by Chloe Cox
Ellie eyed her thoughtfully. “That isn’t like you.”
“I know.”
The strange sense of apathy that Ava had started to associate with her job while up at the Volare estate had only intensified, if that was something apathy could do. It had definitely grown. Expanded. The past day, with Jackson and thinking about painting and all the rest, had put the whole thing into even sharper focus, making her advertising executive ambitions seem even more alien and insane. She realized she wouldn’t care at all if she never worked in advertising again. It was like figuring out you’d been wearing the wrong size shoes for years, and that’s why nothing had ever felt right. She waited for the requisite terror that was supposed to follow the thought that one was on the verge of becoming unemployed, especially given the economy, and had no explanation when it didn’t arrive. She decided to send Alain an email claiming her remaining vacation days, but other than that, she had no idea what she was going to do.
But God, did she prefer thinking about that to thinking about Jackson.
Ava did lots of things to avoid thinking about Jackson. The first thing she did was give custody of her phone to her sister.
“I am not to be trusted,” she explained. The shock of the breaking in incident had worn off, and though Ava was still completely messed up about him, that didn’t stop her from wanting him. Even thinking about Jackson sent her into a mildly crazed state, confused between desire, love, hurt, and possibly some other things, too. She did not want to be getting phone calls, or worse, have to wonder why she wasn’t getting phone calls.
So Ava spent a quiet week with Ellie and Colette, eagerly getting to know this side of her sister’s life. She was both delighted and a little incredulous to find that they seemed to have a totally functional, happy, and loving relationship, and realized that she still didn’t quite believe such things existed, at least not for anyone in her family. And yet, here was the proof. Every night over dinner, there it was. Her sister and even her mother had apparently managed it. Ava had never been so happy for Ellie, but it made her feel her own failings more acutely.
During the days, though, Ellie went to her job as an assistant art director at an off-Broadway theater, Colette went to go do whatever it was that lawyers did, and Ava painted. She hadn’t had a plan when she’d started, she’d just kind of…started.
And it turned out that her first painting was of her mother.
“Huh,” Ava said.
It had been painted from memory, and it was full of soft light. It was a far more gentle, caring sort of picture than Ava had thought herself capable of producing where Patricia Barnett was concerned.
She painted portraits of Ellie, of Colette. She tried to paint a portrait of herself, but stopped when she started to cry. She wasn’t there yet.
She didn’t try to paint Jackson. She couldn’t handle that yet, either. She already knew what it would show: she was in love with him, she hated him, and she was afraid, if not of him, then of what he made her feel. Not that it mattered. Someone with Ava’s past couldn’t possibly make it work with someone who had such a tendency to push past every boundary he saw, with someone who withheld so much while demanding even more.
He wasn’t abusive—he didn’t take it that far, and seemed aware of where that line was—but…but Ava didn’t think she could handle it, not yet. Jackson had talked about how much he’d changed over the years, and Ava—Ava hadn’t, because she hadn’t. She obviously had some issues to work out before she was ready for anyone, let alone Jackson. Well, she assumed. It wasn’t like he’d confided in her, either. She had to think it couldn’t work as long Jackson Reed remained a black box of mystery.
She’d been thinking about that man for ten years, and had next to nothing to show for it. There was something profoundly unfair about being indelibly tied to someone you couldn’t have because you were never quite ready for each other.
Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe she just wasn’t right for him. After all, if he felt he could truly be himself with her, the way he’d asked her to be with him, wouldn’t he have actually just done it? Wouldn’t he have confided in her, too? Shown that he trusted her?
Or maybe he was just an irreparably screwed up jerk.
Ava would torture herself with such thoughts, then remember that she was trying to give herself a break, and move on to something else. But the thoughts always returned. She always circled back around to Jackson, as though anchored to him.
It sucked.
So Ava was actually relieved when Ellie announced that they were going to a New Year’s Eve party, and Ava was coming whether she wanted to or not.
“I’m gonna doll you up,” Ellie said. “It’ll be fantastic.”
“Where is it?” Ava hadn’t been out out in a while.
“Some artsy fartsy fashionable thing in SoHo,” Ellie said vaguely. “One of Colette’s clients got us in. Now, let’s talk about what you’re going to wear.”
Aware of Ava’s highly tuned social sensitivity, Colette waited until Ava was off in the other room trying on clothes before shooting Ellie an inquisitive, confused look.
“So where did my client get us in?” she asked.
“Shush,” Ellie said. “It’s a surprise.”
“I’ll bet.”
chapter 23
Jackson wasn’t used to nervousness. Even before big meetings with prospective investors, even at the very beginning of ArTech, when he was a nobody trying to convince millionaires to give him money, he’d never been a ball of nerves. He’d been sure of himself and his ideas, and had known that would be enough.
Now, in the middle of this giant party he was throwing for his now-successful company, he wasn’t sure of anything. Except that if he put his hand out, it might actually shake. The whole jittery, mind-racing, sweaty feeling was new to him.
It sucked.
