Текст книги "Under My Skin"
Автор книги: J. Kenner
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
five
Our destination—the office of Bender, Twain & McGuire—takes up three floors in 2049 Century Park East, one of the two iconic triangular shaped towers that comprise the Century Plaza Towers in Century City. They rise up ahead of us, shining against the night sky, as Jackson maneuvers his beloved black Porsche down Santa Monica Boulevard, cutting a straight path from my condo to our destination.
I’ve always loved these towers—the sleek, clean lines and the soft gleam of the aluminum facade. The towers truly shine when they are set against the backdrop of the blue California sky. But even after dark, they stand like monuments, reflecting the power and prestige of the area and the people who live and work here.
“He’s on my regret list,” Jackson says, pointing to the towers.
“He? You mean Yamasaki?”
Jackson grins. “I should have known you’d be familiar with him. Along with Frank Lloyd Wright, Minoru Yamasaki is one of the people I always invite to dinner when I play that game.”
“Who you’d have at your table, either living or dead?”
“Exactly. Wright passed away before I was born, and I think I would have been about four when Yamasaki died. I was building things with my Legos back then, but even if I had clued in to my desire to be an architect, I don’t think he would have taken my call.”
I can’t help my smile. “Probably not. He’s on my list, too,” I admit. “There’s such an elegant majesty to his buildings, you know?” Minoru Yamasaki may have been the original architect for the towers in Century City, but he’s most well-known for the original World Trade Center.
We stop at a light, and Jackson turns to me. “I haven’t taken you on an architectural tour of Los Angeles yet. We should do that soon. Maybe next weekend.”
“Don’t,” I snap, my voice harsher than I’d intended. “Don’t try to keep my mind off what’s going on around us. Don’t try to pretend that everything is fine. Like it or not, this is reality now.”
“Syl . . .” The light changes, but he doesn’t move forward.
“No, I mean it,” I say, as a car behind us honks. I turn around and glare at the idiot in the convertible—some overly made-up blonde who looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world, then I turn back to Jackson, even more irritated than I was before. “Go,” I say, but he’s already moving.
We drive in silence for another block. Jackson’s got both hands on the wheel, and an uncomfortable tension has filled the car, completely obliterating the sense of normalcy that had been between us just a few moments ago.
Good.
Because this isn’t normal. Nothing is normal. And we have to remember that. We have to fight it.
Except, dammit, how do you fight the evidence? The police? A horrible reality that’s edging closer and closer?
“Do you think I don’t understand the stakes?” Jackson’s voice is level, but firm.
“I think you’re trying to make it better for me,” I say. “And you can’t. Not like that.” I kick off my ballet flats and pull my legs up onto the seat, then rest my chin on my knees as I hug myself. “You need to do what they say, Jackson. Evelyn. The attorneys. I mean it. Exactly what they say.”
“Christ, Syl.” I hear the temper in his voice. “I’m not paying them to then ignore them.”
“No, but you fly off the handle sometimes.” I know that I should just shut up now, but I can’t seem to close my mouth. “You can’t do that anymore. You’re already on trial in the media, and you need to be careful. You need to be smart.”
He slows to make a right turn, and as he does the streetlights illuminate his face in the same moment that I am looking right at him. I see the hard lines. The harsh angles. “I know,” he says simply. No argument, no reproach. And just that simple acknowledgment makes me sag with relief.
“It’s just that—” I draw in a breath, then spit it out. “I don’t know if you killed him or not, Jackson. I don’t know because you haven’t told me, and that’s fine because I get that Charles doesn’t want you to say. But whether you did or not, I know you could have. Hell, I know you probably wanted to. And if I can see that—”
My voice breaks and I draw in a breath before trying again. “If I can see that, then what is a jury going to see?”
There is fear underscoring my voice, and I know that he hears it. But he doesn’t reach for my hand. He doesn’t try to console me. I’m grateful; right now, I need harsh, cold reality. Not platitudes.
“You see me,” he says simply. “You know that I’d do whatever is necessary to protect you. To protect Ronnie.” He draws a slow breath. “But a jury won’t see that. That’s my heart, baby. And my heart is only for you.” He reaches over and strokes my cheek. “It will be okay.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I have to.”
The underground parking garage is huge, but he manages to snag a guest slot near the elevator bank. As we walk that way, I check my phone one more time. Not that I’m loving being inundated with the social media bullshit, but I can’t ignore it. If we’re going to talk about the entire picture of Jackson’s defense, handling the media is going to come up. And not only do I need to know for Jackson’s sake, but also for the sake of the resort. Dallas Sykes may be completely on board, but I’m still not confident about the rest of the investors, and too much bad press just might tip them over the edge.
