Left Behind (Lost & Found #1)

by C. L. Stacey

  It can’t be Bethany, not when she was the one who suggested I sit, so I look over my shoulder to see who the hell thought it smart to touch me.

  I’m caught a little off guard when greeted by a familiar pair of gunmetal-blue eyes. “Jackson?” I blink up at him, shocked to see him here—at a club full of people of all places.

  He doesn’t appear happy to see me, and then I remind myself that I’m not exactly too thrilled with him, either.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, the tone of his voice just as icy as the expression on his face.

  I replay his question in my mind.

  What am I doing here? I don’t understand the question.

  “It’s a club. What do you think I’m doing here?” I respond curtly.

  The look in his eyes darkens following my response. “Why did you come here with him?”

  What the hell kind of questions are these? Is he serious?

  I pull on my arm, but it doesn’t give. Jackson’s hold is too strong. “He is my friend. I was invited. Can you let go of me now?” But he doesn’t.

  Jackson’s eyes shift from my face, his gaze skating slowly down the front of my dress. They don’t travel too far down before stopping mid-thigh, where the fabric ceases to cover anymore of my body. The muscles along his jaw tense as they linger there for a while, disapproval spreading over his features when his eyes find mine again.

  “Friend?” Jackson repeats the word in a distasteful tone, unconvinced by the label. “Really? I didn’t buy you for the type.”

  My brows pinch together, and I frown up at him. “Type?”

  “Caleb’s type.”

  That’s an obvious insult, to both Caleb and myself. Why he felt the need to go negative, I don’t understand. “You’ve got some nerve…” I fight to keep my voice low when I feel my temper begin to rise. Jackson arches a brow in response, like what he’d just said to me wasn’t in any way crossing a line. “Let go of my arm.” He doesn’t. “Let go or I’ll scream for security.” He doesn’t.

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Am I?”

  With his hand still holding me in place, Jackson takes a few steps in to close the gap between us, and I feel his lips just outside my ear. “You’re not the public confrontation type. You hate to draw attention to yourself.”

  The way he talks about me like he knows me at all annoys me. We shared one dinner, one real conversation. That’s not nearly enough to go presuming anything about anyone.

  “Oh, and you know me so well,” I say, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my tone.

  “I do.”

  My face screws up following his ridiculously confident response. “Now who’s bluffing?”

  “How much time have we spent together these past few months, Lexi? Hmm?” he prompts me but doesn’t wait for an actual answer. “You see, I like to watch people; it’s kind of my thing. You learn a lot about someone that way. All I had to do was pay attention to the obvious facts.”

  “What facts?”

  “Leave with me, and I’ll tell you,” he propositions me.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. I just got here.”

  “Jackson,” Caleb calls from behind me, and we both turn to where he’s still seated. “Relax,” he says to him.

  I pull on my arm again, successfully freeing myself from Jackson’s grasp, and just to spite him, I decide to take that seat Caleb offered me earlier.

  Spending time with Jackson that one night was fun and everything, and I really appreciate him trying to be a friend on the day I really needed one, but that moment didn’t last very long before he decided to disappear. I haven’t heard from him in weeks. I don’t need that in my life. It’s not okay for him to be making comments about the people I choose to spend my time with, and he has no right to act like he’s better than anyone seated at this table.

  The two men who are in the way of me getting to Caleb rise to their feet to accommodate me. I turn my body to the side and begin inching my way around the booth, plopping down next to Caleb when reaching him.

  “You okay?” Caleb whispers down to me.

  “Fine,” I grumble, the tension in my shoulders loosening a bit when Bethany slides into the booth next to me.

  Some young employee brings a chair over for Jackson, planting it at the end of the table. I was sort of hoping that he would leave, but unfortunately, I see that he’s planning to stay. Jackson unbuttons the front of his jacket before taking his seat.

  A cocktail waitress walks over, and despite the drinks we already had at the table, she asks if Jackson would like anything. He shakes his head, his eyes still holding mine hostage, and the girl moves along to the next table.

  “Want a drink?” Caleb’s question draws my attention back to him.

  “Please.” I nod.

  “What do you want?” he asks, raising his hand to wave the waitress back over.

  “Tequila.”

  When the young woman returns, he orders me a bottle of Patrón. My favorite. But there’s already a bottle on the table.

  “No, I can make do with a few shots of what’s left here. Don’t order another bottle,” I say.

  “I’ll take some with you. It’s fine. We’ll get a fresh one.”

  She doesn’t keep us waiting long before showing back up with a new bottle and a tray full of shot glasses. Caleb lines up three, pours the clear liquid into each, then he places two in front of us and one in front of Bethany.

  “Glasses,” he says, and everyone around the table—minus Jackson—holds their glasses high in the air. “To Lexi. Our newest addition to Runway Models—contract and paperwork pending.”

  The sound of his toast sends my head whipping in his direction, my hand still holding the shot glass midair. “I said I’d think about it!”

  “I think we all know how that’s going to end,” he says to me with a confident smile.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Decision pending.”

  A laugh bursts from Caleb’s mouth, loud and strong. “Cheers!” He tips his glass an inch higher before knocking it back. Everyone follows. Jackson looks pissed. And I shoot the contents in my tiny glass back.

