Текст книги "Under My Skin"

Автор книги: J. Kenner

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“Sylvia,” he prompts. “Sylvia, talk to me.”

“This isn’t a good time.” My voice is tight, and I can barely squeeze the words out.

“I’ve left at least a dozen messages. You haven’t called me back.”

“And so you thought you would trick me by calling from an unfamiliar number?”

“What choice do I have? I need to talk to you.”

“You need?” The words hang in the air, dark and twisted. Two simple syllables, and yet they seem to sum up my entire, horrible childhood.

“We need,” he corrects immediately. “We need to talk. About Reed. About what happened. About those photographs he threatened you with.”

“I can’t.” I’m shaking my head, wishing I could block out everything he is saying. Trying to push back the memories he is invoking. But it’s no use. The floor is shifting beneath me, and I reach for the counter to steady myself.

“You can’t keep ignoring me.”

Yes. I can. But I can’t manage the words. Not then. Not with the way my throat is closing up and the room is turning gray and the floor is starting to angle sideways, as if to let those horrible memories roll more easily toward me.

“We have to talk, Sylvia. We have to.” His voice sounds miles away, as if it is just a noise and has nothing to do with me. And I don’t want to hear it anymore.

I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

I’m not sure if I’m actually speaking those words or if I’m just screaming them in my head. Somehow, though, I manage to jam my finger hard against the proper button to end the call before the phone tumbles from my hand. My knees give out, and suddenly I’m on the ground, my legs pulled right up against my chest. I close my eyes and squeeze them tight and rock back and forth as I fight the panic and the memories that are rising fast to consume me.

I hate this—the terror. This sense of being lost. Of being out of control.

Of being thrust back into pain and memories without any warning at all.

If I’d known it was him, I could have prepared. Could have steeled myself.

Could you? Would you? Or would you have just hid from his words? From his voice?

My chest is tight with the weight of the truth. Because I would have hid. If I had my way, I’d hide from my father for the rest of eternity.

I take deep breaths and I tell myself to get a grip. He’s gone. It’s over. And I can handle this.

More than that, I have to handle this.

It hasn’t yet been a week since Jackson told my father what Robert Cabot Reed did to me. Not that my dad didn’t already have some idea. He was the one who’d set me up with Reed as a teen, after all. Who’d accepted exorbitant amounts of money from Reed in exchange for my services, supposedly as a model, but that damn sure wasn’t the extent of it.

And it was my father who’d ignored my pleas to stop the photo sessions.

So, yeah, my dad knew what went on in Reed’s studio, but he’d never really faced it. Not until Jackson forced him to not only acknowledge the past, but to look at the present. A present in which Reed was blackmailing me, threatening to release those horrible, ugly, intimate photos to the press if I didn’t convince Jackson to quit blocking his movie.

Since that night, my father has repeatedly called me, and I’ve repeatedly ignored him. And that’s not going to stop now. As far as I’m concerned, that man stopped being my father when he drove me to Reed’s studio the first time. And if he’s calling to apologize, I really don’t give a damn. And if he’s calling to ask for forgiveness, that’s not something I’m willing to grant.

I shake out my arms, then slap my cheeks lightly as if I’m a trauma victim who needs to be revived. Because when you get right down to it, that’s exactly what I am.

I have to get my shit together, because I cannot, cannot, cannot let Jackson see me like this. Not because I’m afraid that he won’t comfort me, but because I am certain that he will. He might be pushing me away from his problems and fears, but he won’t ignore mine. On the contrary, my pain would slide in and mingle with his own, and I can’t put this on him. Not now. Not today.

But even though I know that keeping silent about this call is absolutely the right decision, I can’t help but feel as if my silence is the first step on a dark path leading me away from Jackson. And if I don’t fight to keep him by my side, I’m going to lose him to the shadows.

two

“Ms. Brooks?”

Grayson’s voice breaks through the cotton that seems to fill my head and I sit bolt upright, my heart pounding in my chest as panic crashes over me. “What?” I demand. “Are we okay? Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be flying this thing?”

I don’t like air travel—it makes me queasy and nervous and unsettled. About the only thing I do like, in fact, is the moment after landing when I realize that I’ve miraculously survived being hurtled through the air in a giant steel canister. So when Grayson told us that there were storms over New Mexico and Arizona, I’d succumbed to pressure from him and Jackson and taken a couple of motion sickness pills. Normally, that would just make me a little bit sleepy. But at lunch Stella had brought out a pitcher of sangria, and since I was already hot and sweaty from playing in the yard with Jackson and Ronnie, I’d gulped down more than I should have.

