by J. Kenner
I haven’t got a clue where to start.
And since I don’t know where to go, I’m going to have to settle on going nowhere.
I make my way onto the boat, grateful that Jackson has given me a spare key.
I get a glass of wine and settle on the couch in his office area, thinking that I’ll take my mind off his absence by watching a movie or something, but I’m way too distracted for that. I’m actually considering calling Ryan and getting that intelligence agent friend of his to track Jackson’s OnStar when I realize there’s one thing I haven’t tried.
I stand up, trying to remember the name of the friend who was hooked in to where all the underground fights took place. Butter? Cutter? No, Sutter! I do a little fist-pump, because I’m certain that I’m right.
Not that the name does me any good on its own, but if Jackson has Sutter’s contact info …
I head over to his desk and poke around for a Rolodex or address book. But like all the rest of us, Jackson is living very squarely in the twenty-first century. Which means his contacts are filed electronically. Which means they are on his computer.
Which means I can’t get to them unless I can figure out his password.
Which I am absolutely going to try to do, despite personal privacy and all those buzzwords. Because, frankly, I’m worried. And, yes, because I need to see him.
I try the basics first—his birthday, his social security number—which I get by calling the security team at Stark. The license plate number of his car. When those don’t work, I try the name of his projects. His company. His boat.
Nada.
Finally, I try my name, and am disappointed when that doesn’t work, either.
But it does give me an idea, and instead of using the Veronica, I simply try Ronnie.
And, voilà, the computer buzzes to life. Page 79
Since I’m really not trying to snoop, I go straight to his contacts and do a search for Sutter. I find him, Clay Sutter, easily enough, and scribble both his office and mobile numbers onto a scrap of paper. Then I log out, pull out my own phone, and dial.
There’s no answer at the office number, which doesn’t surprise me as it’s already past ten at night. I hang up when the answering machine clicks on, and try Sutter’s mobile number. Voice mail there, too.
Well, hell.
I hang up, because I’m not prepared to leave a message. Will he hear it tonight? More important, will he deliver it?
I’ve just decided that I don’t have a choice, and am about to call back, when it occurs to me to text him. After all, voice mails require logging in, opening the message, listening to it. Lots of people ignore voice mails, myself included, unless I absolutely recognize the number.
But a text will flash across his phone screen, and that’s what I want.
So I tap one out, then revise, then tap some more.
Finally, I send my message:
Looking for Jackson-911. This is Sylvia. Please, do you know where he is?
It will either work or it won’t, but I figure it’s my very best shot, and I hold my phone in both hands and say a silent prayer.
Less than a minute later it rings, and I practically drop the thing trying to get to the button to answer the call. “Hello? Sutter? Hello?”
“You’re Sylvia? His girl?”
I’d been standing, but now I collapse into Jackson’s desk chair, my knees suddenly weak. “Yes. That’s me. I’ve been looking everywhere for him. Do you know if he’s—”
“He’s at my place,” Sutter says. “Or he was when I left him an hour ago. My boy was a wreck. Needed to work off some energy. So I gave him the extra key and told him to lock up when he leaves. ”
I run that through my addled brain. “So, he’s not in a fight? One of those underground rings?”
“Not tonight, he’s not. Hell, I don’t think anyone’s got a fight going on tonight. ”
“I need to see him. Can I go? Will you tell me where to go?”
He hesitates.
“Please. ” My voice cracks as I beg.
“There’s not another key,” he finally says, “and I doubt Jackson would hear you knocking. Park in the back and go in through my private office. There’s a keypad lock. ”
He rattles off the lock code and the address, and I am so grateful that I would have kissed this man if I could.
I use my phone to map the address and end up in a run-down strip shopping center by the airport. Most of the signs for the businesses are broken and the windows covered with brown paper, but three still remain in business. A thrift store, a liquor store, and the gym.
That’s all the sign on the facade says—GYM—but that’s all I need to know I’m in the right place. That, and the sight of Jackson’s Porsche parked in front, looking vulnerable in this seedy neighborhood.