For the most part, what I find as I surf is more of the same—speculation about the assault and the movie and just general tabloid style gossip.
But as we step onto the elevator, I’m knocked sideways—literally—by the tweet that flashes across my screen, and I grab on to Jackson’s arm to steady myself.
“Are you okay—oh, shit,” he says when he sees my face. “What is it now?”
I don’t want to show him, I really don’t, but it’s not like I can avoid it. I pass him my phone, trying very hard not to cringe in anticipation of his reaction.
“Motherfucker.”
I wince despite myself, then glance over to see the screen even though what it says there is already burned into my mind: Damien Stark Half-Brother Jackson Steele Wanted for Questioning in Murder of Robert Cabot Reed #Scandal #Stark #Sordid #Steele
“Yeah,” I say grimly. “That just about sums it up.”
There’s a link, too, and Jackson tries to follow it, but of course we’ve lost the signal. Doesn’t matter. If there’s one tweet, there are a thousand, and we both know that the press is now all over the fact that Jackson Steele and Damien Stark are brothers. And that both of these men have been on the wrong end of murder investigations.
“How the hell did they find out?” He turns his attention from the phone to me. “It’s not like there’s any connection to Damien on my website. If that son of a bitch leaked it—”
“No,” I say firmly. “He wouldn’t do that. Not without telling you. Not at all.” But even as I say these words, I wonder. I truly don’t think that Damien would reveal this secret maliciously, but what if Evelyn said he needed to get ahead of it? What if she insisted he leak the story even while Jackson was still on the plane?
I don’t know, so I don’t suggest it, especially since Jackson is so clearly on edge. As we rise, I stand beside him, feeling a strange mix of relief and sympathy. Sympathy that yet another piece of his personal life has been hijacked by the media. And relief that this time I am not the cause of the tension in his posture or the tight set of his jaw.
When the elevator doors slide open on the twenty-fifth floor, we’re greeted by a willowy blonde who introduces herself as a legal assistant and offers to lead the way. Although it’s almost eight on a Sunday evening, over half the offices that we pass are populated by young associate attorneys, their faces glowing in the reflected light of their computers. A few assistants and secretaries man desks in the interior cubicles, and the clickety-clack of fingers on keyboards gives the office a busy, vibrant feel.
Bender Twain is one of the country’s top law firms, and the activity in these halls—especially so late on a Sunday—goes a long way to explaining why.
Charles’s office isn’t as large as Damien’s, but it’s still massive and easily holds Charles’s desk, a large oval conference table, a couch with two twenty-something men on it, and several comfortable chairs. Not to mention the bookshelves filled top to bottom with legal treatises, historical fiction, and stacks of files.
We’re the last to arrive, and before I can even get my bearings or scope out the room’s occupants, Jackson strides past me, my phone still in his hand. “What the fuck is this?” He’s aimed like an arrow toward Damien, and I doubt that he sees anything or anyone else in this room.
Damien is standing beside the conference table and barely even glances at the outstretched phone as Jackson approaches. But he does look up, his eyes cool and calm on Jackson’s face. “I didn’t say a thing,” he says evenly. “Believe me. I’m coming to terms with the idea of having a brother, but I wasn’t ready to go public yet.”
Damien glances at Evelyn, who is seated at the table with an open folio in front of her. “We’ve been talking about how to handle that announcement, and I wasn’t too happy that someone beat me to it.” He almost smiles. “I thought it might be you, but based on your reaction, I’m thinking not.”
“It wasn’t,” Jackson confirms, and when I see the way his body relaxes slightly, I know that he believes Damien.
“So how are you holding up?” Damien asks.
“Fine.” Jackson’s voice is clipped.
“Bullshit. You’re scared,” Damien says. “And if you’re not, then you’re not as smart as I thought you were, because you should be.”
I stand frozen next to Jackson, and despite my rant in the car about facing reality, Damien’s words are making my stomach twist so violently, I fear I might actually throw up.
“If you did it,” Damien continues, “you’re afraid that someone’s going to figure that out. If you didn’t do it, you’re even more afraid that you’ll end up in prison with a tight grip on the soap and your back to the wall, all because you told the wrong guy to fuck off, and that guy ended up dead.
