“The material rocks, man. And it’s not defamation. All that shit that happened to you—to the Fletchers—it’s a damn solid story and it would make one hell of a movie.”
“And yet you’re not going to make it.”
Graham met his eyes. “I’m not,” he said. “The material’s good, but my perspective has changed. My girlfriend’s pregnant, and if anyone messed with my kid, I’d fuck them up one side and down the other. But I guess you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? That’s why you were trying to kill the movie.”
Jackson nodded. “Yes. It was.”
“Was your dad the leak? About your daughter, I mean.”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I think the press just did their job and found the court papers in New Mexico.”
Graham nodded. “Listen, I can’t promise that no one else will hop on, but I can promise they’ll get no support from me. And with you no longer a suspect, the tabloids will back off. I predict they lose interest.”
“Thank you,” Jackson said, but the simple formality of his words couldn’t convey the extent of his relief. “And congratulations.”
Graham’s face broke into the smile that made him a household name. “Thanks. It’s pretty amazing, don’t you think?”
“What?”
“Fatherhood. It changes fucking everything.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said softly. “It does.”
A few minutes later, the elevator doors closed behind Graham, and Rachel let out a long sigh. “Wow.”
Jackson smiled indulgently. Considering she’d recently been burned by Trent’s deception, it was nice she’d gotten a celebrity treat. “Is Damien in?”
“Sorry, no. Do you want me to leave a message?”
Jackson shook his head. “No. I’ll tell him later.” He headed back to the elevator bank, fully intending to take the express to the apartment. Instead, he got into the regular car and descended to the parking garage. His mind was whirring as he strode to his Porsche. They were cut from the same cloth, Sylvia’s father and Jeremiah Stark. But at least Sylvia’s dad was trying to mend what he destroyed, even if murder was a rather dramatic way to apologize.
But not Jeremiah. He just kept hacking away at Jackson’s and Damien’s lives, as if they were gemstones and he was trying to mine a sliver, not caring that he was damaging the whole.
That was something Jackson was damn sure he wouldn’t do as a father. He’d make mistakes as a parent, sure. But he wouldn’t repeat his father’s. Sylvia knew that—he was one hundred percent certain that she believed in his ability to raise his child.
So why the hell couldn’t she see that in herself?
He was already out of the parking garage before he realized that his destination was Santa Monica. He’d been trying to give her space, but he was done. He wanted her. He needed her.
And he was damn sure she needed him.
Time to go bring back the woman he was going to marry. Time to convince her that she should stay. That this would work.
Because, dammit, he wasn’t going to lose her again.
thirty
I don’t actually know how I got here, but instead of going home after leaving my father, I went to Van Nuys and to the warehouse where Reed ran one of the studios where he so often photographed me.
Now I’m sitting in the parking lot in my Nissan, just staring at those nondescript, weathered walls that seem so dull. And I can’t help but wonder what is going on behind them now. For that matter, who knows what’s really going on behind any walls? Or inside anyone’s head?
I don’t know what my father was thinking back then, but I believe him now. His regret is real, his overture legitimate. I will never be as close to him as Jackson will be to Ronnie, but despite the fact that I never would have believed it before, I really do want to try and heal. To take his apology and his retreat and turn it around, box it up, and move past it.
I slide the car back into drive, not entirely certain why I came at all. Closure? Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to prove to myself that this wasn’t actually hell. That there was no fire and brimstone, and that any of the demons who live here are in my mind—and I can defeat them.
I get back on the highway and head toward Santa Monica, but I take a detour into Brentwood and the house we lived in when I was a kid. This was where I started my hobby of photographing houses, because I couldn’t believe that a house with such a perfect exterior held such horrible secrets. It was nothing but a facade, and I wondered if the rest of the houses I saw around the city were as well.
The house Jackson will build in the Palisades won’t be, though. There will be love—and honesty. And I think that’s what’s most important.
I think about waking up there with Jackson beside me. About Ronnie rushing in and bouncing on the bed. About sitting on a long balcony and sipping coffee in the morning and wine in the evening and watching the ocean that is spread out to infinity.
I think about a little girl and a puppy and the man that I love.
I want that. Oh, god, how I want it.
I’m still scared, but I’ll learn what to do. I won’t be like my mom who checks out when it gets tough. Or my dad who waits decades to try to remedy a mistake or to protect a child.
It won’t be easy. I’ll stumble.
But with Jackson to catch me it will be okay.
Jackson.
Suddenly, I can’t wait even one more second to see him, and I turn the car around and head the opposite direction, back downtown to the Tower apartment.
