by Kat Catesby
Chapter Seventeen
Most of the time I enjoy being right; tonight, I’m hoping I’m wrong…even though I know I’m not.
My apprehension has been growing jaggedly in my stomach all day, despite Gwen, the masseuse’s, best efforts. We’ve been prodded, polished and painted to within an inch of my sanity, and when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, an exuberant stylist named Stefan pulled and pinned my hair into an artfully loose, yet intricate braid. The whole ordeal was not relaxing.
I fidget the entire time Tristan drives me, my parents, Dee and Alex to the newly refurbished Ember hotel where the gala in aid of global child poverty is being held. No doubt the whole night has been organized by some vapid socialite named ‘Bunny’ or ‘Cookie’ who has no concept that maybe the money spent on hosting such a grand event could be better spent on giving the money to the charity directly. I get that nights like this raise awareness, but honestly, five-thousand-dollars-a-plate just seems excessive.
“Smile, darling. You look beautiful,” my mom says as we arrive outside the impressive red brick frontage and modern glass canopy of the Ember Hotel.
I can’t argue with her; I’m not a bad canvas after years of fitness in the Corps kept my slender curves lean and strong. Stefan had worked magic with my hair and Dee was a genius with the still-foreign-to-me concept of make-up. Combined with the elegant off-the-shoulder, Grecian style gown in shimmering gold color, I scrubbed up pretty well.
I give her a small smile as Tristan opens the door of our limo and my dad climbs out and helps my mom, leaving me, Dee and Alex alone briefly.
“You haven’t been insecure about your appearance since you started Columbia,” states Dee quietly.
“Your point is?”
“What’s really bothering you?”
“Jackson owns this hotel.” I don’t need to see the shocked expressions to know they’re there.
“Figures with a name like Ember,” mutters Alex as he climbs out after my mother.
“Are you sure?” Dee hisses.
“The name fits so I looked into it. FireStorm made the acquisition eight months ago, renovated it and renamed it.”
“This could be a good thing. He’s likely to be here and you’re not over him – maybe you guys can work out your issues.”
“Maybe. If he even wants to talk to me; six years of radio silence, remember?”
Dee gives me a sympathetic look before following Alex out of the limo.
I’m definitely tempted to just sit here; despite my recurring dreams and all our talk of calling or tracking Jackson down, I’m not ready to face him. We joke about it, which allows me to forget that he has never called or tracked me down. The more time passes since I walked off to join the Corps, the harder it is to face the man who unceremoniously stole my heart and won’t give it back…even though he doesn’t want it.
Knowing I have to face the music, I climb out of the limo muttering shit to myself. What I wouldn’t give to be having a lazy night on the sofa with a decadently cheesy pizza right now.
The cool night air prickles my exposed skin and my brain finally catches up to what should have been obvious the entire drive here; everyone is coupled up but me. Mom and Dad link arms, Alex takes Dee’s hand, which leaves me as the unescorted singleton.
My apprehension kicks up a gear.
As a dateless woman only a couple of years from thirty, I’m no doubt going to be treated to an evening of people I’m barely acquainted with making tick-tock and you-aren’t-getting-any-younger comments.
Fucking fantastic.
I wish I could shout that I’m not getting any older either, but you know, immortal secret and everything.
Just as my mood prepares to plummet irrevocably, Tristan walks towards me and links his arm with mine.
“Why else would I be this dressed up?” he winks.
“Fancied a change? Wanted to play dress-up?” I tease.
“Believe it or not, some of us can count to five and know it’s an odd number; not great when you’re surrounded by couples.”
“You clean up nice,” I smile, overwhelmingly grateful to him for saving me from a night of pitiful looks for being single.
“The suit makes the man, isn’t that what they say?”
“Something like that.”
Tristan walks me into an extravagant black and white marble lobby with an ostentatious crystal chandelier. There’s no mistaking the Ember is being marketed as a luxury hotel. The oversized reception desk and accent furniture are all dark wood and smoke gray fabrics, and black glass vases filled with deep red, orange, and yellow flowers adorn every surface.
Liveried staff escort guests towards the ballroom and we follow my parents, lagging slightly behind, across the polished floor. Groups of well-dressed, and clearly wealthy, people mingle and chat above the predictable sound of classical music drifting through the vast, arched doorway of the ballroom.
Tristan grabs two glasses of champagne from the bronze tray of a passing waiter and passes one to me…I’m going to need several of these if I’m to face Jackson.
We walk into the ballroom, which is a larger but similarly marbled version of the lobby, just with the added extravagance of white marble pillars spaced evenly around its perimeter. There are also three ridiculously sized chandeliers twinkling a combination of white, yellow and pale orange across the cavernous space, giving the subtle illusion of a flickering flame. The designer is nothing but committed to the fiery theme of the FireStorm brand. Overall the effect is beautiful…if unnervingly similar to the ballroom I remember from my previous life.
I can’t help the wayward thought that perhaps he deliberately decorated this room to look like my memory, but quickly banish it to the realms of wishful thinking.