Which meant that I was already drowsy when we’d climbed on board. Once the pills hit my system, I was a goner. And being startled awake only fed my phobia.

“It’s okay. Everything is fine.” Jackson’s voice is soft and soothing, and I force myself to relax. We’re in the jet, and I’d been sound asleep. Now Jackson eases me against him, and I gratefully comply, thinking that maybe air travel isn’t such a bad thing if it means that Jackson will hold me close and safe, his arm tight around my shoulders.

I sigh, cherishing the comfort that he’s offering. I have said nothing to him about the grayness that seems to fill the space between us. Instead, I am clinging like a beggar to each and every subtle connection. Every brush of his fingers against mine. Every press of his hand upon my back as he guides me. Every soft glance, every gentle smile.

It’s not enough, though. We have always fit together, Jackson and I, like pieces in a puzzle. But now it feels as if someone has bent the pieces and the fit is awkward and slightly off, and that disconnect is making me crazy. I don’t think I can stand it much longer, and soon I’m going to have to confront him. To grab him hard and pull him back, and then demand to know why the hell he’s so far away from me—and then hope that he doesn’t run even further.

Not now, though. Right now, I just need to know why the pilot is crouched in front of me instead of in the cockpit where he belongs.

“Seriously,” I demand as I narrow my eyes at Grayson, “why aren’t you at the wheel or the stick or whatever they call it?”

“Darryl has it under control,” Grayson assures me. “And I’m sorry to wake you, but there’s a satellite call.”

“Damien?”

“Trent,” Jackson says. “I offered to handle it, but he insisted he needs to speak to you.”

That’s odd, and I force down the rising worry and tell myself that this isn’t necessarily a big deal. After all, I call Damien all the time when he’s flying. It’s just one more method of communication. He probably needs a contact that Rachel can’t find. Or wants me to run interference for him on one of his projects if he ended up double-booked. Something mundane and easily handled.

Something not a crisis. Because honestly, at the moment, my crisis quota is all filled up.

Grayson returns with a headset for me and I put it on, then wait for him to return to the cockpit and patch the call through.

A few seconds later, I hear Trent Leiter come on the line. “You sitting down?”

“I’m in a plane, Trent. What do you think?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” His words spill nervously on top of each other. And since Trent isn’t easily rattled, that alone is enough to make me stand up and start to pace the length of the cabin.

What? Jackson mouths.

But all I can do is shrug. “Dammit, Trent. What’s going on?”

“Oh, hell,” he says, and I can practically picture the way his shoulders slump. Trent’s not a bad-looking guy, but neither is he the type who commands a room. His asset is a boyish charm that takes clients by surprise. He knows how to work it, too, getting friendly with them in sports bars and at Lakers’ games. Reeling them in with a few beers and the latest player stats.

So the fact that I can actually hear the nervous discomfort in his voice lets me know that whatever he has to say is bad. More than that, I’m positive that this is about the resort, and my brief fantasy that he was calling so I could hold some investor’s hand during a walk-through in Century City has flown completely out the window.

So, yeah, I stand. “Trent,” I demand as I start to pace.

“It’s out,” he says. “One damn leak, and it’s everywhere.”

I’m almost to the closed cockpit door, and now I turn back, my eyes immediately meeting Jackson’s. He starts to stand, obviously concerned by the look on my face, but I shake my head. “What?” I ask, my voice tense and tight. “What’s out?”

“It was an article in The Business Round-Up,” he says, referring to a small local paper that serves downtown Los Angeles. “I don’t know how they got the story, but it was on their website this morning, and the tabloids picked it up a few hours later, and now it’s pretty much everywhere.”

“What is?” I repeat. “Come on, Trent, just spit it out.” But even as I’m talking, I’m hurrying back to my seat, then rummaging in my bag for my tablet so that I can check out the Round-Up myself. I try to get a connection, then remember that we told Grayson not to worry about booting up the wifi—the flight’s only a couple of hours, and we’d plummet headfirst into reality soon enough.

“The article says that the investors are worried. They were already antsy because of Lost Tides,” he says, referring to a competing resort that is being developed in Santa Barbara, just a few hours away from my resort on Santa Cortez. It’s a huge thorn in my side because the developers are keeping the details under wraps in anticipation of a big PR event as they get closer to opening. But I know enough to know that the resort was inspired by my idea for Cortez. And, frankly, that pisses me off.

