And his claim that he could dance wasn’t bullshit. He’s almost as good on the dance floor as he is in bed—and that’s saying something.
I rinse out my mouth with water and dry off my hands. Jackson is still asleep, so I let him be. I head upstairs to our room, grabbing a bottled water from the kitchen along the way. If Nathan or any of the staff are around, they’re discreet enough to stay out of sight. I down some water, grab clean clothes, and head for the shower.
Jackson barely speaks over breakfast. He looks at his phone, swiping his thumb over the screen. I drink my coffee, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. He hasn’t said anything about leaving, but I notice one of the staff bringing our bags down and setting them by the front door. It feels odd that someone packed my things.
But none of it is really mine anyway.
Jackson avoids meeting my eyes, but still puts a gentle hand on my back as he leads me to the limo. I get in, and watch out the windows as we drive away. The clouds have parted and the sun is out; the water is sparkling. In no more than a minute, we leave the villa behind, the car gliding up the road toward the freeway.
Dread runs through me. I feel like I should say something, at least make small talk, but I can’t think of anything to say. Jackson drinks a glass of whiskey in the limo and offers one to me. I turn him down. After last night, even the thought of alcohol makes me queasy.
He doesn’t say much while we wait at the airport, just sips another drink in the executive lounge. Nor while we sit in our wide, first-class seats. He has a couple more whiskeys on the three-hour flight, and I start to wonder how he’s going to drive me home after we land.
My breath catches in my throat when I realize—he won’t drive me home. We’ll land in Seattle and he’ll already have a car waiting to take me the three hours to Jetty Beach. This will be it. The end to our week.
And I’ll probably never see him again.
I bite the inside of my cheek and stare out the window. I don’t want to cry in front of him. I can sob my eyes out on the drive home, alone in some fucking limo—even though there’s no reason for me to be upset. This is what I agreed to. One week, no strings. Wasn’t I the one to say that first? No expectations, no worries about the future.
We both know we live in totally different worlds. He wanted to play with me for a while. Touch me and dress me up and fuck me with expensive shoes on. Tweet about his new mystery girl. I was a diversion, something for him to do to pass a few money-soaked days of his privileged life. He’ll go back to his expensive-ass car, his condo in the city, his parties. His women. And I’ll go back to my life. That’s the deal, and it should be fine.
I can’t understand why it hurts so much.
After we land, he leads me straight outside. I ask about baggage claim, but he says someone else will pick up our luggage. A limo waits at the curb, a driver in a crisp suit holding the door. I swallow hard. Is this it? Is this goodbye? Is he even going to say anything?
Jackson follows me into the limo, and I swipe the tears from my cheeks before he can see them. I can’t look at him. I wish he would have let me go at the airport, instead of dragging out the agony. I know we’re going to get his car, but I’m sure he’ll send me off on my own after that.
Plus, I’m not sure he should drive.
“Hey,” I say, gathering the nerve to speak. “Are you sure you should drive home right now?”
He looks up from his phone, his brow furrowed. “What?”
“I’m not trying to give you a hard time, but you’ve been drinking all day,” I say. “Are you okay to drive?”
He glances around the limo, as if to make sure he knows where he is. “I’m not driving.”
“I know, but I figured we’re going to pick up your car, and then you’ll have to drive it home.”
“Oh, no. My car’s already been taken back to my place.” He gestures toward the opaque glass separating us from the driver. “He’ll take me home.”
I nod and settle back into the seat, tucking my legs under me. I glance out the window and see the freeway sign. We turn south. Jackson lives north. Is he going to drive all the way out to Jetty Beach with me?
The thought of three hours in the limo with him, while he stares at his phone, ignoring me, is worse than being sent off from the airport by myself. I turn away, biting my lip harder.
“Hey,” he says, his tone suddenly soft and gentle. “Are you okay?”
I nod, refusing to look at him.
