Текст книги "Under My Skin"

Автор книги: J. Kenner

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

thirteen

“That son of a bitch,” Jackson says as he pulls me from my car and holds me tight. There is a wild tension to his body, as if he is being held together by some invisible force field that is now cracking under the strain of his effort, and the power that he is giving off warms me. But it does not calm me, and my nightmares are still reaching for me out of the shadows that surround our cars.

Nightmares of my father. Of Reed. And of my fear that things have shifted between Jackson and me.

I shift, moving out of his arms.

“Jackson.” His name is tight. A plea. A protest. “Are we okay?”

“Oh, baby.” Something like regret washes across his face, and he presses his palm to my cheek. “I’m not sure if I’m the most selfish man on the planet or the luckiest. But yes, of course we’re fine. How could we be anything else?”

I blink, and as I do, warm tears trickle down my cheeks. “I thought—I wasn’t sure. It felt like we were miles apart.”

“No,” he says as he pulls me close to him again. “Not miles. Not even inches. I’m right here.”

I nod, because he is—thank god he is. But I don’t need to be held. Not tonight. Not now.

I know what I do need—Jackson is the one who taught me. I used to think that to fight my nightmares I had to take control. Had to fuck my way out of danger, taking what I wanted from men and keeping my own emotions at bay. Cool. Controlled. Like a shark trolling waters full of men.

But what I actually need is to surrender. And I need it desperately right now. Because the dark has cold fingers and they are starting to grab me.

“Come on,” he says, gripping my arm and firmly steering me toward the Porsche. “I’m taking you home.”

“No.” I swallow. I can’t say more. Can’t put into words what I need. Because part of what I need is for him to understand.

For a moment, he just looks at me, his expression hard, wary.

Then he pulls me to him, and bends to whisper in my ear. “You don’t get to say no, sweetheart. You say ‘yes, sir,’ or you say nothing at all.”

Immediately the tension leaves my body. He gets it. Thank god, he gets it. And more, I think, he needs it, too.

“Yes, sir,” I say, as my body tingles and I feel an intense pressure in my core. The need to be taken. Penetrated.

He steps toward me, closing the distance between us. It’s dark in this corner of the lot, and his face is hardened by shadows. But his eyes blaze. “You want to be fucked?”

I swear I almost whimper. “Yes.”

“You want it rough?”

“Yes.”

He strokes my cheek, sliding his hand back until he has taken a handful of hair. “Yes what?”

“Yes, sir.” I’m breathing hard, both excited and apprehensive. This is different than what we’ve done before. He’s different. And though I trust him—though I will always trust him—I do not know what to expect.

And oh, dear god, that excites me.

“You want me to spread you wide and fuck you hard?”

“Yes, please, sir.”

“Then you need to be a good girl.”

As he speaks, he’s pushing me to my knees, his fist in my hair guiding me. I descend willingly. Enthusiastically. I can think of nothing but this moment; everything before is gone. Ethan. My dad. My fears.

This is just me and Jackson and pleasure and submission. Letting him take me there. And letting him take control. Jackson, who needs this as much as I do.

“Go ahead,” he says, and I reach out and press my hand flat over his erection, now struggling behind the pressed cotton of his slacks.

I am eager, but I force myself to slowly draw down his zipper. I slip my hand in and free his cock, so hard that I imagine he must be close to exploding.

His fingers are still twined in my hair, and when I tease the tip of his cock with my tongue he tightens his grip. “No.”

I can’t tilt my head up, so I can see him only by lifting my eyes skyward, making me feel like even more of a supplicant. “I want that pretty mouth of yours,” he says, and then, instead of me sucking him off, he holds my head in place and actually fucks my mouth.

It isn’t easy—he’s thrusting hard and hitting the back of my throat, and I’m trying to find a rhythm and fight a gag reflex. But at the same time, I like it. For the first time, he’s using me—truly using me—just as I’ve wanted him to do every time he was gunning for a fight. And I know that’s part of it. Because he needs this as much as I do. Needs to take control hard and fast and completely.

This is about his pleasure, not mine, and that simple fact excites me, twisting it around and making it about me, too, because there is pleasure in knowing that we satisfy each other. That like a lock and a key, we fit and make each other whole.

Though we are in the dark, hidden by the shadows and the cars, I think for a moment that anyone could see us, me on my knees on the asphalt and Jackson fucking my mouth hard.