Traffic is a mess, and every moment is like torture. But I finally careen into my parking place and race to the penthouse. I burst into the foyer and call for him, for Ronnie, for Stella.
But there is only silence that greets me. And in that moment I am certain that I destroyed everything. That I convinced him that I wasn’t worth the risk. That my stumbling efforts would come between him and his daughter.
That it was best for Ronnie not to have me in their lives.
Oh, god, what the hell have I done?
I look blankly around the apartment, not understanding where everyone could be. I call his phone, but there is no answer, and I feel even more lost. Even more lonely.
In the back of my mind, I know that an empty apartment does not mean all those things. But I’m so tired. And I fought so hard to break away that I am having a difficult time believing that now that I’ve seen my mistake, things will turn out okay. In my experience, it’s usually the opposite.
Right now, I tell myself not to think about it. I tell myself it’s time to just sleep.
Going home, I don’t even bother to get in the left lane. I drive slowly, like a drunk who shouldn’t even be on the road but is trying desperately to focus. I sleepwalk up the stairs to my apartment. All I want to do is crawl into bed. Tomorrow, I will try again. And if Jackson is still gone I will go to Cass and get another tattoo, because this is a pain that I must both fight and remember.
My apartment is dark when I get in, and I curse myself for not leaving a light on the way that I usually do. I kick off my shoes, then stumble through the dark toward my bedroom, stripping off my T-shirt and bra as I go, then tossing my jeans over the back of the couch before I finish crossing the short distance to my bedroom doorway.
I’m still there when I hear his voice. Just one word—just my name—but it means everything.
“Sylvia.”
I stop in the doorway, entirely naked, and though I have never felt vulnerable in front of Jackson, I do right now. My eyes adjust to the light, and I see him get off the bed and come to me. He stands just inches from me, and suddenly I am very aware of my breathing. Of every hair on my body. Of his proximity. And, yes, of my need.
I lick my lips. “I looked for you at the apartment.”
“Funny,” he says, his voice gentle. “I looked for you here.”
He moves a few feet to the left to the chair that sits next to the door. My robe is there, and he picks it up and then hands it to me. And that simple gesture, so seemingly polite, terrifies me.
My breath hitches, and I make a little gasping sound. I hold the robe clutched to my body, but I don’t put it on. “Jackson—I—I’m sorry.” I try to read the expression on his face, but I can’t. “Did I ruin everything by walking away? I don’t want to lose you or Ronnie because I was afraid.”
“Was? You’re not afraid anymore?”
I look down. “No,” I say. “I still am. But it’s a fear of what-ifs, and I don’t want to live like that. I’m still terrified of screwing up, but I’d rather risk screwing up with you than not even try.” I lift my head and meet his eyes. “I love you, Jackson, and I’m so scared that I’ve lost you.”
I see the break in his expression. The glow of tenderness and relief. And when he steps closer to me, I can’t help but notice the way his jeans are tight over the bulge of his erection.
“Don’t you know you can never lose me?” He reaches out and strokes my cheek. “Do you think I don’t understand fear? Being a parent—hell, being in love—it’s about making scary choices. But choosing you—choosing us? That one’s not scary at all.”
My heart twists with emotion at his words, and I can’t wait any more. I need his touch to match his words. I need to know that we’re truly back, that the world has righted itself.
I drop my robe and without warning, I pull him tight against me, claiming him with my mouth, pressing my breasts hard against him.
I slide my hands down and cup the firm curve of his ass, pulling him toward me until I can feel him beneath the denim. He groans, the sound full of need, and it rolls through me, battering my senses. I’m naked, my skin on fire, and there’s no denying the reaction of my body as his pelvis crushes against mine.
One of his hands is on my hips, and I reach for it, stepping back enough so that I can slide our joined hands between my thighs. I’m wet and slippery.
“I’m yours,” I say huskily, my words stuttering as a small, unexpected orgasm sends electric sparks fluttering through me. “And you’re mine.”
“Hell, yes I am.”
He holds my gaze long enough for me to see passion and promise. And, yes, understanding. Then he draws his hand away, the sensation making me melt a little more. He licks his fingers clean and my cunt clenches in response to that simple, erotic action.
He takes a single step backward and pulls his T-shirt over his head. Then he reaches for his jeans.
“No,” I say, then go to him. I unbutton his jeans and ease them over his hips, taking his briefs with them. His cock hardens as I do, and I bite back a satisfied smile.
I slide down his body until I’m on my knees, and his cock is stiff and magnificent in front of me. I tilt my head back to look at him. I meet his eyes, and I can tell he knows exactly what this is. It’s more than desire and need. It’s my apology, my submission, my promise.