“Fuck, Melissa, I’m sorry,” he says. “Come here.”
Don’t do it, Melissa. He’s done with you. You’ll only make it worse.
His hands pull me to him and he wraps his arms around me. I lean into him, hearing the sound of his heartbeat. He kisses the top of my head and holds me tight. Tears burn my eyes, and my chest feels like it will burst.
After a while, I sit up and he lets his arms fall. We pass most of the drive in silence. That isn’t like Jackson. He doesn’t even look at his phone, just stares out the window, one hand resting on his chin. He doesn’t touch, or tease. He doesn’t try to have me one last time for the road. He just sits, watching the scenery go by.
I must fall asleep, because I open my eyes and see the gateway sign to Jetty Beach. The car turns onto the main road through town and a fresh wave of nausea rolls through my stomach. A few minutes later, the car pulls up in front of my house.
I haven’t thought much about what this moment will be like, how we’ll say goodbye. A week ago, I would have thought it would be a passionate kiss on the doorstep. Maybe an offer of one last fuck to finish the week off right. I would let out a contented sigh, happy with the memories of an insane little adventure, and go back to living my life.
What I didn’t count on was Jackson Bennett, staring at me with so much pain in his eyes.
He looks away, putting a hand over his mouth. The driver opens the door and Jackson casts one more glance at me, then gets out. I follow, shouldering my purse. He stops at my door and faces me, that same intense look in his blue eyes. I step up onto the porch, standing right in front of him.
He walks away.
Not a word. No awkward embrace of two people unsure of what to say. No kiss. No hands on my ass, nothing whispered in my ear. Just his hands in his pockets and his back to me as he walks down the path to the street. He gets back into the car, the driver closes the door, and just like that, he’s gone.
15
Jackson
By the time the driver pulls up to my building, I’m drunk as shit.
I started drinking again as soon as the limo pulled away from Melissa’s house, and haven’t really stopped on the three-hour drive to my place. I can’t deal with this emptiness. It fucking sucks. I haven’t felt this way since I was a kid. I don’t let myself feel this way.
I’m Jackson motherfucking Bennett. I have so much money, I don’t even know how much I’m worth; I pay other people to know. When I set out to do something, I do it. I’m driven, focused, and successful beyond even my wildest dreams.
But I still drove away from her.
Fuck. I’m so mad at myself, I can’t think. The elevator opens and I stumbled inside. I manage to press the buttons and get out at the right place. My condo takes up the two top floors of an old restored building on Queen Anne Hill. I own the whole thing, but one of my property management companies takes care of the other units. The lower floor is a wide-open living space, with a big kitchen that only caterers have ever used, a bar, and lots of seating. A balcony stretches along one entire side, with a pool, and an incredible view of the city skyline. I don’t really live here; I use it for entertaining. My personal space is upstairs, and very few people ever see those rooms.
My phone controls everything in the house, including the locks. I swipe a button and the door to the stairway swishes open. I trudge up the stairs, and emerge into a wide living room. I have a huge TV mounted on the wall, a large sectional sofa, and art that someone else chose for me. Floor-to-ceiling windows flank a glas
s accordion door that takes up almost the entire wall. It leads to a balcony, but I only have a couple of lounge chairs. It’s rare that I have people up here with me. As much as I hate being alone, I like my private space.
I toss my jacket on a chair and head for my bedroom. A few taps of my phone and the blinds close, and the flat screen facing my bed turns on. I flop down on the bed, my head still spinning.
“Bennett.”
Dennis stands in my doorway, dressed as usual in an impeccable gray suit, his hair styled in a retro pompadour. Dennis is my Alfred, only younger and a hell of a lot gayer—and I don’t have a Batcave. He lives in one of my condos downstairs, and is Tammi’s counterpart. Where Tammi handles my business and travel needs, Dennis takes care of my condo, tends to my wardrobe, and knows how to throw an absolutely killer party, even on a moment’s notice. I pay him a shit-ton of money to be available whenever I need him, and the arrangement suits us both.