Trent clears his throat and continues. “Now they’re saying that if the Cortez resort’s architect is a suspect in a murder, then maybe that’s not the kind of project they want to fund.”

“Fuck.”

I’m not sure when I sat back down, but all I know is that I am seated, and Jackson is leaning forward, his expression concerned.

Tell me, he demands silently.

And this time, I do. “It’s out,” I whisper. “It’s leaked. They know you’re a suspect.” I increase my volume for Trent. “How did this happen?”

“Best guess is some tenacious reporter has a mole in the Beverly Hills PD. If you’re looking to report hot celebrity gossip, that’s the place to flash a little cash and see whose pockets need lining.”

“Shit.” I draw a breath and try to stay calm. Beside me, Jackson looks like he could very easily put his fist through the plane’s hull. Since that thought really doesn’t jibe well with my fear of flying, I take one of his hands in my own and squeeze. What I want is to get off the phone. To toss this damn headset across the cabin and climb into Jackson’s lap. To hold tight to him and let him hold tight to me, and simply breathe.

But even that’s not true, because I want so much more. I want his mouth on me. His hands touching me. I want him to make me forget. To erase my fears.

And I want to do the same for him.

But this is not the place for that—a small jet with a thin door between the simple eight-seat cabin and the cockpit.

And, truly, what I fear even more is that Jackson would push me away. Gently, and with a soft touch and a kiss. But effective and painful nonetheless.

Frustrated, I stand again, too antsy to sit still, as Trent says tentatively, “Syl? Are you there? Did I lose you?”

“I’m here. Does Damien know?”

“He knows.”

At the mention of his half-brother’s name, Jackson rises, too. He brushes his fingers over my shoulder in a silent gesture of support, then goes to the back of the plane. He’s not pacing so much as imploding. As if all of his anger and energy is being sucked into himself. He needs to lash out—I know that he does. And I both fear and welcome the explosion when we finally do get the hell off this plane. He needs to explode, I think. And, dammit, so do I.

“So?” I prompt. “What’s Damien’s take?”

“He’s concerned,” Trent says. “He’s got reason to be. The investors pull out and you’ve got a mess on your hands. He’s trying to do damage control right now.”

“How?”

“Dallas is in town—the Round-Up actually contacted him.” Dallas Sykes is one of the resort’s primary investors. And any story that touches on the bad boy heir to the department store empire is bound to go viral. His dating escapades are constant tabloid fodder, and he’s been in the media spotlight since he was a kid. Everything from fights to over-the-top parties to reckless driving, not to mention more than a few times when he disappeared off the planet altogether, presumably holed up with some willing female.

“I should call Damien,” I say.

“No need. He’s already doing the drink-and-soothe routine. I told him I’d call you.”

“Is Aiden around?”

“I’m the one who spotted the article,” Trent says testily, and I cringe.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.” I get why he’s touchy. Trent’s in charge of projects in the Southern California area. By rights, The Resort at Cortez should be his. But since the idea was mine in the first place, Damien put me in as project manager—and I report to Aiden Ward, the VP of Stark Real Estate Development, jumping over Trent entirely.

“Listen, I really do appreciate the heads-up.”

“Yeah, well, I figured you’d want to get ahead of it. The resort’s already on shaky ground, and I’d hate for you to lose it because of this. It’s bullshit.”

Lose the resort.

Lose the resort?

With an unpleasant jolt, I realize that I’ve had blinders on. I’ve been so focused on the possibility of Jackson ending up behind bars that it never occurred to me that the resort might slip through my fingers simply because Jackson’s a suspect.

A thick, cold dread swirls inside me. I have done everything humanly possible to get Cortez off the ground. I’ve lived it, breathed it. Risked my heart for it.

I shake my head, vehemently. “No way in hell am I losing the resort. That is not even an option.” But even as I say the words, I can’t escape a growing terror. Because I can’t control the media, and if the investors think Jackson is toxic, then all of my work just blows away, like so much dandelion fuzz.

“I didn’t mean—” Trent begins.

“No.” The word bursts out of me, red and ripe with panic.

“Syl.” Jackson’s voice is soft and firm. “Tell him it’s time to get off the phone. We’ll be back in LA soon. You are not losing this resort. Don’t even think it.”

Over the headset, I hear Trent clear his throat. “Syl?”

“I should go,” I say robotically.

