On My Knees, Page 4

More important, does he need me now?

  As it turns out, the question is moot, because Jackson is nowhere to be found, and by midnight I really don’t care what he wants or needs anymore. Now it’s all about me. Because I’m terrified that something horrible has happened to him, and all that matters is what I want and what I need.

  What I need is to find him.

  He’s not answering his phone. He’s not answering his texts.

  I drive all the way to Marina del Rey only to discover that he’s not on his boat.

  And when I call the Redbury, a boutique hotel that I know he’s stayed at before, I am assured that he is not registered there either.

  I end up at my Santa Monica condo, and though I know perfectly well that I haven’t yet given him a key, I say a little prayer that he’s inside. That he’s fallen asleep on the back patio, and that by the time morning rolls around, we’ll be laughing about my antics to find him when he was at my place all along.

  But he’s not here, either, and my options are dwindling even as my fears are rising. This is no longer about soothing his anger or hurt feelings. This is about being really and truly scared that Jackson is beat up and bloody somewhere. He has one hell of a temper, after all.

  Hadn’t he gone after Reed?

  Didn’t he have a scar on his forehead, a souvenir from when I had left him in Atlanta five long years ago?

  “I turned anger into fights,” he’d once told me. “And I channeled control into sex. ”

  We’d certainly covered the sex part already. But now I am terribly afraid that he’s moved on to the fighting portion of the program.

  I snatch up my phone and start to hit the speed dial for my best friend, Cass. But then I glance at the clock and see that it is after two in the morning. I hesitate, because she must be dead asleep by now. Then I say fuck it and dial. As far as I’m concerned, this is the kind of situation that is squarely covered by the best friend emergency pact.

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  The female who answers the phone is not Cass, and it takes a moment for my addled brain to regroup. “Zee, it’s Sylvia. I’m sorry I woke you, but it’s an emergency. Can you put Cass on?”

  She sighs deeply before saying, “Sure. Whatever. Hold on. ” At least, those are the words that filter across the cellular connection. But I hear what she’s really saying, and it sounds a hell of a lot more like, “You fucking bitch, it’s the middle of the night. ”

  Of course, I might be projecting. Cass and Zee—which is short for Zelda—have been dating for all of about five minutes, but already I’m seeing angst and insecurity all over my best friend. And I’m sorry, but Cass is on the upside of awesome, and if Zee doesn’t see that, then she is seriously warped.

  “What’s wrong?” Cass barks out the question without preamble, and with no hint of sleep in her voice. She’s good in a crisis, and always has been, and it’s times like this when I’m even more grateful that she’s on my team.

  “Jackson,” I say, then give her the quick and dirty rundown of what’s transpired. I don’t have to tell her that Jackson is Damien’s half-brother because Jackson already did that himself. He’d been desperate to find me, and he’d gone to Cass, then laid it all out for her, knowing that if anyone could help him find his way back to me, it was my best friend.

  “I know he goes to gyms to blow off steam,” I say. “The kind with rings and boxing clubs. But no gym is gonna be open at this hour. What if he’s gotten in with one of those underground fight club groups? You know, the bare knuckles thing where the guys beat the shit out of each other and other people bet on it. ”

  I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, of course. I’m stringing together tidbits from fiction, movies, television, and short pieces I’ve caught on the evening news. But the idea that secret fight clubs exist makes perfect sense to me. And if they do exist, then I have no doubt that a man as capable and determined as Jackson would know how to find one.

  “Okay, you need to seriously chill. Do you want me to come over?”

  “Yes. No. ” I take a deep breath. “No, of course not. But I’m really worried. ”

  “Yeah, I get that. I’m thinking. ” There’s a pause, and I clutch my phone so hard I’m at risk of breaking it. “Wait. Oh my god, we’re both idiots. ”

  Since I’m completely willing to believe that at this point I don’t bother debating. “Go on. ” Page 14

  “When you went running off into the hills that time in his Porsche, how did he find you?”

  “OnStar,” I say.