Occasionally, some dumbass asks if it makes me uncomfortable to have a personal assistant with access to my house who is gay. It always makes me laugh. I’m man enough not to be threatened by a guy who might look at my ass. Besides, when Dennis tells me my ass looks good in Armani, I know I can trust his judgment.
I mumble something incoherent at him.
Dennis takes a step forward and sniffs. “Water, Tylenol, and probably dinner, yes? Or would you like to continue with … what are you drinking today, Scotch?”
“Water,” I say. More Scotch is the last thing I need—it doesn’t even sound good anymore. Dennis nods and leaves quietly.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen. It’s my father. I was wrong. A conversation with my father is the last thing I need.
Against my better judgment, I answer. “Dad.”
“Jackson, have you heard from your mother lately?” he asks.
“I’m doing fine, how are you?” I ask, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm in my voice.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jack, answer the question.”
I hate it when he calls me Jack. “She’s in Costa Rica, taking surfing lessons.”
Or fucking the surfing instructor. I really don’t care. My parents are legally married, and my dad still bankrolls her life, but they haven’t lived together for more than a few weeks at a time in years. They kept up appearances when I was a kid—although, looking back, I have no idea why. I had two nannies, and when I was old enough they sent me to boarding school. I was raised by teachers. It wouldn’t have mattered, at least not to their kids, if they got a divorce. We weren’t ever home with them anyway.
“Oh for the love of … Costa Rica.” He mumbles something else and hangs up. I shake my head and drop the phone on the bed again.
Dennis returns with an Asian chicken salad, a tall glass of ice water, four Tylenol, an Airborne tablet fizzing in another glass, and an artisan roll, already buttered.
I sit up on the edge of the bed. “Do I pay you enough?”
“Yes.” Dennis cracks a smile. “Yes, you do.”
“Good.”
“Company tonight?” Dennis asks. “It’s late, but it is Saturday. I could put the word out, do a spontaneous after-party.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t want a single fucking person here.”
“Fair enough. Anything else?”
“No, I’m fine,” I say. “I need to sleep this off. Go … do whatever it is you do when you’re not here.”
“Text me if you need something,” Dennis says as he walks out of the room.
I down half the water, and eat some of the salad. But I still feel like crap.
What the fuck is happening to me?
When I thought up this plan, sitting on Melissa’s couch, I felt like a kid with a new toy. I was going to take her out, show her a great time, blow her mind.
And then, fucking hell, she went and blew mine.
I was paralyzed on the drive from the airport to Jetty Beach. The closer we got to the coast, the bigger the gaping hole in my chest grew. By the time we turned into the little town, the feeling was unbearable. I stared out the window, convinced we were going to get in an accident and she’d be killed. I imagined a tsunami crashing in, taking out the whole town, and Melissa with it. What if something bad happened to her, and I wasn’t around? I was about to drop her right back into her life, and leave her there.
Why couldn’t I deal with that? Why do I feel like I’m dying inside?
I’ve never been with a woman I couldn’t just walk away from. Usually I get bored, or they get too needy, and I cut things off. Simple. I tried a real relationship for a while, tried staying committed to her, even when the fun wore off. But in the end, I didn’t see the point. We mostly just made each other miserable, so I ended it and moved on. I walked away.
Walking away from Melissa wasn’t the same.
I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye. The word had been too much, I couldn’t utter it. So I turned around and left without saying anything. I got in the limo, and poured myself a drink. It wasn’t my finest moment.
But, fuck, I’m confused. I don’t understand all these goddamn feelings, because I’ve never felt any of them before. I don’t even know what they are.
I leave the rest of my dinner uneaten, and crash back on my bed. My phone blinks with notifications, but I don’t care. I type out a tweet, a voice in the back of my head telling me I might regret it in the morning, and toss my phone onto the nightstand.