“Yeah, well, there’s one more thing. It’s not only the Round-Up that’s got this. They were just the first.”

“I know. You said.”

“Yeah, but what I mean is that they’re not just repeating that he’s a suspect. They’re speculating about motive and all that shit.”

My stomach twists and I immediately reach for Jackson’s hand. “Motive?” I fight the urge to bite my lower lip.

“The movie. The assault. Pretty much what you’d expect,” he says, and I can practically hear him cringing. Honestly, I feel like cringing, too. Beside me, Jackson uses his left hand to fumble my tablet out of the seat pocket. He taps it, then curses when a signal doesn’t magically appear.

“Listen, you can read it yourself as soon as you hit the ground, and Damien said to tell you that your meeting tonight will cover everything.”

“Right. Fine. Sure.”

“Are you okay?”

No. Not by a long shot. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Thanks. Thanks for watching my back.”

There is a pause, and then he says softly, his voice full of rough emotion, “What did you think, Sylvia? That I’d throw you to the wolves?”

“I, no—” I begin, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already hung up.

“Tell me,” Jackson says, and I sum up the Round-Up article and tell him about Dallas.

“Fuck.” The curse is heartfelt, and I silently second it. “And the rest? You said there was talk about motive.”

“That’s all I know. The movie. The assault. That’s all Trent said. That, and the story’s spreading.” I press my palm gently against his leg. “We’ll get through this,” I say. “The resort. The trial. All of it.”

I want him to repeat the words back to me. To press his hand over mine and gently squeeze my fingers. I want him to put his arm around me and pull me close and tell me that no matter what, we are in this together. I want to feel closer to him, but what I want apparently doesn’t matter, because when Jackson lifts his head and faces me, it suddenly seems as if I’m looking through the wrong end of a telescope and things that should be close are suddenly very, very far away.

“Jackson?” His name is a whisper, but also a plea. And for a moment it goes unanswered. He sits there, stiff and distant, his expression hard, his eyes like arctic ice. A riffle of panic rises through me, and I actually clutch the armrests tight in defense against it. He’s said nothing—done nothing—and yet I know with absolute certainty that Jackson is moving inexorably away from me. And I neither understand it nor know how to stop it.

I am about to cry out his name again, but then his shoulders sag and his posture relaxes. He glances at me, and I go weak with relief when I see that the ice in his eyes has melted.

He raises his hands, then drags his fingers through his hair as he bends forward so that his elbows are on his knees and his hands are on his head. “Christ, Syl, I’ve screwed everything up.”

I freeze, just a little, as one possible meaning of his words slaps me hard across the face. Does he mean that he killed Reed?

And if so, where does that leave us?

I reach to press my hand against his shoulder, needing that physical contact almost as much as I need oxygen.

I don’t make it.

Instead, in the next second, I’m screaming and clutching at the armrest as the tin can we are flying in bounces as if we are on a trampoline. My tote, which had been on the floor by my feet, goes airborne, smashes against the ceiling, then falls to the floor, its acrobatics punctuated by my own shrill screams.

The sound of my voice is broken by a harsh crackling. It’s the intercom, and Grayson is speaking. “Sorry about that,” he says as the plane levels out. “We hit one hell of an air pocket on descent, but everything’s fine and we’ll be on the ground in about fifteen minutes.”

When he’s finished, I gasp, then realize that I’ve been holding my breath. I try to let go of the armrest, but my hand is stuck fast. I’m still so flustered by our near-death experience, that for a moment I’m genuinely confused. Then rational thought returns, along with the realization that Jackson is holding tight to my hand. His thumb is gently stroking the back of my wrist, and he’s murmuring softly to me. “It’s okay, Syl. It’s okay.”

I draw in a shuddering breath, so full of relief and hope that my head feels light. “It’s okay,” he repeats as I turn and meet his eyes. Gently, he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my fingers. “It’s better now.”

I sigh and nod, my heart still beating a wild rhythm in my chest.

He’s comforting me, yes, and god knows I need it.

But that doesn’t mean I believe him.

three

“Have you heard from Mr. Stark?” I’m surfing social media sites while I talk with Rachel Peters, Damien’s weekend assistant. At the same time, I’m walking across the tarmac in front of Hangar J, one of Stark International’s private hangars in the north field of the Santa Monica airport.