  “So use that. ”

  I replay her words in my head, sure I missed something. But nope, that’s all she said. So I ask the most basic question in the history of the universe: “How the hell am I supposed to do that? I’m not on the account. I don’t even know the license plate number. ”

  “Oh, please. You work for one of the original masters of the universe. Surely someone in Starkworld knows how to do that kind of shit. ”

  I am seriously doubtful. At the same time, I have no better idea and, if nothing else, this will give me something to do other than tossing and turning and pretending to sleep. “Okay. Great. I’m on it. ”

  “Yeah?”

  “Unless you’re holding back on me and have a better idea hidden in your sleeve. ”

  “Sorry,” she says. “No. ”

  “Then go back to sleep. And tell Zee I’m sorry. ”

  I hear a rustling as she adjusts the phone. “She’s already conked out. ” I hear her draw in a breath, and when she speaks again, her voice is soft, but firm and full of concern. “Listen, I know everything’s been pretty weird for you lately. If you need the ink, I’ll open the shop right now. ”

  I close my eyes, overcome with emotion. Of all the people in the world, Cass and Jackson are the only two who not only see me, but understand me.

  I shake my head, though I know she can’t see me. “I’m okay,” I say, even as my hand slips to my lower back where his initials are tattooed. “I honestly hadn’t thought of it. ”

  “Really?”

  I understand the surprise in her voice. My tattoos are a map of both pain and triumph. A record of the things in my life that have rocked me—and a reminder that I can and will survive.

  “I don’t need it,” I say firmly. “This is just a bump. A blip. We’ve gotten through so much more, I know we can get through this, too. ” Just saying the words aloud gives me confidence, and I’m glad that Cass brought up the tattoo. Because it gave me the chance to say no.

  “Damn straight,” she says. “But call if you get weird. And call me once you find him so I know everything’s okay. ”

  “Will do. I have an idea, actually. Your OnStar spiel totally got me thinking. ”

  “Yeah? Well, good on me. ”

  “I love you, you know. ”

  “Then why the hell aren’t you in my bed?”

  I laugh, then hang up, shaking my head with amusement. Despite waking Zee, I’m glad I called, because if nothing else I feel infinitesimally better.

  I pull up my contacts and dial the home number for Ryan Hunter, Stark International’s security chief. He’s just the guy for a little late-night private eye work.

  This time, the voice that answers is completely awake, and I can hear the stereo blaring in the background.

  The voice, however, doesn’t belong to Ryan.

  “Hello?” the voice says. “Hey! Yo! Turn that down, will you?”

  I grin as the background music fades to a sane level and Jamie Archer, Ryan’s girlfriend, comes back on the line. “Okay, I can hear now. What’s up?”

  “Hey, Jamie,” I say. “It’s Syl. ”

  “Yeah, I know. Caller ID. Welcome to the twenty-first century. ”

  “Listen, I need a favor. ”

  “No prob,” Jamie says. “What do you need?”

  “Actually, I need it from Ryan. Is he there?”r />
  “Sure. Hang on. ”

  I hear the clatter of the phone being passed, along with laughter in the background. I know that he’s taken Monday and Tuesday off to spend time with some college friends who came into town, and I feel a twinge of guilt for interrupting. Not enough guilt to make me hang up, though.

  “Sylvia?” Ryan’s voice is smooth with a hint of concern. “Is everything okay?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. ” The words tumble out of me, and I give him the rundown of everything that has happened. Not the brother thing, but the firing. The explosion. The fact that Jackson is gone.

  “I’m really worried. I thought maybe you could track his Porsche. It’s got OnStar. ”

  “Do you have his account information?”

  “No. ”

  “How about the VIN number for the Porsche? Or the license plate?”

  “No. ”

  “Then I don’t know how—actually, give me five minutes. Do you want to hang on, or shall I call you back?”

  “I’ll hang. ”

  Page 15

  “I’m putting the phone down,” he says, and I’m left alone in my apartment, the worry that twines through me contrasting with the hum of music, drinking, and general revelry filtering back to me through the phone line.

  Finally, he comes back on the line. “The license plate was easy—he has a card key for the garage, so we have his vehicle information. ”

  “That’s great. ”

  “Tracking the car’s another story. ” He sighs. “Look, Syl. I’ve got a friend in intelligence who owes me a favor, and I think he could manage it. But it would put his ass on the line. But if you really think Jackson’s in trouble, then I’ll do it. You just have to say the word. ”

  I open my mouth to tell him to yes, yes, please find Jackson.

