by J. Kenner
"I could. But she's with Robert Reed."
Cass and I exchange shrugs.
"The asshole producer," he explains.
"The one who wants to make the movie about the Santa Fe house?"
"The very one," Jackson says. "And because of that, I'm going to go talk to them."
"Why?" Cass asks. "I mean, if you don't want them to make the movie."
"Two reasons. One, I firmly believe in killing with kindness where appropriate. My attorneys can be the bad guys. I'll be polite and charming and quietly toxic if it comes to that."
"I like the way he thinks," Cass says.
"And second," he continues, "I want information. If they're moving forward on the project, I want to know. I might learn something my lawyers can use."
"Your boyfriend has a devious streak," Cass teases. "I'd keep an eye on that."
"You're both welcome to join me. Syl?"
"You go ahead. I think Cass and I are going to go see if there's any auction item we can actually afford to bid on."
He meets my eyes before he kisses me, and I think I see understanding there. Cass is not quite as intuitive. "Why aren't you going with him? He used to date her."
"And there you have it," I say. "Her, tall and statuesque and movie-star gorgeous. Me, utterly plain by comparison."
"Hardly. You're fabulous and you know it. And Jackson adores you."
"And if I were standing right next to her, I might turn an unattractive shade of green. Besides," I add, "we need alone time. What's the deal with Zee?"
"I'm not sure. She was irritated you and Jackson met with me and Ollie."
"Really? Why?"
"Not sure. I told her I would have loved her insight, too. But she wasn't mad because she wanted to be there. She just didn't want you guys there."
"Did you tell her about tonight?"
Cass wrinkles her nose. "No."
"Cass ..."
"Hey, we've barely started dating. The rules for evening outings have not kicked in yet."
She has a point. I forget how fast things have been moving with Jackson. Primarily because it feels like I've been with him forever. Or at least for five years.
We look at each of the silent auction items, and I even bid on a couple's weekend at a boutique hotel in Laguna Beach. If I win, I'll surprise Jackson. And if I don't win, I may surprise him anyway.
"I expected Evelyn to be here." We've finished the auction review, and now we're standing near a glass case with pages from the shooting script for The Wizard of Oz. I look out over the crowd, but don't see her. For that matter, I don't see Jackson. I do see Irena Kent, though, and take a petty amount of satisfaction from the fact that she is not with my boyfriend.
"Isn't that her?" Cass asks, pointing to the far side of the room where Robert Reed stands chatting with Evelyn and a few other people I don't know.
"Good eye," I say. "Let's go say hi."
As we head that direction, I'm struck again by the feeling that I've met Reed before. I don't think too much about it, though. It's hard to grow up in LA and not run across celebrities here and there, especially now that I work for Stark.
But as we draw closer, I can overhear their conversation. His voice is also familiar, and I press my fingers to my temples, trying to place it. Then he extends a hand to one of the pretty young women. "It's so nice to meet you. I'm Robert Cabot Reed. But you can call me Bob."
I go completely cold.
"Syl?"
"It's him." My tongue feels thick, and I'm not entirely sure I've spoken.
"Him? I don't--"
"I need to find Jackson."
"I--"
"Jackson."
"Oh god." I hear understanding and panic in Cass's voice. "Oh, holy fucking god."
But I'm not listening. I'm stumbling blind through the house, my hands clenched tight at my sides because I will not, will not, will not lose it.
I manage to keep my shit together all the way to the foyer where Prado is still greeting latecomers.
"Have you seen Jackson?" The urgency in Cass's voice makes me realize how scared she must be.
"Cassidy? Why, yes. He said he was going out front to take a phone call." Prado steps toward us. "Are you all right?"
I don't know what she tells him. All I know is that I am pure motion. That somehow I have gotten through the doors and out into the world, and now I am spinning, looking for him. By the valet stand. In the shadows by the street. Under the streetlight.
There.
I run to him, then stop dead when I see that he is not alone.