My car, a simple Nissan I’ve had since I started working for Damien five years ago, isn’t as sexy or fancy as the Porsche, but it looks vulnerable as well when I park it all by itself behind the gym. It has a car alarm that I rarely use. Tonight, I activate it.
Fortunately, Sutter was thorough in his instructions, and it’s easy to find the door to his office, and once I’ve punched in the code and entered, I pull the door shut and lock it. The office is bare bones but neat, with what looks like an army surplus desk, a couple of filing cabinets, and lots of awards and certificates framed on the wall in plain black document frames that you can buy at any drugstore.
The gym is as simple as the office. It is mostly mats and free weights. Nothing like the gym at work with row after row of weight and cardio machines. Here, there is a treadmill for cardio, and that’s about it. There’s also a boxing ring, slightly raised and padded, and I imagine that’s some pretty serious cardio, too.
But it’s the far left corner that interests me as I stand in the doorway between this main area and the office. Because that is where Jackson is, shirtless and in loose gym shorts. His back gleams with sweat, and he is pounding away at a punching bag.
I don’t know how long I watch him—a minute, an hour, a year?—but finally he seems to run out of steam. He turns away, breathing hard, and as I step backward into the shadows, I see that the ferocity in his punches isn’t reflected on his face. Instead, he looks tired and a little lost. And that, I think, is because of me.
He walks to the locker room, and once he has disappeared inside, I step out of my hiding place. I follow him, slowly entering the plain white room that smells of soap and antiseptic. I see rows of lockers, and then off to the left there is a line of shower stalls with thin plastic curtains. Jackson is in one. He thinks he’s alone, and the curtain isn’t closed. He is facing the tiled wall, letting the water pound on him. After a moment, he leans forward and puts his hands on the tile, his head down, his posture full of defeat. Page 80
No.
I toe off my canvas shoes, then peel off my jeans and underwear. I leave them on the floor, then pull off and discard my shirt and bra as well, so that by the time I have reached the shower, I have left a Hansel-and-Gretel-style trail of clothes across this tidy, mopped floor.
I pause for a moment behind him, afraid that this is a mistake. But even if it is, I’m going forward. Whatever the consequences, I have to talk to him. I have to apologize. And I have to know the story; I have to know about Ronnie.
I enter the stall, then slide my arms around his waist.
He freezes at first, and I have a split second to think that perhaps sneaking up on a naked man from behind in a shower stall is a very bad idea.
Then his body relaxes. He says nothing, but turns in my arms. His eyes meet mine before I glance down and see his cock go hard, as if matching the intensity of his expression.
His gaze slides over me, and I start to speak, but he shakes his head. Just the slightest movement, but it silences me. Then he pushes me back so that my now-heated skin is pressed against the tile. There is heat in his eyes. Hunger. And in one
fast, almost violent movement, he claims my mouth, his hands on the tile on either side of me.
We touch nowhere except our lips, and yet I feel him throughout my entire body. My skin tingles. My cunt throbs. My breasts seem to beg for him to touch me, rough and wild. To take and to claim and to—
He spins me around so that now I am facing the shower stall, and he pulls my hips toward him, holding on to me so that I don’t slip. Again, he says nothing, but he puts my hands on the tile, so that now I am bent forward at the waist, and he is behind me. He strokes his hands over my back, then over my ass, then he urges my legs apart and slides his hand between them. I am completely wet, and desperately aroused. I want him to use me. I want him to fuck me.
And then he is over me, one hand cupping a breast as the other guides his cock to my core. When he’s positioned, he doesn’t hold back, just cups my breasts and slams hard into me again and again, deeper and deeper.
I am on fire, wildly turned on by not only the way he feels pounding inside me, but also by this reality. By coming to him, giving myself to him in both apology and passion, and then knowing that he needs this. That he needs me.
This will be fast, I know, for both of us. I can feel the pressure building inside of him just as it builds inside me. I’m close, so close to the edge as he slams harder and harder into me, and when he finally cries out in release, I join him, my body clenching tight around him, drawing it out so that he clutches my breasts tight and I moan in the complete, decadent, wild pleasure of this moment.
It was fast and brutal and incredibly powerful.