I look around at the circular tables adorned with white linen tablecloths and black flower centerpieces arranged in a semi-circular shape around the perimeter of the room, creating an open space that acts as a dancefloor. Some of the braver guests are swaying along to the classical band that’s situated on a small raised stage at the front of the room.
I can’t help casting panicked glances around the room, trying to spot my heart thief; I relax a little when I can’t see him.
“You look stunning in that dress, Em,” Tristan says above the music.
“The dress makes the girl, isn’t that what they say?” I copy his line.
“Something like that,” he chuckles.
“I’m sorry that things didn’t work out with…,” I’m not sure why I think this topic of conversation is a great idea, especially when I can’t remember the name of Tristan’s recent ex.
“Yasmin,” he finishes for me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, a little embarrassed.
“No need to apologize – I wouldn’t expect you to know her name, I never introduced her to you or your family.”
“Why not?”
“Because she was finding it hard to deal with the intensity of my schedule; I work a lot of unsociable hours and had to cancel dates at short notice and that lack of stability wasn’t fair on her. She needed a man who could step up and put her needs first. It’s not easy being with a man whose priorities aren’t himself or his girlfriend, but an unrelated family. If those stresses were too much, how on earth was I going to explain you, my little immortal freak?” he teases.
“Fair point, and there’s no way you could lie about me if you wanted to marry her; eventually she would notice my lack of wrinkles.”
“Especially as my apartment is connected to your parents. It would be impossible to hide your secret and if I wanted to marry her then I wouldn’t want to lie to her anyway.”
“You said she ‘needed a man’, has she moved on already?”
Tristan flashes me an unguarded smile, “let’s just say we’re not completely dead in the water.”
“From lovers to friends with benefits?”
“You have a deceptively dirty mind, which lucky for you, I find amusing. No, not friends wi
th benefits. I can’t live my life as if it belongs to someone else, which is the way I have been. Your parents and I are in agreement that it’s time to employ another bodyguard so that we can work shifts – that way I’m not on-call twenty-four-hours a day. It won’t be perfect, but Yasmin and I are going to see if we can make this new arrangement work. I think we’re both of the opinion that we’d rather have a difficult, imperfect relationship than nothing at all.”
“I hope it works out,” I say sincerely.
If Tristan has a girlfriend, then Dee can stop pointing out how good he looks in a tux.
I glance around the room once more…and spot the one man who makes the suit, not the other way around. Jackson in a tux does seriously thought derailing things my poor brain – all I can do is stare at the very fine suit encasing his very fine body.
My heart stutters, beating painfully against my ribs and I can’t swallow past the sudden lump in my throat.
Jackson looks amazing.
Obviously, he hasn’t changed physically but there’s something about the way he’s carrying himself with such confidence and authority…
I always knew he had that air about him, but I’ve only ever known him in person as the dressed down college guy, not the sharply attired business mogul commanding the attention of everyone around him.
He must feel my gaze because he looks up and straight at me, knowing exactly where I am and wasting no time with scanning the crowd. For the briefest of moments, he looks at me with angry yet strangely dead eyes, his face perfectly impassive, before turning his attention back to the person he’s talking to.
Dismissed.
I feel the blush burning painfully through my cheeks and the sting of tears prickling my eyelids at his rejection.
How can he still be so angry after six years?
Then anger flares deep in my gut; what right does he have to look at me with such contempt when it was his ultimatum that broke us. How dare he look through me like I don’t even exist.
Not missing a beat, Tristan turns to me, places a hand on the small of my back and leans in to whisper in my ear. “Trust me, he’s paying attention. Let’s dance.”
After that hostile dismissal, I really don’t think he is, but I let Tristan lead me to the dance floor instead of pointing this out.
I’m annoyed at how pathetic I’m feeling. After everything I’ve seen and learned in my life, I know that I don’t need a man to complete me; I am strong and secure enough to be happy on my own. Don’t get me wrong, having loving connections with people, even just your immediate family and closest friends, can bring out the best version of yourself, but I don’t need Jackson Smoak in order to survive. And I hate the desperate feeling snaking and clawing its way through my chest trying to make me think that I do.
“We’re trying to make him Jealous, Em. To do that you need to pretend at least, that you’re having a good time with me,” whispers Tristan as he sways me around the dance floor, invading my personal space in a way that’s only just appropriate.
I laugh involuntarily. “Hold me any closer and people will get the wrong idea, my friend.”
“That is entirely the idea,” he smiles wolfishly at me.
I’ve always liked playful Tristan way more than professional Tristan, so it isn’t too hard to enjoy myself a little. At the very least, dancing with him is a welcome distraction from my depressing thoughts of Jackson.
“You don’t seem surprised to see him?” I ask.
Considering how hard everyone fought to separate me from Jackson, it’s remarkable the U-turn they all made as soon as they were certain of my immortality.
“He owns the hotel so it’s only natural he would attend a high-profile gala held at his own establishment. Plus, he’s a Manhattan mogul, just like your father; you really think they’re paths haven’t crossed once in the past six years?”