  But the words don’t come. Because the truth is that it’s not Jackson I’m afraid is in trouble, it’s the two of us as a couple that I’m worried about.

  And until I find him—until he holds me in his arms again—then I’m the one who really isn’t okay.

  six

  By the time four a. m. rolls around, I am seriously considering calling Ryan back and telling him to yes, please call his friend in intelligence. Hire a hacker. Contact the fucking CIA. Just do something to find Jackson before I go completely out of my mind.

  I don’t, though.

  I do, however, send an email to Damien telling him that I’ve terminated Jackson. Since he’s not an employee but a contractor, I don’t have to deal with human resources, thank goodness. Then I shoot an email to Aiden, my immediate supervisor in the real estate division, telling him that I’ll be working from home today. Fortunately, I’ve already asked Rachel to cover Damien’s desk for the rest of the week. Not because I expected to stay up all night, but because I’d planned to spend a good part of the week with Jackson, working on the details of the resort.

  Now, of course, I still need the time, because the entire project is a mess and I need to get all my architectural ducks in order.

  My eyes are scratchy, and despite my worry, I cannot stop myself from yawning. I’ve been sitting at my kitchen table, a pad of paper in front of me so that, ostensibly, I can make notes about the resort. The pad is entirely covered with doodles.

  I get up, use my Keurig to make a cup of coffee, and then go to my sofa. I wedge myself into the corner, pull a blanket up to my shoulders, and hold the mug in both hands. It’s the warmth I want the most, because I feel cold. A bone-deep chill that I haven’t been able to shake since Jackson walked away, leaving me alone in his office.

  I know that I should sleep, but I can’t bring myself to move to the bedroom. Everything around me is spinning wildly out of control, and I know that if I sleep, my nightmares will come.

  But it’s more than that. Somehow¸ letting sleep take me feels like giving up. He has to call soon. He has to, because I need to know that we’re okay. I need to see his face and know that, despite the guilt that seems to cling to me like glue, he doesn’t blame me for firing him.

  That’s what this is about, of course. That’s why I have to find him. Have to see him. That’s why I can’t sleep. Why I am a wreck.

  Because I’m afraid.

  I’m so terribly, terribly afraid that despite the passion that twines us together and despite having already overcome so much, the foundation of our relationship has shifted, and nothing is ever going to be the same.

  “Just as well he stays away. He’s not the only one with secrets. ”

  I blink, confused, and push myself up on the couch. The garage-style door to my patio is rolled up, and Bob stands on the threshold looking at me, one hand pressed casually against his crotch, and his camera hanging from a strap around his neck. His silky black hair is pulled back with a leather band, and he’s smiling at me. “We’ve got a lot in common, you and I. We both want Jackson Steele. ”

  He reaches up and slides his hand over the top of his head, and my stomach tightens with revulsion as his hair slides off. It’s a wig, and he drops it negligently on the ground. “That’s not me anymore. I’m a long way from that man. I’m Robert Cabot Reed, and I have all the power now. But you don’t, do you, little Elle?”

  I want to yell at him. To tell him my name is Sylvia. And that he’s nobody. Just some slimy photographer from the Valley who’s playing at making movies. But the words won’t come.

  “You don’t have anything at all,” he continues in that singsong voice. “Not even Jackson. ”

  “No,” I say. “That’s not true. ”

  “Do you think he’ll still want you when he knows your secrets? My little Elle said she told him the truth, but you didn’t tell him all of it, did you? Still got your secrets, don’t you?” Page 16

  I pull the blanket up all the way to my chin. I am so cold, and I’m scared. I don’t want him to touch me. I don’t want him to look at me. And I don’t want to be here.

  “But you have to stay,” my father says. He is standing right in front of me, and he reaches down and takes the mug from me. It is full of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows. My favorite. I didn’t realize I was holding it. I haven’t even had one sip.

  He lifts it to his lips and drinks it all up, then sets the empty cup on my coffee table. “You know why you have to stay. And you’re a good girl, Elle. You’re my good girl. You need to stand up now. It’s time for Bob to take your picture. He has a lot of things to take. ”

  “No,” I say, but it doesn’t matter. Because I see another me across the room. I’m leaning against the door frame, my back arched to accentuate my breasts, small and firm beneath a thin cotton T-shirt.