“It’s a screwed up situation.” Damien’s voice, which had started out harsh, now takes on a more conciliatory tone. “And that’s why we’re all here. To make sure you don’t end up fucked.”
Jackson glances at me just long enough for me to see relief in his eyes. Then he turns toward Charles, who is approaching from where he’s been standing with a familiar-looking woman by the window near the bookshelf.
“Let me make sure you know everybody,” Charles says. “Damien and Evelyn are givens, obviously, and you’ve already met my paralegal, Natalie. Those two are UCLA law students,” he says, pointing to the sofa and giving us the interns’ names. “And this is Harriet Frederick,” he adds, and I have to stifle a little gasp as he gestures to the woman with whom he’d been talking.
Harriet Frederick is one of the most prominent criminal defense attorneys in California. Probably in the country. She’s poised and sharply dressed, but still has a semi-casual “working on Sunday” look about her. Her long hair is clipped back at the nape of her neck, and she wears minimal makeup. From what I can see, she doesn’t need much. She comes off as competent and sharp, and even if she’d just been one of the interns, I would be glad she’s on our team.
But I’m even more glad because Harriet Frederick has been all over the news, and I know she consulted a few times with Charles from stateside when Damien’s trial went forward in Germany with local defense counsel. I knew that Charles was bringing someone else on board for Jackson’s case—while he was more than capable of bailing Jackson out after the assault, his specialty is corporate law, not criminal. But I hadn’t anticipated we’d get Harriet, and seeing her here is more than a relief—it’s like getting a shot of undiluted hope.
She moves confidently across the room to shake Jackson’s hand. “Mr. Stark’s right. Being nervous is par for the course, but if you listen to me—if you’re honest with me—we’ll have a better chance of keeping you a free man.”
I lick my lips, hating what she’s not saying, but what I already know. That there are no guarantees. And even though she’s one of the most famous and well-regarded criminal defense attorneys out there, even Harriet Frederick cannot guarantee that I won’t lose the man I love to prison.
“We’ll apply for a change of venue, but we won’t get it. And that means the jury is coming from this community, and this is a community that loves movies and celebrities—and that includes Reed. So that means I want you on your best behavior, Mr. Steele.”
“I understand.”
She looks him up and down as if taking his measure, then she nods in what I hope is approval. “Well, I guess we’ll see.” She gestures to the table. “Why don’t we all sit down and get started?” We all sit, but she remains standing. “It’s unfortunate that we weren’t able to get ahead of the reveal about your relationship with your brother, but it’s relevant only to the extent that your overall persona is relevant. Unfortunately, in a high profile murder trial, your persona will be very relevant.”
Jackson is frowning, and I try to catch his eye. I want to know what he’s thinking, but he’s focused on Harriet, and I’m left to wonder.
“Damien and Evelyn were putting together a plan to get ahead of this revelation. Now we’ll rework that to get on top of it.”
Evelyn nods. “I’ll have something ready by tonight. I imagine the vultures will be circling Stark Tower tomorrow, not to mention the Beverly Hills PD.”
“We’ll take Jackson in and out through the back,” Harriet says. “No face time with the press tomorrow. And while much of this case will be tried in the media, our primary focus still has to be the evidence and what it’s going to look like to a jury.”
She crosses her arms as she studies Jackson, looking much like a stylist in a high-end clothing store. “You’re not testifying. You’re not answering their questions tomorrow. You go, I answer for you. You’re relying on the Fifth Amendment, Jackson.”
“Won’t that make him look guilty?” I ask.
She turns to me with a small shake of her head. “Better than him admitting he was in Reed’s house. Or, worse, not mentioning that he was there, and getting sideswiped when the forensics team finds evidence. Stay quiet, the police may never know. They’ll have a hard time proving Jackson killed Reed if they can’t prove he was at the crime scene.”
I nod. I understand all that—and I even get that pleading the Fifth doesn’t automatically mean a defendant’s guilty—but I can’t deny that the thought of it scares me, because I know that’s what the media will think. And the speculation will be everywhere.
“Sylvia.” Harriet’s voice is gentle, and I realize that I’ve been staring at the tabletop. I look up at her. “As far as the press is concerned, he already looks guilty. Taking the Fifth won’t change that. But how he interacts with the public can, which is why he’ll be personable and likable. And,” she added with a quick glance toward Jackson, “he won’t lose his temper.”
“Damn right, he won’t,” Evelyn says. Evelyn Dodge is a Hollywood establishment and knows her way around PR better than anyone. I’m thrilled she’s on Jackson’s side. I’m even more thrilled that she’s a friend.