“When you put it like that,” I say a tad petulantly, a pang of jealousy at the thought my parents and Tristan got to see Jackson when I haven’t. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t need to. I credited you with enough intelligence to figure it out for yourself. You’re in a completely different place in life since the last time your paths crossed and your parents got involved. This time none of us are making the same mistakes and that starts with us realizing that you’re a grown woman who doesn’t need her parents worrying you with the possibility of running into an ex. You’re tough enough to handle it, Em. It’s not our place to run interference…unless that’s what you want?”
“No. You’re right. I can handle it,” although I feel anything but tough right now.
I just have to hope that Dad and Jackson don’t have any business together in the near future, especially if the latter is happy to pretend I don’t exist.
Ignoring my ragged emotions, I focus on the easy rhythm of dancing with Tristan instead. We move easily together and I’m impressed with his dancing skills; he leads me confidently and spins me around enough that I don’t get a chance to scan the crowd looking for Jackson.
“He’s seen us,” Tristan assures me. “His face was quite the picture; I don’t think he likes me very much.”
“Well you did point a gun at his face,” I point out.
“Ah, good times,” he says wistfully.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I stiffen in Tristan’s hold.
“What is it?” he asks, instantly on high alert; his bodyguard instinct kicking in as he scans the room and locates the offending sight. “Who is that?” He tilts his chin toward the redhead indecently entwined with Jackson as they take to the dance floor.
“Her name is Sonya. She was the woman Jackson was fucking the night I was drugged at Dartmouth. She was then moved into my dorm room to spy on me, which was why I called you for help. Sonya was also present that night at Inferno. She was a Donor; she would feed him in exchange for sex.”
“Was?”
“She’s been turned. The way she moves gives it away; she’s too graceful. She must’ve really pleased someone for them to agree to turn her,” and I’m willing to bet my heart thief is her maker.
“You think it was Jackson?” asks Tristan, reading my mind.
“The idea makes me sick to my stomach, but I suspect so. He once said she made herself very useful, so I guess she was finally rewarded. But he knows how much I hate her; I told him so the night of the inferno incident, just before Price walked in on us. He said he’d keep her away from me and made it sound like he really wasn’t bothered about having her around.”
“Six years is a long time, Em. People change. Maybe she’s less of a bitch now, or maybe her presence is to get under your skin – which isn’t too left field considering the look he gave you earlier. He hasn’t moved on as much as he’s leading you to think; he wouldn’t keep looking at you when your back is turned otherwise.”
“He’s been watching me?” I ask incredulously.
Jackson’s withering death-stare certainly gave the impression he’d rather look anywhere but at me.
“When he thinks no one will notice, but it’s my job to see without looking…and he is definitely looking.”
“Well, fuck him. I’m not feeling warm and fuzzy toward the man who issued me an ultimatum, refused to get over it when I didn’t choose the option he wanted, never called, took up with the woman I hate and then has the nerve to eyeball me and act like I don’t exist. He can look as much as he fucking wants, it’s not going to get him anywhere.”
“I’ve already been in your bad book; I don’t envy him.”
I look up and catch Jackson watching at me; our eyes meet, but this time it’s me with the cold, uncaring stare. I look away as if I don’t give a shit and I know his face well enough to spot his stone façade slip at my cold shoulder.
Tristan is right; I don’t know what Jackson feels for me, but whatever it is, he’s not over it.
I feel a strange mix of both smug and pissed off, and the only thing that’s going to make an
y of this bearable is a drink, so I stalk off towards the bar with Tristan close by my side.
Mercifully, we’re served quickly, but still slow enough for me to clock the overly pretentious seating chart showing my family sitting on the same table as Jackson and Sonya.
“What the hell?” I nearly choke on my martini, “why would he seat himself on our table?”
“He’s sitting with your dad, so my guess is he wants to discuss business.”
“And he couldn’t wait until Monday?”
“This way he gets to look at you all evening.”
“Something to look forward to,” I mutter dryly.
This is exactly why I’m not happy about being right; I knew I was going to see Jackson and I knew it was going to suck.
It can’t get any worse, right?
Chapter Eighteen
Before I’m able to think about my seating predicament any further, a large, tanned hand grabs me roughly by the elbow and drags me away from the bar and back out to the foyer before Tristan has a chance to stop him.
I allow myself to be pulled along, hating myself for loving the contact.
Jackson doesn’t look at me as he strides through a door held open by a member of the hotel security team and marches me into a small, dark surveillance room. The security guard closes the door leaving us alone together in the eerie glow of screens that take up one wall, streaming images of party-goers having a good time.
As soon as the door is firmly closed, Jackson lets go of me as if the touch of my skin physically makes him sick. I just stare at him; his beautiful proximity making it impossible for me to keep my ice-queen façade in place.
“Sorry for manhandling you, but I need to talk to you before we sit down and are trapped on the same table together,” he says, his voice empty and flat, devoid of any caring emotion.
He’s clipped attitude stings and causes my anger to boil.
“It’s your party, I’m sure you can tweak the seating arrangements to suit you better. It does make me wonder why you put yourself on my table in the first place if you plan on looking through me like I don’t exist.”