The company actually has ten hangars, as well as the Rec Room, which is what we call the large, nondescript building that houses the flight crews’ offices, a kitchen and dining area, a well-stocked bar available to incoming passengers and crew, a huge recreation area with a pool table and giant television, and two private sleeping chambers that the crew has access to on an as-needed basis.

I’m heading that way now, a few minutes behind Jackson, who took off with Darryl on the promise of a drink. “It’s almost happy hour,” Darryl had said. “And frankly¸ you look like you could use one.”

Since I needed to make this call, I promised to follow, and then walked more slowly as I did my multitasking thing. I want time to scope out the social media flurry before I talk with Jackson. Because frankly, I think we both need to be prepared for the storm that’s about to pummel us.

“I haven’t heard a word from him,” Rachel says in response to my question.

My work on The Resort at Cortez has taken me off Damien’s desk more and more frequently, and as a result Rachel’s weekend gig has spilled over into the week more than we’d initially expected. She’s doing a good job, though, and Damien has made clear that I’m supposed to be grooming her to take over my responsibilities if and when I move to a full-time management position in the real estate division.

Since that is absolutely my goal, I’m all about the training. And the most important thing Rachel needs to realize is that you can’t be Damien’s assistant and not have your finger on the pulse of what’s going on elsewhere in the company. Not have it and keep the job, anyway.

Which is why I prompt her with, “You haven’t heard a word, but . . .”

“But,” she says, following my lead, “Dallas called about fifteen minutes ago asking if I could book him the suite at the Century Plaza.”

“Did he? And what does that tell you?” I know what it tells me, and I mentally cross my fingers that Rachel understands, too.

“That he’s not pulling out. At least not yet. And even if he is thinking about pulling out, he hasn’t told Mr. Stark as much. But honestly, I think he’s in for the long haul. Because taking advantage of Mr. Stark’s hospitality and then cutting off the investment funds would only piss Mr. Stark off. And even a man like Dallas Sykes doesn’t want to be on Damien Stark’s bad side.”

“Not bad,” I say. “What else?”

“Well, the rest is a bit more dicey. I may be completely off base.”

“That’s the job, Rachel. A doormat assistant who can only do exactly what Mr. Stark tells her is no use at all.”

“Right. Well, I don’t think that Dallas is a very good barometer. About what the rest of the investors will do, I mean.” Though her words are statements, her voice rises at the end, as if she’s asking a question.

“Okay,” I say, biting back a smile as I recall how nervous I was when I took over as Damien’s primary assistant. “Why’s that?”

“It’s just that he’s such a wild card. A tabloid fodder bad boy, you know? Which means the other investors might still pull out, especially in light of everything that happened today. Which means we’re still fucked.”

I laugh out loud at that final assessment, and she sucks in air on the other end of the line.

“I so wouldn’t have said it that way to Mr. Stark.”

“It’s okay,” I promise. “I get it.” And frankly “fucked” pretty much sums it up.

I’ve got my earbuds in so I’ve been able to look at the web browser on my phone as we talk. And while I haven’t scrolled down to read any of the actual articles, I’ve seen enough to know that Trent is right. This shit is everywhere. It’s all doom and gloom, with everyone predicting that the investors are toast and the resort is doomed. And I’m certain that Jackson has seen it by now.

“Do you need me to send you Nigel’s statement?”

“Nigel?” I repeat. I only know one Nigel. He’s a friend of Damien’s who works at the Pentagon and was a helpful contact earlier in the year when Stark Vacation Properties purchased Santa Cortez island, where the resort is being built. “Nigel Galway?”

“About the land mines.”

I come to a dead stop on the tarmac. “Rachel, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Trent didn’t tell you?”

“Trent told me about the leaks about Jackson. About the speculation on motive. If you’re referring to a metaphorical land mine, I’m right there with you. But otherwise, I need you to tell me what the hell we’re talking about.” I’m speaking very slowly and very distinctly.

My stomach is tight and my skin is clammy, and I have the very unpleasant feeling that I know where this is going—and it’s not going anywhere good.

“The investors all got emails saying that Santa Cortez was seeded with land mines. Part of the military training operations.”

“Shit. Fuck. Damn.” The curses roll off my tongue. I take a deep breath. “Nigel made a statement?”

“Aiden and Damien talked to him about an hour ago—I can’t believe Trent didn’t tell you. I guess he figured it’s been handled. And it has. Really. I mean, there might be blowback, but—”

“I swear to god, Rachel, just back up and tell me what happened.”