The thought makes me moan, and I’m so damn wet now, the evidence of my excitement creaming my thighs. As Jackson had ordered, I’m not wearing underwear, and I’m tempted, so tempted, to slip my hand under my skirt. But that, I think, is against the rules.

“Christ, Syl, that mouth of yours.” The tightness in his voice tells me how close he is, but just when I think that he is going to explode, he pulls out and hauls me to my feet. He yanks up my blouse, then unfastens the front clasp of my bra before bending me over the hood of my car.

The metal is cool against my skin, and my nipples tighten almost painfully.

“Tell me you liked that,” he says as one hand strokes my back and the other one slides up my thigh. “Tell me you liked my cock in your mouth.”

“Yes,” I say. “Oh, god, yes.”

He slides his hand between my legs and groans softly. “Oh, yes, baby. That’s how I like you. Wet and ready for me.” He hikes my skirt up around my waist so that I am completely bare from the waist down, with the exception of my shoes.

“Spread your legs, baby. I’m going to fuck you hard.” I do, and true to his word, he spreads me wide and shoves his cock hard inside me, his powerful thrusts making me slide across the top of the car, giving me small friction burns on my breasts and belly.

I feel the buildup to his orgasm, and my body responds, claiming him, clenching hard against him, until finally, he explodes inside me, his low groan of pleasure echoing in the dark.

He doesn’t pull out, though. Instead, he holds my hip with one hand and uses the other to reach around our joined bodies and find my clit. I’m so turned on already that it takes very little, and soon the wild tremors of my release cut through me and my cunt clenches tight around him as he continues to tease and play me, not relenting until my knees are weak and it is only his hand and the car that are keeping me from collapsing.

When he has cleaned me up and fixed my clothes, he takes my hand and eases us both to the ground on the darker side of the car. I am limp with satisfaction as I curl up against him by the tires. His arm is around me, and I snuggle close, wanting there to be no distance between us at all. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Sir.”

He chuckles, but then says seriously, “I needed it, too,” revealing what I already knew. He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I feel a low buzz of pleasure from that simple touch. “I was so goddamn angry at your father.” He meets my eyes. “And at myself.”

I look away. I was furious when he told my father flat out what Reed had done to me. When he revealed that Reed was still tormenting me, this time by blackmailing me. And he made it damn clear that Jackson and I both know that my father knew all along that Reed wasn’t just taking innocent advertising shots of me.

I’ve gotten over the fury, but that doesn’t mean I want to relive the moment. But it does mean that I understand what Jackson is talking about when he says he needed it, too. He was angry. At my father. At himself.

He was angry and he needed a release.

I was angry and needed to be claimed.

I smile a little thinking about it, but my smile fades soon enough. “It scares me a little,” I admit.

“What does?”

“This. With you.” I tilt my head so that I can look at his eyes, and I see the confusion and the worry in them. “The way I let go completely. The way I want to be used. I get the root of it—I do. It’s about the pleasure that comes from giving up control. It’s fighting back against Reed, who stole that control from me over and over. And, honestly, the wilder it is the more I like it. The intensity—it keeps me grounded. It makes me feel alive.

“So I understand,” I continue. “I do. But I want to be stronger, Jackson. And this need to surrender to you is so powerful, that sometimes I’m afraid that I won’t be able to cope without you beside me.”

“You think giving yourself to me makes you weak?” He brushes his hand over my cheek. “The hell it does. Weak is closing yourself off. Weak is being too afraid to ask for what you want. Do you think being strong means not needing anybody else? It doesn’t. It means knowing yourself. Knowing your desires. And not being scared to demand what you truly want.”

“I want you,” I whisper.

“I know. But that doesn’t mean you can’t stand on your own. If you need to—when you need to—you will do just fine.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know you.” He kisses me gently. “And sweetheart, I need to tell you something.”

I nod, fighting back a fresh wave of fear.

“I didn’t kill him.”

“What?” I’m not sure if my response is surprise at his statement, or bafflement that he’s brought the subject up now.

“I didn’t kill Reed. You’ve stuck by me, believing you knew what happened. It’s only fair I tell you the real truth.”

“Oh.” Relief overwhelms me, and yet there remains an undercurrent of some odd disappointment. Because the truth is that I liked the thought of Jackson being the one who erased the man who tormented me.

“So you don’t need to worry. The truth will win out, and I won’t go to prison. I’ll always be beside you.”