He should be able to enjoy the spectacle. Arlene had really outdone herself in every possible sense, and so had whoever was responsible for…well, whatever the hell was going on around him. There were performance art pieces going on periodically, there would be some band from Brooklyn in a little bit, there were models covered in silver paint for some unknown reason walking around with trays of champagne flutes. Everywhere people were drinking and composing art poems and messages and all kinds of things on the touchscreen stations they had set up around the transformed loft office space. All the computers and desks had been banished to a supply room and art and lights decorated the suddenly vast space.
He really should be enjoying this. Feeling nervous was terrible. Was this what it was like for other people all the time? All the ways in which dominance permeated his personality did nothing to help him here. At some point in a healthy D/s relationship, the point where the submissive’s consent was even more explicitly necessary, dominance and submission inverted themselves: the submissive held the power, the dominant asked for it, and the two were forever twinned in a symmetry he found beautiful.
He was at that point, though being there made it seem less beautiful and noble, or whatever he’d imagined, and more wretched and torturous. Ava held him in the palm of her hand more so now than she ever had before.
So where the hell is she?
Ellie had promised to bring her. Ava’s little sister had seemed genuinely excited about this, which made Jackson feel a little better. At least one other person thought this was a good idea.
“Jackson!”
He turned, not expecting anyone to bother him in the corner he’d picked as an observation point. He was really only interested in one person’s arrival, and this wasn’t her. It was Lillian.
“Great job, Lillian,” he said, referring to the party, the launch—all of it. She swayed as she waved off the compliment. Was she drunk? Jackson wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Lillian James drunk.
“What, this old thing?” she said. “What are you doing over here, Jackson? Are you…are you hiding?”
“No.”
“You look like you’
re hiding.”
“How many of those glasses of champagne have you had?” he laughed.
“Three. Maybe four. But I didn’t have time to eat dinner. Listen,” she said, dropping her lashes and smiling. “We should be celebrating.”
“We are celebrating.”
“No, I mean celebrating,” she said, and then she was on him before he could jump back. Lillian didn’t waste any time at all; she went in for a kiss and grabbed at his crotch all at once. And as she did it, Jackson looked over her shoulder and saw Ava Barnett.
~ ~ ~
Ava’s suspicions had been slowly, steadily awakening throughout the seemingly endless journey from Park Slope to SoHo. Ellie seemed to get vaguer and vaguer about the details of where they were going, and Colette stared unhelpfully out the window of their cab.
They were up to something.
Ava’s apprehensions were temporarily soothed by the unbelievable crush of people crowding around their destination. They all looked young and beautiful and hip, most of them drunk and smoking, all of them flirting with someone, even if it was just themselves, and it really did seem like exactly what Ellie had first described to her: some artsy fartsy fashionable thing. Which was perfect. Ava’s ban on thinking about serious things was still very much in effect, and none of the people who crowded into the elevator with them and smushed Ava against the back wall looked like they would require her to think in order to make conversation. She hadn’t even had the courage to ask Ellie if Jackson had called, though she was finally at the point where she could admit that she really, really, really wanted him to have called. She just didn’t know what she wanted to say to him.
It’s New Year’s Eve, Ava. Do not go down that rabbit hole. Try to have fun.
And as soon as the elevator doors opened directly on the party, as they always did in those old loft buildings, Ava was in heaven. It was like an interactive, drunken, beautiful art show all around her.
“Dude,” she said to Ellie. Ellie just smiled and grabbed her hand.
“Come on,” she said.
They got about five feet before a man stepped directly in Ava’s path.
Alain? Are you kidding me? Of course he’d be at a party like this.
“Ava!” he said, and extended his arms. The man was wearing a cravat and still somehow managed to leer at her. “You have been very bad, not answering my calls! Listen, we must talk about serious things—”
“Oh God, Alain, I quit.”
Ellie slowly turned her head to stare at her sister. Alain simply stood still and blinked. Ava did a quick inventory and found no feeling of panic or impulse, just…relief. Profound, profound relief.
“No, really,” she said. “I don’t care if this is stupid. I’m not right for this job, and I’m not going to sleep with you. I quit.”
“Ava?” Ellie said.
“Nope, it’s really ok. I know, I know—no big decisions after—” Ava had almost said ‘after a break up,’ but couldn’t quite do it. She pushed ahead. “But seriously, just—I quit. Have a nice year, Alain, I hope to never see you again. Come on, Ellie.”
She dragged Ellie over to a gorgeous, silvery statue that held a tray of champagne flutes, grabbed one, and slugged it down.
“Holy crap, Ava, that was awesome.”
“I know, right? I hope I don’t feel nauseous in like five minutes,” Ava said. She had a definite adrenaline rush going, a kind of buzz, and she was pretty sure it came from feeling like she’d made an actual good decision. It might not necessarily have been the responsible choice, but it had been the right one. It thrilled her like almost nothing else.
That thrill lasted about thirty seconds, and then Ava saw a giant sign announcing “ArtLingua.”
Jackson’s company.
This was Jackson’s party.
“Ellie,” she said very low. Ellie probably didn’t even hear her, but she didn’t need to; she saw Ava’s face.
“Please don’t be mad,” Ellie begged. “You have to give him a chance to at least explain. I’m pretty sure you’re avoiding him for the wrong reasons, but at the very least, closer right? Please? Go on, hear him out, and then if you wanna leave, we leave, and I promise to never, ever, ever try to look out for you ever again.”