Most of all, it felt right. It felt like an apology and a promise.
He holds me while we catch our breath, his lips brushing the back of my neck. Then he urges me up and under the shower spray. He stands close to me, using a washcloth to clean us both before turning off the water. He grabs a towel from a pile near the stall and dries me, then wraps me in a dry one. He dries himself next, then wraps the towel around his hips.
“Sylvia,” he says. And it is the first word he has said since I arrived.
I close my eyes and draw a breath. “I’m sorry I lashed out at you. I put you on the spot and I punished you for not telling me a secret, and that was horrible of me, especially since I’ve already told you that I understand about secrets. They’re yours, not mine, and I don’t have any right to demand them. ”
“You have every right to this one,” he says. “A child affects you, too. ”
I draw in a shaky breath. “You didn’t tell me—and, and I guess I thought that meant that I don’t mean to you what I thought I did. ”
From his expression, you would think that I’d landed a physical blow. “Oh, sweetheart, no. ”
“Then why not tell me?”
He drags his fingers through his wet hair, then leads me back to the lockers. I gather my clothes as we go, and as Jackson opens his locker, then starts to dress, I do the same. “Everything’s happened fast with us, and I’ve only recently made up my mind about Ronnie—to push the action, set a court date, and bring my little girl home. ”
I frown, because something about what he says doesn’t make sense to me. But I can’t put my finger on it.
“More than that, though, I think I was afraid to tell you. ”
“Afraid?”
“You didn’t sign up to be with a man with a child. ”
The words are flat and hard and they weigh heavy on me. “Sign up?” I repeat. “Like we all pick a queue for our lives and our loves and that’s where we go and we never veer out of our line? It doesn’t work that way, Jackson. ” Page 81
I’m dressed now, and I go to him. He’s in jeans, but he hasn’t buttoned his shirt, and I press my palm against his bare chest, letting his heartbeat resonate through me. “I love the man, Jackson. Architect, lover, father. And I’m not saying that a child won’t change things between us, but we can make it work. I want to make it work. ” I meet his eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness I see looking back at me. “I don’t know a thing about toddlers. But I love you, Jackson. And you love Ronnie. That makes it a no-brainer for me. ”
“Oh, baby. ” He pulls me close and kisses me, long and lingering and so wonderfully sensual that when he finally breaks it, I have to sit on the wooden bench or else fall to the ground in a puddle.
“You are amazing, you know that, right?”
I grin. “I like to think so,” I say, making him chuckle. “What did you mean when you said you’d bring her home?” I’ve finally realized what is bugging me. “What about Megan?”
“Megan’s not her mother. She’s her legal guardian. ”
“Oh. ” I frown. “Who is?”
“Amelia,” he says, and everything clicks into place.
“The screenplay is right. She was obsessed with you. ”
He finishes buttoning his shirt and sits on the bench beside me, then takes my hand. He looks down at our joined fingers as he speaks. “I was dating Carolyn, Amelia’s twin. Not seriously, but we enjoyed each other. She was easy to be with and I—I wasn’t looking for anyone permanent. I was raw after you, Syl. I just wanted a woman in my bed. Someone to take the edge off. ”
His words are painful to hear, all the more so because this is a chain of events I set in motion, but I say nothing. I just sit and I listen.
“Amelia had a crush, but I never cared for her. They were identical twins, but looks were the only thing they had in common. Amelia was narcissistic and had a cruel streak. A selfish streak. And one night she came into my bed dressed as her sister, wearing Carolyn’s perfume. She said nothing, and she woke me up with kisses and touches and—at any rate, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I thought Carolyn had come home early from a trip. It wasn’t until after I’d fucked her that I got my wits back and realized she was Amelia. It was that one time, but it was enough. ”
“She was pregnant. ”
“She was. And she tried to pressure me into marrying her. I said no. I didn’t love her—I despised her, actually. Or pitied her. And I didn’t love Carolyn, either. ”
He takes a deep breath, and though I have a million questions, I force myself to stay quiet.