"Goddammit," he says to his companion. "What the fuck are you doing here? I told you to stay away from me."
I cannot hear the man's reply, but Jackson's retort is crystal clear.
"That's bullshit," he says. "Aren't you the one who always says we can't be seen together? Goddamn you, Jeremiah."
"Syl!" Cass's frantic voice cuts through the night, and both men turn toward me, their faces now lit by the soft golden light of the streetlamp.
Jackson Steele.
And Jeremiah Stark.
I make a sound like a whimper.
"Sylvia!" I hear the urgency in Jackson's voice, and I see both shock and guilt on his face.
I turn--and I run.
"Sylvia, wait!"
But I don't, I am running blind, at least until I stumble, then cry out at the sharp pain in my knee.
I've broken a heel and fallen on the curb.
I see a red-clad valet hurrying toward me from one direction. Behind me, I see Jackson sprinting toward me in the dark.
I scramble to my knees, because I can't talk to him. Not now. Maybe not ever.
He lied to me. Oh, dear god, he lied to me.
"Sylvia," he calls, and I stumble to my feet and reach out for the valet. "Dammit, Sylvia, stop!"
"Leave her alone!" Cass cries, and I look over my shoulder to see her tugging on Jackson's sleeve. "Dammit, Jackson, just let her go."
I clutch the valet's hand. "Please. I need a taxi."
"Of course." The boy looks about seventeen and completely freaked out. "Are you okay? Do you need help?"
"Just the taxi. Please. Hurry."
There is one already in the pickup line, and he hurries me in. I collapse gratefully into the backseat, and as the car leaves the curved driveway for the street, the last thing I see before I fall inside myself is Jackson standing beside Cass, his body angled as if in motion, held in place only by her firm grip on his arm.
I sink back into the seat and try to decide where to go from here. Not home. Jackson will look for me there.
Not to the office, because I will be found.
In the end, I go to a motel. A boring little chain that charges way too much for its boring little rooms.
But I don't care about the money or the decor. I don't even care about the bed, because I do not intend to sleep.
I can't, not tonight. Because tonight will be the worst.
Tonight, the nightmares will come, dark dragons with sharp teeth and fiery claws.
They will come and I'll see Bob in my mind--Cabot Reed--and he'll touch me and seduce me and I'll come for him, and I'll hate myself.
Then I'll look him in the eyes and see Jackson, and hate myself that much more.
I'll be helpless.
Lost and alone, with no one to slay the dragon.
A burst of fury whips through me and I grab the ice bucket off the dresser and hurl it across the room. It makes an unsatisfying thud against the thin drywall and cheap paint.
"Goddamn you, Jackson Steele," I shout. "God fucking damn you."
He'd lied to me, by omission if not outright. Acted like he didn't even know Jeremiah Stark when I asked him about it after the LA Scandal website fiasco. And maybe I could believe that tonight was just one of those first-meet coincidences if I hadn't seen his face and overheard their conversation. But I had, and Jackson's is a face I know--they've known each other for a long time. And they are obviously more
than just casual acquaintances.
God, how could I have been so stupid? I put my trust--all of my trust--in that man.
And so help me, I actually believed I was falling in love with him.
No. Damn me, I did fall in love with him, and that's why this hurts so much.
I love him, or at least I loved the man I thought I knew.
And now, somehow, I have to manage to survive losing him all over again. Because I know now that the man I have fallen in love with is not the man who exists.
"Shit."
The word sounds hollow, and I grab my phone to dial Cass, then end the call before it connects. It's not her company I crave, but the ink.
Except how would I mark myself? What I feel is too big, too personal. Too damn much. And unless she can rip my body open and tattoo my heart, I don't think there is any mark she could put on me that would help even out the pain that I'm feeling.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I throw myself on the bed and I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to cry. And yet still the tears won't come.
I can't even have that small relief to ease my pain.
Instead, I lay in the bed, lethargic and numb, and watch television as I fight the sleep that is determined to drag me under. Infomercials. Sitcoms. Bad animation.