She does. Finally. Apparently the investors received a leaked copy of a Pentagon memo proposing to bury land mines on Santa Cortez island back when it was being used as a naval training facility. That proposal was rejected, and no mines were ever buried on the island, a fact which Nigel has put to paper and which Damien has relayed to the investors.

On the whole, it’s a minor blip, which was easily resolved.

But it’s a blip that’s indicative of a bigger problem—someone is still messing with my resort. And they really show no signs of stopping.

Since about the time Jackson came on board, The Resort at Cortez has been plagued with strange incidents. Security footage leaked to the press. Private emails taken viral. Nuisances, mostly. But troublesome enough that they’ve eaten into my time and into the investors’ confidence.

I’d thought that they were over.

Apparently, I’d been wrong.

I tell Rachel to forward me Nigel’s statement so that I’ll be up to speed, then I end the call and pick up my pace, both because I now have energy to burn, and because I want to catch up to Jackson.

As soon as I step through the doors of the Rec Room, I stop and scan the interior for him. The room is essentially empty—I happen to know that we were the only flight arriving on the property today, and the staff doesn’t normally work Sundays—so I expect to find him easily enough. But while Darryl is cooling his heels at the bar, there is no sign of Jackson.

“Is he in the restroom?”

Darryl looks up as I approach. He’s a thin man with a hangdog face that makes him look older than his twenty-eight years and perpetually sleepy. I know it’s an illusion; you only need to look at those sharp gray eyes to see that Darryl is as competent as they come, and I fully expect that he’ll inherit Grayson’s job one day.

“He just left. Asked if I could drive you home. Said he needed to take care of a few things before his meeting tonight.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing as he studies my face. “I’m guessing that’s a problem?”

Hell yes, that’s a problem, but all I say is, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll use one of the company cars. I’ve got a few errands to take care of myself.”

I really want to run, but I don’t want to reveal that I’m worried. So I calmly head behind the bar to the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of Perrier. Then I hitch my tote over my shoulder, grab my rolling bag, which Darryl has left by the side door, and walk slowly out of the room.

Once I’m out, though, I practically sprint around the corner to the row of covered parking spaces that abut the back of this building. These are cars that Stark International keeps for the use of clients, investors, consultants, and the like who arrive at this airport. I’m totally mangling company policy by snagging one for my personal use, but at the moment, I don’t much care.

Jackson’s been playing emotional hide-and-seek with me ever since the cops showed up in Santa Fe, and now he’s taken that to the next level.

Well, too bad for him that’s not a game I’m in the mood to play.

A lockbox is mounted to the side of the building, and I punch in the code, then grab the keys for a bright yellow Mustang. I hurry over to it and fire up the engine, gratified by the way the motor purrs as I back it out. It’s a responsive car, a hell of a lot spunkier than my five-year-old Nissan, and I hope that it’s got enough power to catch up to Jackson.

He can’t really lay on the gas until he’s off airport property, but I’m more than willing to break the rules and do exactly that. I hope he hasn’t passed the gates, because I’d never find him on the city streets. But surely he hasn’t been gone that long. Has he?

There’s a single road that winds its way through this Stark-operated section of the airport, and I’m certain that is Jackson’s path. But I know how to cut across on the service feeder that runs behind the Stark hangars and, hopefully, catch up with him by Hangar C, which is where the main road and the feeder converge.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do then, but I’m not above tailing him all the way to wherever the hell he’s escaping to. Because I know damn well that he’s not going home. He needs a fight—he needs to lash out. He needs to pummel the world into submission, until the universe rights itself again.

What he doesn’t seem to need is me, and the thought that he’s not just running from me but actually escaping out the goddamn back door makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry. Fortunately, my anger has overshadowed that emotion. I’m fired up, riled by my fury. I’ll melt down later; right now, all I want is to find him, to shake him, and to tell him to get the fuck over it. Because he’s got enough problems right now, and dammit, I’m not one of them.

My temper has been rising with my thoughts and I realize that I’ve pushed the car up to almost ninety, which is completely forbidden on airport property.

I press harder, edging the speedometer up even more. I’m not worried about safety—this part of the airport is primarily used for storage of planes and parts, and even during the week there are rarely people around. But even if it were bustling, I’d still floor it. Because right now, the rules are the last thing on my mind. My descent into anarchy is rewarded when I pass a cluster of planes anchored on the tarmac just past Hangar D. They are on my right, and just beyond them I see the black streak that is Jackson’s Porsche.