I leave the TV on so I won’t have to deal with the silence, and go to sleep.
16
Melissa
I allow myself the evening to melt into a puddle of despair. I cry. I eat ice cream, then I wish I didn’t eat the ice cream because my stomach is still sour from last night’s alcohol. I go to bed, wrap myself in a blanket, and sleep it off.
I get up the next morning, ready to let the bootstrap-pulling commence. John Simon did not raise a girl who will let her life fall apart over some guy. I will let the week be what it was: a wild experience I’ll later look back on with fondness. Wow, remember that time I ran off with that rich guy for a week? That was so insane…
It was insane. And wonderful.
And utterly terrifying.
Which is probably why Jackson’s text makes me want to puke.
My phone dings and I’m afraid to look. I tell myself it must be Nicole, checking to see if I’m home. I pick it up and swipe my finger across the screen. It’s Jackson.
Didn’t leave things very well. Sorry about that.
I blow out a breath and send a reply. I’m hurt and angry, and I’m not going to let him get away with it. Nope. You didn’t.
My phone dings again. I’m not sure what to do now.
I stare out the window, my phone dangling from my hand. Is this Jackson, or did someone else get hold of his phone? Jackson always knows what to do. He takes what he wants, when he wants it.
Is he trying to fix this? Is there even anything to fix?
Me neither. I hit send, and wait. He doesn’t reply.
A few hours later, my phone rings. I gasp, a jolt of adrenaline surging through me. I breathe out a sigh of relief—or is it sadness?—when I see Nicole’s name on the screen.
“Hey, Nicole,” I say.
“Mel! Are you back?”
“Yeah, I’m home.”
“Okay, don’t tell me anything yet,” she says. “I want to hear all about your week, but in person.”
“Sure.”
“Wait, are you all right?” she says. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it yet,” I say.
I hear Nicole take a deep breath. “All right, I won’t ask. Listen, the weather’s really beautiful so we’re having a bonfire on the beach tonight. Just a few people, it’s no big deal. I know you just got home, but I thought you still might want to come.”
Anything sounds better than sitting at home alone. “Yeah, that sounds great.”
“Yeah? Good,” she says. “I
miss you. We’re here, so come up anytime.”
“Sounds good, Nic,” I say. “Thanks.”
Later that evening, I drive up to Ryan and Nicole’s place. Ryan restored an old church that sits on a bluff overlooking the ocean. The main part of the building is his photography studio, and they live in an apartment off to the side. I can see Nicole’s touches already melding with Ryan’s bachelor pad. It actually looks really nice. She hasn’t girlied it up too much, just added a few things to make it look like theirs. It’s sweet.
Ryan and his brothers already sit around a fledgling fire. Cody is the spitting image of Ryan, only slightly taller and slightly less intense. Hunter isn’t related, but I know he grew up in the Jacobsen house. The three act like brothers, anyway. They joke and insult each other continuously.
Nicole and I sit in camping chairs, facing the fire, with the ocean beyond. The waves beat their steady rhythm against the sand, and the light fades as the sun goes down.
Cody’s girlfriend Jennifer stands away from the fire, waving her hand in front of her face as if the tiny drift of smoke offends her. Five minutes later, she announces she can’t stay, and walks back up the beach to the house.
Cody watches her go, but doesn’t make any move to go after her.
“That was … awkward,” Hunter says. He pokes a stick in the flames and moves the wood around.
“Quit messing with it,” Ryan says, smacking Hunter’s stick away with his own.
Nicole gives me a look and shrugs her shoulders. I don’t know Jennifer well, but she has a superior air that bothers me. Cody seems relieved that she’s gone, but he doesn’t say anything about it.
Ryan grabs a beer from the cooler and holds it out to me.
“Thanks, but I’m sticking with water,” I say. “I think I need to do a cleanse or something to flush out all the booze.”
One Crazy Week Page 10