I nod, because I know that he is saying it to soothe me. But at the same time, it’s cold comfort. Because innocent or not, that is one promise that it’s no longer in Jackson’s power to keep.

fourteen

I wake up naked and alone in my bed, and I immediately sit up, afraid that Jackson changed his mind and decided to go back to the boat after all.

He’d taken me home because I had told him I needed my own bed, and in that moment, I’d been wrecked enough that he hadn’t argued. But the disagreement or fight or whatever-the-hell-it-was that we’d had about the paparazzi and the boat had still lingered between us.

I know that we will have to deal with that, especially since we will need the boat to get to the island today. Granted, we could take one of the Stark International boats. Or even, god forbid, a helicopter. But Jackson’s office is on his boat, and if he wants to make the most of the trip, then he needs to have his computers, software, and other various gadgets and gizmos with him. But surely he didn’t already leave me to go there. Did he?

My body is stiff as I toss the sheet aside and then sit up in bed. I hug my knees to my chest, my attention drawn to the tattooed star on my ankle. Idly, I trace its design, as if by doing so I’m claiming it all over again. I want to claim it, because this star represents strength. It marks an escape—my flight from the home I’d grown to hate to boarding school in my sophomore year of high school.

I draw a breath, then get slowly out of bed, this time brushing my fingers over the ribbon inked at the juncture of my thigh, a ribbon covered with initials of men I cared nothing for, but needed in order to prove to myself that I was in control. Not Reed, who’d so greedily stolen control from me. Not those men whose initials now mark my legs.

Just me.

Me taking. Me holding. Me keeping so tight a grip on my world that there was no way it could spin out of control.

Slowly, I ease my hand around to my back and the intricately inked “J” entwined with an “S.” Cass had inked that tattoo five years ago, after I’d so brutally broken up with Jackson in Atlanta, shredding both our hearts in the process. At the time, I’d thought I could never have him back, and yet I couldn’t bear the thought of surviving without him. And so I’d kept a piece of him on me, a quiet reminder that he would always have my back—would always give me strength—even if he didn’t know it.

I close my eyes and sigh as I continue to move my hands over my body, this time coming to rest on the newest tattoo—a flame on my breast. Cass inked this one less than a month ago, when I’d pulled Jackson back into my life despite my better judgment. Out of the frying pan, she’d said, because I was leaping headfirst into the fire.

Hadn’t I learned the hard way that my nightmares were too close to the surface with Jackson? That the passion that pulsed between us wiped away all my control, leaving me soft and vulnerable—and too damn close to the nightmares and memories of Reed?

But I was desperate to save my resort and so I’d taken a deep breath, clothed myself in battle armor, and walked through the door into my own personal hell.

Jackson, of course, stripped all my defenses away. More than that, he’d turned everything around. And the man who had once conjured my demons now slays them. He keeps me sane. He keeps me safe.

He makes me feel loved and cherished and beautiful.

With Jackson, I can surrender control without opening the door to fear. To self-loathing.

With Jackson, I can lose myself to submission. To passion. To love.

We’ve come so far, he and I, but now I fear that we are about to hit a wall. That we’ve taunted the gods, and the gods are pissed.

I’m scared to death that he’s going to be arrested for murder. That he’s going to be yanked from me forever, and I hate that it is not just him that I am scared for, but myself, too. Because while I used to rely on my tats to give me strength, now I rely on Jackson.

I do not want to be a woman without the strength to stand on her own. But at the same time, I know that I am stronger with him than without him.

And oh, dear god, what will I do if I lose him?

I shiver, suddenly cold, and put on the T-shirt he’d left hanging over the back of a chair the last time we stayed here. It’s for Dominion Gate, a heavy metal band that he likes, and the hem hangs down almost to my knees and the whole shirt seems to swallow me.

My phone is on a table beside the chair and when I glance down and see that it is past four in the morning, my self-analysis turns into worry.

The door to my bedroom is shut, but now that my eyes have adjusted, I see that there is the faintest glow of light creeping in from the gap below the door. I open it, then step into the tiny area between my bedroom and my living room, moving quietly so that I don’t wake him if he’s fallen asleep out here.

As soon as I pass the utility closet and can see into the living room, I see him. Not inside, but out on my patio. He is perched on the side of the chaise, bent forward so that he is using the fold-up chair that Cass usually sits in as a make-shift desk. He’s got his tablet propped up and he’s sketching furiously on a pad of paper in his lap. His dark hair is tousled, as if he has been running his fingers through it, and I can hear the gentle scrape of lead against paper.