She indicates Charles and Harriet. “We’ve been strategizing for the last few hours, and it comes down to you being gracious and charming.” She lifts an eyebrow. “Assuming you can handle that.”
Jackson almost smiles. “I’ll do my best.”
“Don’t approach the press, wave them off if they get in your personal space—that’s fair. But when you comment, you’re charming. You’re accessible. You’re likable.”
“Am I?” Jackson says, and across the table, Damien chuckles.
Evelyn raises a brow, and she reminds me of a mom trying to keep her kids in order. The thought makes me smile.
“You hit him—that’s fine to admit, it’s not like we can hide it—but the rest of it? Well, you toss it back to Harriet and Charles. Damn attorneys making you stay quiet, otherwise you’d spill all. Just like talking to your best friends. Got it?”
“Got it,” Jackson says.
“You have a temper, young man,” she says once again, as she firmly meets his eyes. “Keep it under control. You don’t, and you’re fucking the case and yourself. Do you understand?”
His jaw tightens, and I know he’s fighting back a retort. Because of course he understands. But all he says is, “Yes, ma’am.”
And it’s that “ma’am” that breaks the tension. Evelyn tilts back her head and guffaws. “Good lord, Jackson, that wasn’t meant to piss you off.” She lifts a shoulder in an apologetic shrug. “This, though . . . well, this may rile you up a bit.”
As she speaks, she’s pulling a photograph out of her folio and sliding it across the table.
I gasp at the same time Jackson says, very firmly and very evenly, “No fucking way.”
The picture is of Ronnie.
“We need to get ahead of it,” Harriet says gently. “She’s in your life. And, honestly, there’s not much the press likes more than a single dad fighting for his kid. You want the press to love you? Let them see you caring about that little girl.”
Jackson says nothing, but he puts his palm over the photo, as if doing that can keep his daughter safe from all this.
For a moment, no one says anything. Then Damien stands, circles the table, and leans back against it beside Jackson. “It’s going to come out.” His voice is firm, but gentle. “And when it does, everyone will see the connection between your daughter and the movie—and it will be crystal clear why you didn’t want the movie to go forward. Get on top of it, and we can soften the impact. Wait, and it’s going to be brutal.”
“I’m not throwing my daughter to the wolves.” He is tense, as if one wrong word from anyone in this room will cause him to bolt. “Not until it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Jackson—”
But Evelyn cuts off Damien’s protest. “No, we can make this work.” She glances at Harriet, who nods almost imperceptibly, then turns her focus back to Jackson. “But you keep your eyes on the prize, okay? And that’s staying out of jail. That’s being around to watch that little girl grow up.”
Jackson says nothing, but he’s watching Evelyn with interest.
“We’ll play it your way for now, but that might change. I need to take the media’s temperature. See if they warm to you, or if that ice in your eyes spills over. Too icy, Mr. Steele, and we may need to attach a sweet little girl to your image. Do you understand that?”
His jaw clenches, and one hand grips tight to the edge of the table. But all he says is, “Yes.”
Evelyn nods, satisfied.
“What is going to happen tomorrow?” I blurt out the question, as much because I want to know as because I want to change the subject. “Are they going to arrest him? Can Jackson post bail?” I can hear the panic in my voice, and I’m touched when Jackson takes his hand off his daughter’s photo so that he can grasp mine.
“They might arrest,” Harriet says, as if she’s commenting on the possibility of rain. “Normally in a high profile case like this I’d assume not, but in this case Jackson did assault both the screenwriter and Reed, though we don’t know if the police are aware of the first incident. And he did visit Reed the day of the murder. The prosecution may not know that. But maybe they do. Maybe they’re going to disclose it tomorrow. And maybe they’re going to parlay that into an arrest.”
Jackson nods, looking a little bit shell-shocked.
My mouth is completely dry, and though I’m holding tight to Jackson’s hand, I can’t feel his fingers. It takes me a couple of tries, but finally I can form words. “You said normally you’d think not? Why not?”
“As a rule, the police don’t want to act prematurely because once they arrest, the clock starts ticking. And especially in a high profile case, they like to have time to get their ducks in order.”
“But don’t they want to order those ducks here, too?”
Harriet looks straight at me, and though I hate the way she doesn’t pull punches, I can’t deny that I respect it. “My fear is that the ducks are already all lined up.”