  The night seems much more promising after that. Tequila always lifts my spirits. I literally feel some of the tension leave my body after knocking back that first shooter.

  Caleb leans in closer to me, and he whispers, “Want to explain Jackson’s murderous stare, or should I just come right out and ask him?”

  “Please don’t do that,” I beg. “I’m just starting to loosen up, don’t ruin it.”

  I don’t exactly know why Jackson showed up here in such a foul mood, but I do gather that my decision to hang out with Caleb has something to do with it. Caleb asking Jackson anything right now will only make things worse.

  He laughs at my reaction. “Okay, no problem. Calm down, I won’t ask.”

  The shot glasses don’t stay empty long before Caleb fills them back up to the top. Bethany and I drink without any argument, and by shot five, I know I’ve reached my limit.

  With a hand covering the top of my glass, I let Caleb know that I’d like to slow down.

  In between the shots we took earlier, I learned a few things about Bethany, and vice versa. I learn that she’s three years older than me, was born and raised here in Los Angeles, graduated from Academy of Art University in San Francisco, then she filled me in on what she had to go through just to land an interview at Runway, only to sit through a whole bunch more with about a dozen different people before finally landing this job as Caleb’s right hand.

  The speech Caleb gave me earlier today, about having the right connections, crosses my mind, and it opens my eyes to the things I’ve gained in the past few months.

  I have no connections, yet I found my way around the red tape on more than one occasion.

  While working closely with Lena Durev, I’d learned so much, and we got along so great. She wanted to help when I asked if she knew anyone out here, but since she was
still fairly new to the industry, her connections were pretty limited. My resume is only one out of hundreds. A letter of recommendation was the best she could do, and that alone was an incredible gesture. Second best thing, she offered me a job after graduation, said it was mine if I should choose to stay in New York. But my life was here, so I left.

  Things got frustrating real fast when I kept striking out. During family brunches with my parents, my mother would keep drilling me with questions about whether I’d found anything when I hadn’t, then my father would scold her for stressing me out. I started accepting brunch invitations less and less after that.

  Then came my lucky break.

  It all comes down to the mysterious invitation I received, the one that landed me at that party. Because if I hadn’t been in attendance, Kellan wouldn’t have run into Stephanie, and then I would’ve missed my chance at an interview with my quirky new boss, who then later introduced me to Caleb. Now Caleb wants to give me this incredible opportunity that will only lead to so many more.

  And to think that I once believed my ties to Runway had been cut after I parted with Lena.

  I skipped a whole fuckload of steps.

  That seems to be a pattern in my life. The internship I scored with Lena came pretty easily, too. Now that I come to think of it, not much effort went into gaining that opportunity at all. One of my professors, who knew a person who knew another person, mentioned it to me, and she managed to get me an interview.

  It seems I’ve had more luck on my side than I deserve, but I’m going to work my ass off to make sure that none of it runs out on me. I will never again take any of what I have for granted.

  Well… I won’t take for granted the things that are actually mine. My eyes find Jackson, still seated at the end of the table, and still watching me.

  My job is mine. My friends are mine. I thought he was one, until he left me hanging. Friends don’t do that. Friends are supposed to stay.

  I want to know why he didn’t.

  Maybe it’s because he’s sitting right across the way, or maybe it’s because of the tequila, I don’t fucking know. But I want to know why he disappeared, and I want to know now.

  I’m on my feet, asking Bethany to let me out. She and the two guys from before stand, and I inch toward the end of the booth before I can rethink my decision to interrogate Jackson.

  He watches me, his eyes never leaving mine. I bend at the waist and lean in until he’s within proper listening distance, and I notice his gaze drop to my chest.

  Thank God for the titty tape. My hand shoots up to keep the fabric from hanging open anymore, and I loudly speak my request into his ear. “I would like to speak with you, please.”

  Jackson pulls back just far enough to stare up at me, our faces just inches apart, and he nods. I stand straighter when he gets to his feet, then he holds his hand out, gesturing for me to lead the way.

  “I don’t know where I’m going,” I say. “You lead the way.”

  I’m caught off guard when Jackson holds his hand out to me this time. I stare at it for a moment before I reject it, shaking my head no.

  “Take it,” he orders me.

  “No,” I say stubbornly.

  “I don’t want to lose you, Lexi.”

  My heart skips as soon as the words leave his mouth. I know he didn’t mean it the way my drunken ears received it, but still…

  “Just take it,” he orders again.

  It’s just a hand. A hand completely harmless to me, free of any deformity or contagions or infectious diseases. So why am I so afraid to take it? I took Caleb’s before without thinking twice, and I held on for dear life while he only did what Jackson intends to do now, to keep me safe at his side.

  “Take it or I take yours,” Jackson presents me with options, one that ends the same exact way. With my hand in his.

  The tequila is messing with my freaking mind. I’m thinking way too much into the simple act of holding his damn hand.

  This is stupid. I’m not in junior high anymore. It’s a hand.

  Just when I decide to take it, his hand disappears from my line of sight, and my breath catches in my throat when I feel it close around mine.