“I told her I wasn’t even sure the baby was mine—and that was true. Amelia slept around. But she insisted that it was, and part of me believed her. But I wasn’t about to be pressured into marriage, and when the house was done, I left. A few months later, she had the baby. And a week after that, she lured her sister into a work shed. Used a revolver to put five bullets in her, and then used the last one to kill herself. ”
He is speaking evenly, almost matter-of-factly. But he is gripping my hand hard, and I can tell that every word is painful.
“Megan got custody of the baby. ”
“She did. And she called me. She knew—as much as anyone did—that Ronnie was mine. She also knew—and now Arvin was involved—that the whole thing would be a huge scandal. She was awarded legal guardianship, and the family asked me to not claim the child. At the time, I thought that was best. I was shell-shocked. Confused. Lost. Hurt. I don’t even know. And I was traveling so much, working twenty-four/seven, that I didn’t think I could be a good dad. A solid father. I sent money regularly, started college funds, bought presents. Then I started visiting. Megan and I became friends—and, yes, we slept together once, but there was nothing real there. But there was something real between me and Ronnie. I grew to love her. And though I didn’t need a paternity test to know she was mine, I had one anyway. ”
I think about the little girl’s eyes and hair, and I feel like a fool for not having seen it before. “It was positive,” I say, stating the obvious. “When did you take it?”
“Ronnie was about eighteen months old. ”
I frown a little as I nod. I know that, of course; I’d seen the test attached to the court documents. “Why didn’t you file a paternity action then?”
“I thought about it,” he says. “But Ronnie’s well
-being has always been my chief concern. At the time, that meant me being her uncle. She had Megan and Tony, and though they hadn’t adopted her, they stood as Mommy and Daddy. ” Page 82
He runs his fingers through his hair. “So she had stability. Care. She also had Megan’s maternal grandparents around to help. Still has them, of course, even though David, Megan’s grandfather, had a small stroke last year. He’s bedridden. But her grandmother, Betty, is a rock. I’m pretty sure that woman is invincible. ”
“What about Arvin? For that matter, what about Megan’s paternal grandparents?”
“Dead,” he said. “And Arvin was having none of it, and his wife passed away a while back, so he had no wife to soften his stance. Even so, staying in Santa Fe with Megan and Tony and Betty was a much better situation than bouncing all over the world with me and growing up in the care of a nanny. ”
I nod, taking it all in. And I understand the decision he’d made. “It must have been hard,” I say.
I can hear the loss and longing in his voice when he says simply, “It was. ”
“But now you’re pushing to establish parental rights?”
“I want custody now. It’s what’s best for Ronnie. ”
“Because her life was stable when Tony was alive, but now with all of Megan’s problems …”
I trail off, and he picks up the thread. “Exactly. I hate it, but I can’t deny that Megan’s losing her grip—and I need to keep Ronnie safe. I need to be her dad, not her uncle. ” His voice gathers force. “More than that, I want to be. ”
“And Megan’s okay with that?”
“Yes and no. When she’s level, she is. And so is her family, especially Betty, who’s been a huge ally to me. ”
“And when Megan’s not level?” I ask.
“She wants me to stay the hell away. ” He frowns, his expression all kinds of sad. “Even when she’s level, though, she’s concerned. When you first saw her at the screening, we argued, remember?”
I nod.
“Megan was chewing me out about bringing Ronnie into the thick of this shit. She’s going to be surrounded by enough scandal with the movie, Megan said. But how much worse will it be if we add to that by revealing that I’m her father?” He frowns. “The thing is, all of that is true. ”
I draw in a breath, because he is absolutely right. The kid will be the focal point of a media shitstorm.
“That’s why you don’t want the movie made. ”
He squeezes my hand. “That’s why it won’t be made,” he says, “and that’s what I told Megan. There’s not going to be a movie. There are two people in this world that I will protect no matter what. You and Ronnie. ” He meets my eyes. “I’m not letting that movie get made, Sylvia. There’s been enough trauma in that little girl’s life. Whatever it takes,” he says, “I’m shutting Reed down. ”
“Do you know what I’d like to do tonight?” Jackson asks. We’re in the Porsche, just pulling into the marina parking lot.