“Wouldn’t we already know? I thought the police have to disclose evidence.” I can’t seem to be quiet. I have to wrap my head around it. “Or is that just the way it plays out on television?”
This time, Harriet does smile, at least a little. “They do, yes. But not yet. Certainly not before there’s an arrest.”
“Oh.” I finally get it. She fears that tomorrow Jackson will be subjected to a full song and dance presentation of the evidence, and the grand finale of the show will be putting him in cuffs and carting him off to a cell.
Oh god.
“If the worst happens, we’ll move for bail, of course,” Charles says. “Until then, we’re going to hope it doesn’t happen.”
The meeting continues for almost two more hours, covering so many details and plans that it feels like all the information is going to spill out of my ears. Even I’ve been given marching orders. Like Jackson, I need to be polite and charming to the press. But I have the added benefit of being able to say that he was with me at a party the night of the murder. Of course, that Halloween party was just over the hill in Studio City, and any reporter worth his salt will know that Jackson could have easily gone from Reed’s to the party.
That part, I won’t be saying.
As for my calls to the investors, I can reassure them that Jackson was with me, then segue neatly into Jackson’s talent—not to mention the fact that a little bit of drama attached to the resort probably won’t hurt the opening week receipts.
Jackson is told to stop doing his community service. Charles is going to square that with the court. “But we don’t want to draw attention to the fact that you got such a light sentence after the assault. No appearance of perks. No suggestion of special privileges. It will come out, of course,” he adds cynically, “but why shine a spotlight?”
Harriet had taken a seat, but now she stands. “I think that covers everything but motive. As it stands, the prosecution can come at this from either the movie angle or the assault angle—and the movie angle gets stronger once the media finds out about Ronnie. But,” she adds quickly, “I’m willing to wait to address that, so long as you’re aware of the potential downside.”
“I’ve already said that I am,” Jackson says.
I’m frowning at something else she’s said. “They’ll really think Jackson killed Reed to keep him from filing a civil assault suit? Is anyone else seeing the irony?”
“Trust me,” Harriet says. “People kill for the stupidest of reasons. The police know that, and they’ll push. And who knows what they’ll uncover if they investigate multiple angles.” She looks hard at Jackson. “So if there’s any other possible motive out there, I need to know about it now. Something pops out later and surprises me, it can destroy your entire case. I want you to be very clear about that.”
I sit perfectly still, but I’m terrified that the room can hear my heart, because it’s about to pound out of my chest. I don’t look at Jackson, but I’m certain he’s thinking the same thing. The photos of me. Reed threatened to expose them if I didn’t get Jackson to agree to the movie.
And, yeah, that’s definitely motive.
But all Jackson says is, “That’s it. Nothing else.”
I release a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. He’s still protecting me. Even though this secret could land him behind bars, he’s still protecting me.
Am I really such a coward that I will let him do that?
“All right,” Harriet says. “Let’s move on to—”
“There’s more.” My whisper is so soft that the words are barely audible. I keep my eyes on the table, not on Jackson.
“I’m sorry, Sylvia?” I look up to see Charles peering at me. “I couldn’t hear you.”
I draw in a deep breath and squeeze my hands into fists.
“Sylvia.” Jackson’s voice is hard. Demanding.
I look at him, hoping he can see the apology in my eyes. Then I turn my attention back to Harriet and Charles.
“He was blackmailing me.” I’m no longer whispering. I’m saying it flat out. “Reed. He had photos. I used to model for him and—well—some of them were explicit. I—I wouldn’t want them coming out. I—” I swallow. “I’m not sure I could handle that at all.”
Very slowly, Harriet puts her notes on the table. “I see.”
I turn just enough to see Jackson. To see the tiny shake of his head and the pain in his eyes. But I continue. “He said he’d release them if I didn’t convince Jackson to quit trying to block the movie.”
Charles and Harriet exchange glances.
“Well,” Harriet says. “You’re right. That definitely goes to motive.”
I swallow. I know that she is right.
“Do you have these photos?” Charles asks.
“She doesn’t.” Jackson’s voice rings firm. “We burned the ones he sent to her.” That’s a lie, but since I don’t think it matters—and since I really don’t want them to see the photos—I don’t challenge him.
“So presumably there are still copies?” Harriet asks. “Unless whoever killed Reed took them?”
I shudder, but nod.
“Anyone else know about this?” she asks.