Hour after hour until the dark, grimy window turns light.
Then I stumble from the room, my skin tight and my eyes grainy, and walk to the lobby for the complimentary breakfast of cold pastries and lukewarm coffee.
I sit at the cheap plastic table and sip coffee for over an hour. There is a newspaper at the place setting across from me, but I do not read it. There is a television playing one of LA's inane morning programs, but I do not watch it. I just sit and stare and slide into myself, losing myself in my head in a way I haven't done since Jackson laid out his proposition at the premiere.
Since then, I haven't wanted to fade away.
Now, I can't think of anything I want more.
Unless it's to have back the Jackson I thought I knew.
God, I'm being maudlin.
Disgusted with myself, I shove to my feet. If I'm going to be depressed--and I think I have every right to be--I'm going somewhere more pleasant than this ugly motel lobby.
I go ahead and shower in my room, then change into a pair of sweatpants and a City of Angels T-shirt. I'd bought both from the small gift and snack area behind the reception counter. Not overly fashionable, but it blends better than my cocktail dress.
I get the clerk to call me a taxi, and once again I avoid home. Instead, I have the driver take me to the one place I have always gone when things go sideways for me in this city. The place where I would go to walk or sit or read on the weekends after my "sessions" with Bob, and where in high school I would go to escape the mean girl taunts. Where I sometimes even came just because I wanted to see something beautiful. The Getty Center.
The taxi drops me at the bottom of the hill and I get on the tram with a flood of tourists. I'm grateful it's a Saturday. I want to be lost in the crowd, and camouflaged among the T-shirts, jeans, and ball caps that mark the out-of-town visitors.
The entire center is amazing, from the museum to the research facility to the tram that whisks people all around the complex. I have probably walked every square inch of this place at some point in my life.
Today, I choose the plaza and sit beside the fountain facing the rotunda.
I don't think too much about why, but part of me knows that it is because the perfection and flow of this incredible building reminds me of Jackson. The center is a masterpiece of architectural beauty, a work of art in and of itself, and I am not sure if I came to bask or to torture myself.
I have no idea how long I sit there, the familiar numbness sliding back into my bones. All I know is that I've tuned out the world. And so when I hear him, it's through a tunnel, and from a very long distance.
"Sylvia?" His fingertips brush my shoulder. "Sweetheart, I'm here."
Jackson.
His voice, his touch, his scent.
I shift in my seat and look up at him. He looks raw and more ragged than I feel. I have at least showered. Jackson still wears the suit he'd put on last night, though his collar is now open and the tie has been shoved into a pocket where it peeks out in a small splash of red.
"I don't want you here." It's a lie. It's the absolute worst of lies, because I do want him. But not like this. Not with the games and the deceit and everything he kept hidden.
"What you think you know," he says, "you don't."
"You fucking liar," I say, my words low and measured. "I needed something real to hold on to, and you were an illusion the whole goddamn time."
"Sylvia--"
"Was this always about Damien? About Stark International?"
He shakes his head. "Damien is the reason I said no to the Bahamas project. You're the reason I said yes to Santa Cortez."
I say nothing. Because what the hell is there for me to say?
"When this started," he continues, "I wanted to hurt you. You'd left me. And to make it worse, I thought you'd gone to Damien. And so help me, I wanted payback. I wanted to make you weak. To make you wild. That first night? I planned to make you need me so badly that I was like air to you. So fucking essential that losing me would destroy you."
I clench my jaw and hug myself, forcing myself not to spit out the acknowledgment that he has damn well achieved what he set out to do.
"And then, when I was your whole goddamn world, I was going to leave you. To have my revenge in the knowledge that you were burning in anger and loss."
I lift my head so that I can see his eyes. I expect to see triumph. Instead, I see regret. I see tenderness, too, and because of that, I stay despite the almost overpowering urge to spring to my feet and run.
"But all of that changed, Sylvia. I would rather die than hurt you. I thought I was strong; I'm not. I thought I was brave; I'm not. Because where you are concerned, I have no strength to leave, and even the thought of losing you breaks me completely."