  “Perfect,” Bob says. He picks up the camera and starts to click. “Just needs a little bit more. Gotta look like you’re enjoying it. Gotta look like you want it. ”

  “No,” I whisper, but I’m all the way on the couch and he doesn’t hear me. The other me—the one he’s touching, the one whose nipples he’s squeezing and stroking—she just stands still, her eyes closed tight as if she wants to cry.

  She doesn’t. She can’t.

  “That’s my girl,” my father says.

  “Your slut, you mean,” Bob says. “Your whore. ”

  “No. ” My father’s voice is sharp, and he picks the mug back up, then slams it down against the table. Bam! “No!” he repeats, then slams again. Bam!

  Then again and again and again until my head is full of nothing but the sound of the ceramic against the wood and I am certain that any minute the mug is going to shatter and I will—

  “Sylvia!”

  Jackson’s voice.

  I bolt upright, my heart pounding, unsure if I am still trapped in a dream.

  “Sylvia!” he repeats, and the word is underscored with pounding.

  My door! He is at my door.

  I toss the blanket off, then hurry to my front door. I tear through the locks, then yank
the door open.

  He stands there, his slacks wrinkled and his shirt untucked. The wound on his cheek that had been healing so nicely is open again, red and angry and swollen. And though it doesn’t look broken, his nose is caked with dried blood.

  “In,” I say, and hold out my hand.

  He takes it, and as soon as he is inside my condo, he pulls me into his arms, his head bent so that his face is pressed against my hair. I cling to him, so overcome with relief that I’m afraid I’ll fall if I let go of him, and I loosen my grip only when I hear him draw in a sharp breath of air.

  I release him, then step back, finally taking the time to truly inspect him. “You’re hurt. ”

  “Trust me,” he says. “I hurt a lot less now. ”

  I wince, but don’t say anything. I know what he means—how can I not? He’s pounded it away—the pain of dealing with Damien. The wounds inflicted by me.

  I force the thoughts from my head. He’s here now, and that is all that matters. “Let me see,” I say as my fingers reach for the buttons on his shirt. I undress him slowly, then carefully peel the white cotton away from his tanned body. His chest is lean and muscled, with broad shoulders and just enough chest hair to give a woman something to tease with her fingers. He is perfection, but right now, his skin is marred by bruises rising in various shades of purple and yellow.

  My stomach twists, but I don’t look away. Instead, I hold tight to his hand and pull him farther into the apartment. “Come on,” I say. “We’re going to fix you up. ”

  “Sylvia, wait. I shouldn’t have—”

  I press a finger gently to his lips. “No. Please. We can talk later. Right now I just—” I draw a breath. “Right now I just need to take care of you. ”

  Tears well in my eyes, because this is my fault. What he’s done to himself. And even though it won’t change anything, I need to try to fix it. Even if only a little. “Please,” I say as I pull our joined hands to my lips. “Let me do this. ”

  He nods, then follows me to the bedroom. I peel the covers back, then return to Jackson. I’ve left the shirt in the living room, but he’s still wearing his slacks and shoes. I bend down, then untie the laces on his shoes and hold his foot while he slips each off in turn. Then I rise up, my head tilted back slightly so that I can face him as my fingers work his button and fly.

  Gently, I tug his pants down, and then his briefs. His cock is semi-erect, and I press my hand lightly over him, cupping the tender skin in my palm. “Not now,” I say gently. Page 17

  “I know,” he replies. “But I should point out that might be the only part of me that didn’t get the shit kicked out of it last night. ”

  “I’m glad you know how to protect what’s important,” I deadpan, and am rewarded with a twitch of his lips. “Now sit. ”

  He does, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. I pull his slacks and briefs the rest of the way off, and then his socks. When he’s naked, I silently indicate that he should lay down.

  He doesn’t, though. He stays upright, looking right at me. “You didn’t tell me,” he says. “The press. Calling you about me. You should have told me. ”

  I lick my lips, then lift a shoulder in a small shrug. “Just a couple of calls when I went in to work yesterday morning. The resort is their angle, so of course they’d want a comment from the project manager, especially since Damien was away. ”