I want to go to him. I want to step behind him, put my arms around him, and hold him close.

But that’s only my own selfish desire.

What Jackson wants—no, what Jackson needs—is to get lost in his work. I can practically feel the concentration and pleasure rolling off him, and I don’t want to be the one to take him from that. Not now. Not tonight.

I’m about to turn around and return below when a woman’s voice stops me. “I’m back. Sorry. This early, coffee is a necessity.”

“Thanks for this, Amy,” Jackson says. “I didn’t actually expect you to answer my email until later.”

For a moment, I’m confused, then I see that he’s on a video call. I shift to the left so I can see the tablet screen, and realize that he’s talking to Amy Brantley, his estate and family law attorney in Santa Fe.

“It’s almost six here, and I’ve started getting up before dawn to go to the gym. I figured I’d rather talk to you. Are you hanging in there? Ms. Frederick doing all right by you?”

“She’s doing as good a job as she can, but we both know there are no guarantees.”

“No,” Amy says. “There aren’t.”

“I spoke with Stella yesterday. Betty won’t say a word, but her health is deteriorating fast.”

“I know,” Amy says. “I was actually going to give you a call later today. Right now, if anything happens to Betty while she’s caring for Ronnie, custody shifts to you pending establishment of your paternal rights. But if you’re incarcerated, then the next in line is still Megan, at least on paper. Are you okay with that?”

He hesitates, and though I know that it pains him to admit it, he says very simply, “No.”

It’s the right choice, of course. Megan may be Ronnie’s biological aunt, but she’s checked herself into a clinic as she battles mental health issues, and though I know it breaks Jackson’s heart, she’s in no position to take care of his daughter.

“I didn’t think so,” Amy says. “And frankly, with Megan having admitted herself to a clinic, the court might refuse to put Ronnie with her. She’d end up in foster care unless Arvin takes her,” she adds, referring to Megan’s father. He’s the man who hired Jackson to build the Santa Fe house that is now the focus of the movie that Reed was determined to make. And although Arvin Fletcher is Ronnie’s grandfather, he has distanced himself far, far away from the child.

“That would be worse,” Jackson says dryly. “And we both know Arvin would never accept custody. But the truth is, I’ve been thinking about all of that; it’s one of the reasons I’m calling. That, and to make some financial arrangements.” He drags his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been up all night thinking about it. I know Ronnie inherited money from Amelia,” he says, “but that’s in trust and it shouldn’t be used for her day-to-day care.”

Amelia is Ronnie’s birth mother. More than that, she’s the reason the movie is even on Hollywood’s radar. Though no script has been officially released, it’s no secret that the movie centers around tragedy at the Fletcher Residence, an amazing Santa Fe house designed and built by Jackson. The project, actually, that put Jackson Steele on the map and turned him from a simple architect into a starchitect—a celebrity architect with all the baggage that goes with the title.

Back when Jackson was building the Fletcher Residence for Arvin—one of the country’s wealthiest men—Jackson began dating Amelia’s identical twin sister, Carolyn. Amelia wanted Jackson for her own, and was crazy enough to impersonate her sister in bed, a single night that left her pregnant with Jackson’s child—Ronnie. After the house was built and Jackson had moved on, the little girl was born—and that’s when Amelia went completely off the rails. She killed her sister and then she killed herself, leaving Ronnie to be raised by the twins’ older sister, Megan—and attracting the attention of Hollywood’s scandal hounds.

Since Amelia had quite the lineup of men going through her bedroom, the Hollywood people don’t know that Ronnie is Jackson’s daughter, and they probably won’t make that connection until the court confirms paternity or Jackson’s petition finds its way to the press. They see only a murder-suicide that centers around the amazing house that made Jackson’s career and the love triangle that destroyed two young women, both of whom wanted the same man.

When Jackson learned that Ronnie was truly his daughter, he considered petitioning for custody right away, but he also knew that the scandal surrounding the house and the buzz about a possible movie would thrust the little girl into a media feeding frenzy. She was safe and loved with her aunt Megan and her uncle Tony, with her great-grandmother Betty helping from the sidelines. Jackson took on the role of uncle, visiting her and supporting her financially.

Now, though, things have changed. Tony passed away, and Megan’s mounting bipolar issues mean that she is no longer a good choice for guardian. Neither is Betty, in light of her failing health.