  Jackson pulls me along behind him, and I let him.

  There are people in different groups just standing around with their drinks when we exit the lounge, socializing in the walkway by the railing. I keep my feet moving as Jackson weaves us through the small crowd, then my eyes fall to his back.

  My mouth lifts into a smile when I see what I hadn’t noticed before.

  I was too busy being mad at his face to notice the suit he came here in. It’s grey. My gaze lifts a few inches to where the collar of his shirt folds over his jacket, and I roll my eyes when I see that it was black.

  Baby steps.

  Whatever, it’s a start. At least he’s trying.

  Jackson makes a turn and we’re taking the stairs now. I don’t question where we’re going and just concentrate on each step I take, careful not to trip.

  Someone catches a glimpse of Jackson as we walk the remaining steps to the top, calling out welcomingly to him. They exchange words as they formally greet one another, and I should probably stop, but my feet never stop moving.

  Jackson stops me for me, his hand pulling me back to his side. Oh, I’m drunk. “This is Lexi Moore, my new stylist and friend,” I hear him introduce me.

  “She’s very popular,” comes a familiar voice, and I turn to acknowledge him. “I’ve already met her earlier tonight, but it’s good to see your face again, Ms. Moore.” Chad laughs.

  I go for a smile, but the muscles on my face overwork themselves, and I am now full on grinning. “Please, call me Lexi.”

  “Very well,” Chad agrees. “Then it’s only fair that I ask you call me Chad.”

  “I suppose it is, Chad,” I happily accept. Uncharacteristic of me, I know, but hello, I’m inebriated. I’ve always been a friendly drunk.

  Our exchange is rudely interrupted by Jackson’s next question. “I need a quiet room, Chad. Which one of these is vacant?”

  “Take the third one down. I’ll make sure you aren’t bothered,” he assures Jackson. Then Chad reverts his attention back to me. “Would you like anything to drink, Lexi? I’ll have one of my girls send one in.”

  Being the bossy guy that he is, Jackson begins to answer for me. “I don’t think that—”

  “Long Island Iced Tea, please,” I cut him off to give Chad my drink order. Then Chad excuses himself before heading in the direction we just came, taking the stairs down with the same two guards I saw him with earlier.

  When I look up, I’m greeted with another one of Jackson’s disapproving expressions. “Why so serious?” I ask. “I’m thirsty. He asked me if I wanted a drink. I want one.” I shrug.

  Jackson doesn’t say more, just leads me along the quiet path to the room three doors down. He wraps his free hand around the door handle and pushes it open, gently tugging me forward with his other so I enter before him.

  The sudden quiet seems so much louder than the music outside, the silence thick and heavy. I feel deaf.

  I stop when I cross the threshold, taking in the glowing room. The entire wall on the opposite end is glass, giving me clear view of everything happening downstairs, hence the glow.

  “Can they see us?” I ask, my feet carrying me toward the glass wall.

  “No,” he answers, his voice not far behind me. “The glass is covered with one-way mirror film. We see out, but they can’t look in.”

  There’s a knock at the door, and Jackson leaves my side to answer it. I hear him quietly thanking the waitress before taking the drink from her. The door clicks shut again, and he’s back by my side, my cup in hand.

  The ice rattles when Jackson hands it over. “You’re drunk enough. You should be drinking water,” he voices his disapproval with an expression to match.

  “And you shouldn’t be telling me what to do, but alas, here we are… me drinking myself to a stu
por, while you boss me around.” I take the glass from him, tipping it slightly in the air. “Cheers,” I say before wrapping my lips around the straw.

  Jackson shoves his hands into his pockets and turns his back to the glass, propping himself up against it so he’s facing me, then he crosses an ankle over the other. “I’m sorry, have I done something to upset you?”

  The question itself annoys me. I don’t know if he’s asking to tease me or if he genuinely has no freaking clue, but either one makes him dumb.

  “No,” I lie.

  Something flickers across his eyes, and they narrow slightly in size when studying me carefully. I look away to avoid his stare.

  “Liar.”

  My eyes widen at his accusation. I get myself caught in his gaze when I turn to face him again. “What did you just call me?”

  “I called you a liar.”

  I blink dumbly back at him. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  The way he carries out this conversation, completely unapologetic, appalls me. He really doesn’t get why I’m upset. What a dumbass.

  I shake my head, concluding that any attempts I make to confront him will just be a waste of both our time. “Just forget it.” I take a couple steps back, and I gasp loudly when Jackson’s hand closes over my arm to bring me right back.

  I’m standing exactly where he wants me, yet his hand remains, his gaze burning a hole through mine. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to my friends.”

  “You asked to speak with me,” he reminds me. “So speak. I’m listening.”

  I mean to scoff, but it comes out sounding more like a dry, humorless laugh. “What would be the point in that?”

  “Why wouldn’t there be a point in that?” he turns the question around on me. “You’re upset, and I want to know why.”

  “You don’t know why I’m upset. There’s one of the many reasons why.”

  “No, I know.”

  “Then why ask?” I snap.

  “I’d rather hear you tell me.”

  I huff in disbelief, my annoyance reaching its limit. “You are a child!”