I tease him first, licking the length of his shaft and teasing the crown. But I want more than that. I want to get him off. I want to give him that moment when everything disappears and he is reduced to sweet sensation. I want to wash away the pain I caused.
I cup his balls with one hand and take his cock into my mouth, and the taste of him, so very male, so very Jackson, slices through me, making my nipples hard and my own body demand attention. But I keep my focus on Jackson. On the way he’s thrust one arm out for balance. On the low moans he is making as passion builds.
And—oh yes—on the way he holds my head and guides me as he gets closer and closer and then finally explodes in my mouth.
He is holding me in place, and I have no choice but to swallow. And after I do, I stand up and kiss him, sharing the taste of him as he slides his hand between my legs to stroke my slick cunt. “Your turn now.”
I squeal as he scoops me up, then lays me on the bed. Then slowly, he strokes his hands over me, his touch driving me wild because there is no part of me to which he doesn’t minister. I squirm and writhe under his attention, my skin sensitive, my body needy. He doesn’t relent. Not until every tiny nerve ending is tied to my core, and when he thrusts inside me—when he strokes my clit and sends me reeling—it is like the sun is rising inside me, illuminating my entire body, turning me brighter and brighter until I can’t contain it any longer and I explode into golden rays of sunshine.
I come down slowly, trembling, then curl up in his arms. “Is it this way for everybody?” I ask. “This intensity. This feeling that I’ll shrivel up if I can’t touch you?” I tilt my head up to look at him. “You know what I mean, right?”
“You know I do.”
“Is it because we’re a little bit lost, you and I?”
He kisses the top of my head. “Lost? Oh, no, sweetheart. Not anymore. We’re found.”
After a moment, he eases us both up off the bed so that we can get under the covers. After we’re settled again, he turns to get something off the bedside table. I recognize it immediately—it’s his grandmother’s ring. My ring. The one I’d left behind.
“You asked me to marry you once before. Now it’s my turn.”
He slides out of bed, and to my delight, drops to one knee as he holds out the ring. “Sylvia Brooks, will you marry me?”
I look at him, and cannot hide my smile.
Second chances. That seems to be the way it is with Jackson and me.
And there’s no way am I screwing this one up.
“Yes,” I say, and as I tug him back onto the bed and kiss him sweetly, only one thing goes through my head. Wife, I think.
And I really can’t wait.
epilogue
I stand on the main beach at Santa Cortez with Jackson beside me and the world that we have built rising up behind us, fresh and clean and so intertwined with the landscape that it is hard to believe that the buildings didn’t burst up with the formation of the island.
Everything is ready. The guest rooms are primped and polished and made up with fresh linens. The restaurants are stocked. The gift stores overflow with merchandise. The pools sparkle. Not a detail has been spared, and every magazine and newspaper and blog that has covered the resort has called it one of Stark Real Estate Development’s crowning achievements.
The guest list is already overflowing, and we are booked up for the next two years.
The official opening is over a month away, but already the island is bustling with administration, maintenance, and service staff. Most have moved permanently to their quarters on the island, but today there are about a dozen more people on the island who do not live here full-time.
They’ve come for our wedding.
The judge who stands before us has already read most of the vows, but I’ve barely heard a word. It’s hard to hear from up here where I’m floating above the earth.
But when he asks if we have the rings and Ronnie bounces and squeals, “I do! I do!” I know that it is real.
I take Jackson’s ring from the little pillow that she holds out to me, then gently slide it onto his finger, his eyes never leaving mine.
He does the same, and I swear that I can feel the shock of this moment, this new reality, settle through me as the ring encircles my finger, just as Jackson has encircled my life.
“You may kiss the bride,” the judge says, and Jackson wastes no time. He pulls me to him, leans me back, and kisses me thoroughly, all to the applause and catcalls of our small audience.
“Well, hello, wife,” Jackson says, when he rights me.
“Hello, husband,” I reply, then wrap my arms around him and sigh.
“We’ll leave you two alone soon,” Nikki promises as she and Damien approach. “But we have a little reception set up in the main restaurant.”
I glance at Jackson, who just shakes his head. We’d not intended a reception. Just a quick wedding squeezed in before my work life got crazy with the opening.
And, of course, a long weekend for a honeymoon.
The resort was designed so that a dozen bungalows on the north side of the island are actually for sale. And Nikki and Damien—now otherwise known as my sister– and brother-in-law—gave us one for a wedding gift.
“Just a little something for the happy couple,” Damien had said to Jackson, obviously trying to hold back a smile. “I figured if you designed it, then it must be to your taste.”