More than that, though, Jackson simply wants his daughter back. And until this damn murder trial reached out and slapped us in the face, that was what he was in the process of handling.

“So you want to designate a contingent guardian, and then set up a trust to use for Ronnie’s daily care?”

“Exactly.”

They talk for a few more minutes, with Jackson explaining that the trust will be funded with his share of the Winn Building, a retail and residential high rise in Manhattan, and also the first project he both designed and developed—and kept a piece of the income stream. “I’ve got a forty percent interest and Isaac Winn has sixty. He’s been looking to acquire a bigger percentage since day one. If we need the cash for Ronnie, he’ll buy me out.”

“I’ll seed the trust with ten percent,” Amy says. “You can add more if you need to.”

“Fair enough.”

“And the guardian?” she asks, after reminding Jackson that until his parental rights are established by a court order, he is not the one who can force this issue. “But I’m sure that Betty and the court will take your opinion into account.”

“I want Sylvia,” he says, as I press my hand over my mouth to hide my gasp. “And I want you to go ahead and set the paternity hearing.”

“The hearing? Jackson, are you sure? What if—”

“I want her to have a father. I’m tired of waiting. I want my daughter, Amy. And if the worst happens, then I want to know that the woman I love is taking care of her.”

“And Sylvia will accept the role?” she asks as my heart thuds painfully in my chest and I hug myself, not sure what I’m feeling, only certain that I am numb. “The court will only offer guardianship. They won’t force her to take it. If she says no, Ronnie could be looking at foster care.”

“We’ve talked a little. And we’ll talk more. But I think she will. I need this done, Amy. I’m living in limbo right now, and I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. I need this to be handled. I need my daughter. And I need you to make it happen sooner rather than later.”

“All right, Jackson,” she says, her voice gentle. “I should be able to get a court date in a couple of days.”

“Thank you,” he says, and there is such relief in his voice that my eyes sting with unshed tears.

I don’t actually notice when he ends the call. I’m lost in a world of maybes. A world where Jackson is gone, and where I am raising his daughter.

Oh, god.

A tremor of fear runs through me, because I am suddenly struck with just how real that possibility is. And I can’t escape the overbearing reality that no matter how much I love Jackson—how much I adore his little girl—I have no idea how to raise a child. My mother has treated me as a zero ever since my brother became ill. And my father—oh, god, I can’t even think about my father.

I shudder, then stumble back to bedroom, my stomach in knots. I lurch into the bathroom and kneel in front of the toilet, certain that I’m going to throw up. I don’t. But I clutch the porcelain until I feel steady enough to stand.

I meant what I said at the airport—I do want to be there for Jackson, and I am humbled that he would trust me with his daughter.

But this?

Oh, god, this?

I stand, then force myself to breathe deep and tell myself that it isn’t going to happen. Jackson didn’t kill Reed. He’s not going to be arrested. He’s not going to prison.

Ronnie will be in our life, yes, and that’s great. I can do this with Jackson at my side. I can handle being a mom so long as he’s holding my hand.

I tell myself that again and again, then realize that even as I have been lecturing myself, I have been inching my T-shirt up so that I can once again see my tattoos in the mirror. Only this time, I’m not thinking about the battles that each one represents. Instead, I’m thinking about a new battle. I’m thinking that, if I’m going to manage this, I need the ink that marks the child.

I close my eyes, hating that I am so weak when Jackson needs me to be strong.

When I open them again, I see Jackson’s reflection in the mirror; he is standing right behind me.

“I thought you were asleep,” he says.

“I just woke up.” My voice sounds guilty to my ears, and I have to fight the urge to cringe.

His brow furrows a bit, and I know that he is worried that the nightmares came for me, prompted by Ethan’s confession. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “No nightmares last night. You vanquished them all,” I say truthfully. What Reed did—what my father did—will always haunt me. And my father’s confession to Ethan about the whole sordid business only adds another layer of shadows to the nightmares I already fight. But Jackson has convinced me that I can fight them.

I lift a shoulder then, the motion minuscule. “It’s just that I woke up without you. I didn’t like it.”

I don’t know what he sees when he looks at my face, but whatever it is, it’s enough. He reaches for my hips, then tugs me to him, then presses his lips to mine. The kiss is soft, yet powerful. Deep, yet tender. I melt against him, all of my fears, my doubts, my angst swept away in a sensual fog, no match for the power that is Jackson.