“No.” I blurt the word out before Jackson can mention my dad or Cass. I want the attorneys to know about the blackmail because that matters to Jackson, but I can’t bear the thought of wrapping my dad up with us like that. “And please—please don’t let it leave this room.”
This time, I look to Damien, who nods once, and I know that he understands what I am asking, and why it is so important to me that he keep this secret, even from Nikki.
When she speaks, Harriet’s voice is gentle. “This isn’t information we have to turn over. And with any luck, Reed buried his copies of the photos in his backyard under a rosebush and no one will ever find them. But thank you for telling us. It really does help Jackson’s defense.”
I nod. I know. Lord knows I didn’t have any other reason for sharing.
The rest of the meeting dissolves into task assignments and scheduling, and as soon as Jackson has worked out when he will meet Harriet tomorrow so they can drive together to the police department, he and I take our leave.
I can tell he’s tense as we walk toward the reception area, and when he doesn’t take my hand, I know that the tension is more about me than the meeting in general.
I sigh, and when I’m certain that we’re far enough down the corridor to avoid being overheard, I say softly, “I had to.”
“The hell you did.” There’s a tightness in his voice. Maybe anger. Maybe sadness. I’m really not sure. “I told you I would protect your secret.”
“Jackson—”
He whirls on me. “No. Goddammit, Syl. You should have waited. It might not even come out. And we could have dealt with it if the police found the originals.”
“I can’t be the reason this goes south for you, Jackson. Don’t you get that? I love that you want to protect me, but right now it’s my turn to protect you.”
“Fuck.” He turns violently, and it’s only when he smacks his fist against his own palm that I realize he’s looking for something to hit.
“Jacks—” I begin, but my word is cut short by the way he grabs me and drags me to him. His mouth closes hard over mine, and he holds me by my wrist pressed against my spine, my arm twisting uncomfortably. He pulls me up against him, our bodies pressed hard together.
I can feel him, hot and hard against me. It’s not a kiss of passion, but of claiming. Of demand. And when he backs away from me, gasping, his eyes are hard. And when he speaks, there is danger in his voice. “Do you think I don’t understand what it does to you? Even thinking about what he did to you? About how much you gave up to even tell them that it happened?”
I press my lips together and nod. Because it had been hard. But it would have been a hell of a lot harder before Jackson was in my life, and I tell him that. “You’ve made me stronger, Jackson. Don’t you get that? I could tell them because of you. Because I know that if it gets bad—if the nightmares creep up—that you’re there to help me fight them back.”
My throat is thick with unshed tears. “As for what I gave up—well, I’ll be giving up a hell of a lot more if I lose you. And I’ll do whatever it takes to not let that happen.”
“You shouldn’t have to protect me.” He is still holding me fast, but his voice has lost its edge. “I’m the one who sucked you into this.”
I only shake my head. I am breathing hard, aroused by the tension crackling between us. By his passionate need to protect me. And, yes, by the hard length of his body pressed so enticingly against mine.
Finally, I force myself to speak. “We’re in this together, Jackson. And I want to keep you out of jail as much as you do. Because I love you, dammit, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you. But also because I need you to finish my damn resort.”
I stare at him, perfectly serious. And the bastard bursts out laughing.
“Oh, baby.” He releases my arm, and this time when he kisses my lips there is such tender sweetness that I go a little limp.
“I can’t lose it,” I say. “And I can’t lose you. So, yeah. If I can help you, I will. And if that pisses you off, then that’s just too damn bad.”
We’re in the reception area. A wall of windows exposes the twinkling lights of the city and the ocean beyond.
He looks at me, his expression soft. Calm. He nods once. Just a simple incline of his head, but I see the apology in it.
I sigh, then walk to the window and press my palm to the glass. It’s easy to see the line where the city meets the impenetrable depths of the ocean. But beyond that ribbon of black, I see the faint, twinkling lights of Catalina Island. And beyond that, unseen, is Santa Cortez.
Jackson comes up behind me and very gently reaches around to lay his hand atop mine. “We’re not losing it.”
I want to believe him, but I can’t deny that I’m still scared. Scared of losing my island. Of losing him. Of having everything I’ve worked so hard for—that means so much to me—ripped away.
But just knowing that he understands me so well—that he can see my face and read the direction of my thoughts—comforts me.
We ride the elevator down in silence, holding hands. I’m exhausted, both mentally and physically. It’s been a very, very long day, and a hard one. And ending it on this meeting hasn’t made it easier. There is no certainty for me. Nothing I can look at and say, yes, this is how it will end because no other result is possible.