"I guess you're going to have to get used to it," I say. "Because you've already lost me."
"Sweetheart--" His hand closes over my wrist and I rip it away.
"You lied to me. After everything I've told you. After all of myself that I've given to you. You fucking lied to me."
"I didn't."
I push up to my feet. "Oh, Christ, Jackson."
"Listen to me. No," he says, grabbing my hand as I start to walk away. "Listen."
I turn to face him, but I don't sit down. Instead, I stand with my arms crossed over my chest and my jaw tight.
He stands as well, then shoves his hands into his pockets. "I kept things from you, I did. Maybe more than I should."
"Gee. You think? Like maybe you should have mentioned you were scheming with Jeremiah Stark?"
"I wasn't. But I do know him. I've known him for a very long time." He draws a breath and drags his fingers through his hair. "Dammit, Syl. Jeremiah Stark is my father."
I stumble. I actually take a step backward, as if he's shoved at me with the palm of his hand.
"What?" I finally say, even though I'm absolutely certain that I've heard him correctly.
"Damien's my half-brother." The words are flat, and it's very obvious that he's not particularly thrilled with his family tree.
I'm not really sure how to process that, and so I sit down on the edge of the fountain again. After a moment, Jackson sits beside me.
"Does Damien know?" I ask.
"No. I told you the truth about my dad. My family. I just didn't tell you who."
"You should have." I try to organize my thoughts, but this news is out of left field. "All those times I asked you what your problem with Damien was, and you didn't say a word."
"I'm sorry. Maybe I should have. I don't know." I can see the anguish on his face, but I don't try to comfort him. I'm too hurt. Too numb. "Don't you get it? It's a secret I've lived with my entire life. It wasn't somet
hing I could just shout out."
"No," I say tightly. "I wouldn't know a thing about difficult secrets."
"Is that what this is? Tit for tat? You told me about Bob and because I didn't immediately toss my emotional garbage into the mix you're punishing me?"
"Bob?" I repeat. "That's all you have to say? Just some half-assed mention before we get back to your daddy issues?" His words are like a stiletto through my heart, because goddammit, Bob is what started all of this. Robert Cabot Reed, the asshole producer who wants to make the movie about Jackson's Santa Fe house. Bob, the guy who has his claws in both of our lives, and all Jackson can think about is how I'm pissed that he didn't tell me about Damien right then?
I say none of that, but the force of my emotions drives me to my feet again, and I'm about to lay it all out for him in harsh, clipped tones.
But he's looking at me with such genuine confusion that I hold my tongue.
And that's when I realize--Jackson has no idea about Robert Cabot Reed. He only knows that I was looking for him outside. He has no idea why. No idea that my mood, my fears, my entire meltdown wasn't entirely driven by his little confab with Jeremiah Stark.
Suddenly, I feel very tired.
"I need to go home." Right then, I need my condo. My patio. I need to curl up on my lounger and sleep. And with any luck, I'm exhausted enough that the dreams won't come.
"Come back to the boat with me. Please, Syl. We need to talk more. I don't want this to be the thing that breaks us. My father's taken too much from me already."
"He wasn't the one who kept secrets from me," I whisper. "That was you."
I see the way my words make him flinch, and I almost take them back. But they are true, and so I simply shake my head. "I'm sorry," I say. "Maybe we do need to talk. But right now, I need to be alone."
I don't give him time to answer. Instead, I just walk away, even though doing so leaves a hole in my heart.
twenty-four
Exhaustion pulls me under, and I sleep through the rest of Saturday, and a good chunk of Sunday morning. The sun is high in the sky when I finally wake on the patio lounger, twisted up in the blanket that I'd pulled over myself.
I remember that there were nightmares, but I do not remember what they were. I only remember one, and in it I ran. Faster and faster, farther and farther. But I never escaped what was chasing me.
I don't even know what I was running from. I can only assume it was everything.