Jackson had laughed. And though I’d feared he’d turn down the gift as too extravagant, he’d only said, “Hell, yeah.”
Now, he bends down so that Ronnie—now officially Veronica Amelia Steele—can ride piggyback as he and I hold hands on our walk to the reception.
He’s barefoot in deference to the sand, but he’d told me that he wasn’t going to get married if he wasn’t wearing a suit. It’s black and perfectly tailored, the gloss of the fine material gleaming in the sun. His only nod to the casual nature of our wedding is the fact that he’s not wearing a tie. Instead, his collar is open, and when he turns to grin at me, wide and happy, I see the indentation at the base of his neck.
I’m struck with the overwhelming urge to kiss him there. To lick him and taste him. Because he is truly mine now. Every delicious inch of him.
I manage to control myself; after all, we now have all the time in the world.
Unlike my husband, I’d taken the beachside nature of our wedding into consideration. I’m wearing a white silk tank top embroidered with delicate silver threads and a flowing white skirt. It’s not sheer, but gives the illusion that it is, and the layers of gauzy material flicker in the breeze as we walk.
One of the resort’s bands is playing when we arrive at the restaurant, and there is a beautiful three-tiered wedding cake standing in the middle of the dance floor. Ronnie takes off running for it, and when she turns back, her eyes are big. “Mommy! Daddy! Cake!” She claps her hands, delighted, and everyone around begins to laugh. I, however, am about to cry.
Because today, finally, I really am Mommy. And next month it will be even more official, because that’s when my adoption of Ronnie will be finalized.
I know that I’m not a perfect mother, and there are times when I still look at Ronnie and wonder what the hell I’m doing, but at the same time, I know that I’m doing my best. And I know that Jackson has my back.
More than that, I’m not scared anymore because I know that Ronnie is growing up healthy and happy and loved, and that’s what matters most.
I take Jackson’s hand and squeeze. He looks down at me, then gently kisses my forehead. “I know,” he said softly. “Me, too.”
We dance, Jackson and me, then Jackson and Ronnie, then me and Ethan who has been grinning like a fool through the whole wedding. He passes me off to Cass, who whispers that I’ve given her ideas as she glances over at Siobhan who is sitting at one of the tables having what appears to be a very serious conversation with Ronnie. I even dance with Damien once, while Jackson spins Nikki on the floor.
Betty and Stella are here, too, along with Megan, who is looking happy and healthy in a flowing yellow sundress. Jackson takes both her and Ronnie onto the floor when the band starts playing “The Twist.” It doesn’t last long; the little girl keeps dissolving into giggles before shouting “Daddy! Meggie! I twisting!”
Of everyone in our lives, only our fathers and my mother are notably absent. My father, because he still has months to go on his negotiated sentence. My mom because that’s who she is, and I have come to terms with that. And Jeremiah because he is not welcome.
Jackson told me about what happened with Graham Elliott, of course. And though Jeremiah had later sworn to Jackson that he would never have pursued the movie if he’d known about Ronnie, to Jackson that was too little, too late.
Because the betrayal that Jeremiah perpetrated wasn’t about Ronnie. It wasn’t even about the movie. It was about Jeremiah playing off Jackson’s life for personal gain. And Jackson told his father firmly and finally to stay away from his life, and also away from his wedding.
But I am not thinking about Jeremiah Stark today. Not when it’s my wedding day and all around us is food and laughter and fun. Most of all, there is love. And when the festivities end—when Damien and Nikki scoop Ronnie up to take her back to the Malibu house for a long weekend—I hold Jackson close as we say goodbye to our friends, then kiss our little girl goodbye.
“I realize a honeymoon is no place for a toddler,” Jackson says as we stroll hand in hand toward our bungalow. “But I’ve gotten so used to having her around, that it’s a little weird now that she’s gone.”
The sun has begun to set, and the sky is a brilliant glow of orange and purple. “Good,” he adds. “But weird.”
“Maybe I can make it a little less strange for you.” I pull him to a stop beside me on the path. Then I take our joined hands and place them gently on my lower abdomen.
I hesitate only a moment, then tilt my head back to look at him. “There’s still a child with us on the island, Jackson.”
The look of surprise and wonder and—thank goodness—happiness that I see in his eyes almost knocks me off my feet.
“You’re pregnant?” he asks, but I don’t get to answer because my “yes” is swallowed up by my squeal when he scoops me into his arms and holds me close to his chest. “I love you,” he says simply, and I feel a quiet glow spread through me. The warmth of anticipation and wonder and excitement. Because for Jackson and me—for our family—our life together is just beginning. And it will be spectacular.