The kiss is long and lingering, and with each passing second, my passion rises, my senses firing. My breasts rub against him, the sensation sending curls of pleasure swirling through me.

“It’s morning,” he murmurs as he pulls away. “We need to get to the boat and head to the island.”

“Not just yet. Please,” I say, that one word holding all my fears and insecurities. “Please, at least for a little while, just hold me.”

He searches my face, then silently leads me to bed. He strips off his jeans and shirt, then slides under the covers beside me, tucking me in against him so that my ass is snug against his semi-erect cock.

I want more—hell, I need more. I need his touch to soothe and center me. But as far as I know, Jackson has been up all night and I don’t want to demand when he’s tired. More than that, I want to be able to stand on my own, because I’m terribly afraid that there will come a time when Jackson won’t be beside me to battle away my fears.

So I close my eyes, trying to be strong. Trying to simply enjoy the feel of his arms around me.

Jackson, thank god, has other plans.

Lightly, so that I almost do not even recognize the contact, he begins to stroke my thigh, making me squirm.

A thread of sensual heat curls through me, and I shift, parting my legs slightly so that he has better access. As I’d hoped, he takes full advantage, his hand easing down along the juncture of my thigh and torso, then to my pelvis, and then finding the nub of my clit. I gasp, drawing in a stuttering breath as he makes his fingers into a V and slides along my now-slick labia but avoids the touch that I am desperately craving.

“Jackson,” I murmur. My hips are moving in their own rhythm now, trying to direct his hand, his touch. But Jackson foils me, and the release that my now-primed body seeks is just out of reach.

Frustrated, I press my rear back against his cock, then close my eyes in satisfaction at his low, masculine groan of pleasure. Then his mouth brushes my shoulder, and his low, sultry words are sending ripples through me. “I need to fuck you, baby. Like this. Right now.”

“Yes.”

“Touch yourself,” he demands even as he takes my thigh and pushes it forward. Now we are still spooning, but my legs are scissored as his fingers thrust inside me, making me wild with need. And only when I’m so damn wet that I’m sure the sheets must be damp, does he ease his cock into me and fill me with long, slow strokes that make me moan.

Slowly at first, and then harder, so that with each thrust we scoot a bit up the mattress. But I want it harder, deeper, and instead of teasing my clit, I lift my hand over my head and press against the headboard to provide some resistance as he pounds into me, harder and harder, until he finally explodes inside me, and then falls limp against me, his body draped over mine.

I sigh and stretch with pleasure. I’m close, and I know if I touch myself, I will go over, but I do not want that. Not now, when I have the pleasure of being so close that even the touch of the air is a sensual caress. And so when Jackson reaches lazily over me, then starts to ease his fingers down to play with my clit, I close my hand over his and shake my head, just a little.

“I want to stay here,” I say. “I want to stay here on the edge.”

“Why?” he asks.

How can I answer when I don’t really understand myself? All I know is that I want to stay here for a little while, balanced precariously before I fall.

And so I give him the only answer I know. “Because you’re the one who took me there.”

Less than an hour has passed when I slide out of bed and start to get dressed. It feels like an eternity, though. Like I have slept and healed and come out fresh on the other side, renewed and brave.

That fades, though, when I pull a long-sleeved T-shirt over my head, and see the way that Jackson is looking at me, propped up on the bed on one elbow.

“What’s wrong?”

“I spoke with Amy this morning.”

I concentrate on stepping into my shorts—I’m dressing for the island, not the Tower—then look at him again. “Your attorney?” I ask, as if this is all news to me.

“I’m tired of leaving my little girl in limbo. I’ve asked Amy to get a court date. I want to bring Ronnie home.”

I zip up the shorts, then go to sit on the bed. “Good,” I say. “You’re her dad.”

I see the relief on his face, and know that I’ve said the right thing. “There’s more. Do you remember what we talked about at the airport?”

“Sure.” I’m proud of how normal my voice sounds.

“Did you mean what you said? Because I want to make it official.”

“Official?”

He nods. “If something happens to me, I want guardianship of Ronnie to go to you. I want Amy to amend the guardianship papers. You, not Megan, if something happens to me.”

“I—” I swallow, wanting to kick myself for hesitating for even an instant.

He notices, of course. “Yesterday, when I was being an ass about the paparazzi, what you said about believing I’d killed Reed. About staying with me no matter what.”