Ava looked sharply at her very sincere sister, but couldn’t sustain it. Ellie had always had Ava wrapped around her finger. Ava sighed. “When did you get so good at this life coaching thing? Or guilt trips—whichever one this is.”
“I don’t know, but it’s pretty great. I mean, it only works on other people, obviously. I think it’s Colette’s influence. She is wise.” Ava saw Ellie’s face light up as she spied her girlfriend trying to interact with some sort of mime on the other side of the room. “Except now she’s had a glass of champagne, so if I don’t get over there soon, she’s gonna start trying to buy stuff, and we do not have room. Not with all the stuff of yours that we’re gonna put on the walls,” Ellie said, and skipped away before Ava could correct her on that particular point.
“Go find him,” Ellie shouted over the din as she walked away. “Promise!”
Not like Ellie waited for a response. Little sisters: the best kind of pain in the ass.
But Ava could only shake her metaphorical fist at Ellie for so long before the reality of her surroundings intruded. She really was at Jackson Reed’s New Year’s Eve launch party. Her little sister did have a point about Ava being scared. And being scared was maybe the worst reason to avoid taking chances. Being scared felt distressingly familiar to Ava, and the urge to hide somewhere was uncomfortably compelling, even while the party raged around her. She could run. She could slip into her old disguise, become an unassailable, guarded charmer, pretend that she was really here to enjoy the party. Or she could suit up, find Jackson, and take a chance.
I already quit my job and insulted my boss. I’m on a roll—why not?
So she went in search of Jackson.
And she found him, hidden away in a corner, with that Lillian woman draped all over him.
“No,” Jackson said as he locked eyes with Ava. He looked skyward and said, “Just…why?”
With great care, he peeled Lillian off of him. Ava could see now that the usually glacial Lillian was, in fact, pretty drunk. Despite the circumstances, it humanized her. Ava wasn’t even pissed, though that might have had something to do with Jackson’s expression.
“Lillian, I don’t want to embarrass you, but this not our relationship, and you know that. You’re just kinda drunk. We’ll laugh about it tomorrow, I promise, but right now…” He looked at Ava. Belatedly, so did Lillian. “I have something important to attend to,” Jackson finished.
Ava waved.
“Oh, come on,” Lillian finally said, rolling her eyes and stumbling a little, as though her body tried to follow the gesture. “Can’t take a joke anymore. No fun at all.”
And she staggered off, the combination of drunkenness and her usual regal bearing cutting a path in the crowd before her.
“Ava, I swear—” Jackson said vehemently.
“I believe you,” Ava said. “Trust me, there was some unsexy body language going on there.”
They smiled at each other and then fell into an awkward silence, which was made no better by the sounds of the party all around them. Ava couldn’t stop looking at him, wondering if she’d ever see him again after this moment, wondering if he’d kiss her, wondering if she was making a huge mistake. She was seized by a powerful need for him right then, her body suddenly remembering everything it had experienced at his hand, and she stumbled a little with the effort of restraining herself. Their eyes locked again, and she knew, the way she so often knew with Jackson, that he was feeling the same thing.
“Oh God,” she mumbled. She felt lost already.
He reached for her hand, but she pulled back. She said, “I don’t think I can handle it if you touch me, Jackson. I won’t… I need to think clearly. Why am I here?”
The sadness in his eyes when she pulled
her hand away was almost unbearable, but he nodded. She felt that he understood. He fumbled for a second, saying, “I wrote this down, I swear…” But after a few seconds, he gave up in frustration. He swore. “Look, Ava, I suck at this stuff, but I’m gonna try, ok? I’m gonna try to explain, but it would be easier if I could just show you. I need you to come with me. Will you follow me? No funny stuff, I promise.”
Ava was regretting not taking his hand, not being able to touch him, not being alone with him. What did it matter? She already wasn’t thinking clearly. When he’d said no funny stuff, her heart sank. She was a mess. Hearing what he had to say might be her only way back to sanity. If it were something awful, something inadequate, she’d know right then and there that this was just a physical addiction she needed to get over. She could handle that.
She nodded. “Ok.”
Jackson led her through the throng of drunk hipsters, muscling people aside when necessary. The crowd had gotten thicker and rowdier, even in the last fifteen minutes. It was already hot, and people were beginning to sweat. By the time midnight came around, the place would be insane.
Jackson reached a roped off wrought-iron staircase, leading to the off-limits lofted area above, which was guarded by a huge, silent man with a t-shirt that read “Security.” Jackson looked back just as some bright young thing careened into Ava, hard. He reached out and caught Ava just as she began to fall and pulled her close, nearly lifting her off the ground with his arm hooked around her waist. He held her pressed against him, and neither of them moved.
Ava’s heart thudded in her chest. Every nerve in her entire treacherous body screamed for Jackson. That arm around her waist set fire to her core, her blood thumping in her clit like it had its own pulse.
“Oh shit,” she said aloud.
“I’m sorry,” he said. But they both knew he didn’t entirely mean it, and he didn’t let her go.