Say My Name (26 page)

I don’t say anything, but he is mirroring my thoughts.

“That’s why it hurt. That’s why you ran—and that’s why you pissed me off so goddamn much when you came back into my life. Not because you wanted me, but because you wanted what I do.”

“I never didn’t want you.” My words are a whisper, but I know that he can hear them.

“I know. I get it.”

“What I mean is that it’s more than that. I haven’t been with a guy. Not since Atlanta.”

“I know,” he says.

“You do? How?”

When he looks at me, I see infinite understanding in his eyes. “The ribbon tattoo. There are no new initials.”

“Oh.” I smile, just a little. “You’re right.”

“Can you tell me why?”

I lift a shoulder. “Before, I needed it. Something would go wrong in my life. In school or a job interview, and I’d feel so lost and out of control, and I’d have to—”

“You’d have a Louis moment,” he says.

I roll my eyes, but can’t deny it. “Yeah, well, that surprised me, too. Because I thought I’d battled it back. I mean, since Atlanta, whenever I felt that way, I’d—oh, fuck.” I cut myself off realizing that I was getting into territory I wasn’t sure I wanted to enter, exposing things I wasn’t sure I wanted to expose.

“Tell me.” His voice is gentle. “Tell me, Syl, and let’s see if we can’t get past these last five years.”

I rub my palms over my face, feeling weirdly embarrassed. “It’s just that when I felt that way—lost, I mean—after Atlanta, well, I’d—god, it sounds stupid. But I’d follow you.”

“Follow me?”

“Well, not in person. But your buildings. Your career. Everything,” I add, thinking of the bits and pieces of gossip about the women in his personal life that I’d seen over the last five years.

“Why?”

It’s a good question, and one I’m not entirely sure I have an answer to. As far as I’m concerned, a dozen shrinks would give a dozen explanations. “I don’t really know. Maybe guilt, like you said. But I think the real reason was that I needed a reminder that I’m strong. If I’d left you and survived, then how could I not survive whatever else life threw at me? And then when I realized that I needed you for the resort …”

I trail off with a shake of my head and suck in air. “It was like the gods were standing in a circle raising their middle fingers at me, you know? Because I’d survived so much, but the one thing I couldn’t survive was you.”

“And I went and made it worse for you. I’m sorry.”

“No. Maybe. A little.” I shrug. “The truth is, we made it worse for each other.” I reach over and take his hand. “And now we’re making it better.”

“We are. Yes.”

“Cass was with me at the premiere, by the way.” I speak lightly, hoping to wash off some of the gloom I’ve cast over our drive. “She says you’re hot.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be. You’re not exactly her type.”

“Dark hair? Blue eyes? An arrogant bastard?”

“A guy.”

“Oh?”

I roll my eyes at the question in his voice. “She’s just my best friend,” I say. “We’re not … involved.”

He sighs. “Well, I can still have my ménage fantasies.”

I laugh, but I can’t deny that his words have gotten all twisted up inside me.

He must recognize my shift in mood, because he turns in his seat to frown at me. “You know I was joking, right?”

“About a three-way with me and Cass? Yeah. Besides, she’d twist your balls off if you suggested something like that. She’s a little overprotective of me.”

“I know the feeling. What I don’t know is where your thoughts went all of a sudden.”

“Just you and fantasies about women. And, you know, you and women. Forget the fantasies.”

His finger taps a rhythm on the steering wheel. “I’m reasonably certain you couldn’t be more vague if you tried.”

“You’ve dated a lot of women.” There. I have spit it out. “Irena Kent, for example. You were even with her at the premiere. It’s all over the press that you’re dating her.” I’d confirmed that myself with a quick internet search after Jamie told me what she knew.

“Dating her? No. But I was sleeping with her. I’m not anymore.”

“I see.”

“Actually, I don’t think you do. I’ve fucked a lot of women, Sylvia. Before and after Atlanta.”

“And now you’re sleeping with me.” I hear both hurt and jealousy in my voice. And it pisses me off.

“No.” His voice is hard. Firm. “None of them are like you.”

“Why not?”

He takes my hand and lifts it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “Because you matter to me. And I didn’t have anything to prove to them.”

The words warm me, even though I don’t entirely understand them.

“What do you have to prove to me?”

His grin is wide. “I guess you’ll know once I prove it.”

I shake my head, amused. “How much longer until we get to what you want to show me?”

“Not much farther.”

“And no clues?”

“Not even one,” he says.

“Fine. In that case I’ll continue to harass you about old girlfriends.”

“Oh, joy.”

I smirk. “Actually, it’s more about the movie, but talking about Irena Kent reminded me. My friend Jamie says she’s hoping to get a starring role, and that’s why she cozied up to you.”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” Jackson’s voice is tight. “But considering I don’t want to see the movie made at all, her plan is doomed to failure.”

“Is it true you punched out the screenwriter?”

I see his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Please tell me you didn’t read that in the gossip rags.”

“No, I heard it from Jamie. She heard it from a friend. Said it was very hush-hush.”

“Good. I paid a lot of money to keep it hush-hush.”

“So you really did punch the guy.” I’m oddly fascinated by this. “I thought you were all about boxing clubs and not smacking down innocent people.”

“Trust me,” he says darkly. “That asshole was not innocent.”

I decide not to press that point, but I can’t stop thinking about the movie in general.

“What?” he says after we’ve driven about five miles in absolute silence.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but your thoughts are deafening.”

“I just don’t get it,” I admit. “That house is spectacular, and it’s what put your career on the map. I know there was a tragedy there, but that was long after the house was completed and you were in Vegas working on the Union Bank building. So why does the thought of a movie bother you so much?”

“Because it’s private.” I hear the sharp edge to his voice and wince a bit. He notices, and I watch as his shoulders sag. “Sorry. But the whole project is surrounded by tragedy, and the damn producer who’s interested in the film is sticking his nose in where it doesn’t need to be. It’s personal. It’s private. And there are real people with real lives who are going to get hurt if the damn thing gets made.”

I still don’t understand, but I’m not going to push. It’s clear enough to me that Jackson hasn’t told me the entire story. But considering I’m hanging on tight to secrets of my own, I can hardly bitch too loudly.

I reach over and brush my hand over his shoulder. “I may not understand why, but I get that it’s important to you. And I hope you get the movie shut down, too.”

His smile is one of thanks and acknowledgment. “Speaking of movies, Michael is hosting a fund-raiser at his house Friday night. For the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project. It’s a good cause, and he’s a good guy. Will you go with me?”

“Of course.” I wriggle a little in my seat. Considering everything we’ve now been through together, it’s probably silly. But the thought of going on a proper date with Jackson makes me undeniably happy.

It’s only then that I notice that he’s slowed to make a right turn. I glance around, then look to him in question. “The Palisades?”

“You’ll see.”

He turns, and I pay attention as he climbs the canyon road, then turns and doubles back toward the ocean until the road makes a sharp right and we follow it, essentially traveling parallel to the coast highway, but well above it in the hills.

I actually know this neighborhood, as I’ve spent a lot of time driving in these hills searching the facades of these beautiful homes for that unknown something that keeps eluding me.

The houses here are spaced far apart, with each lot taking up anywhere from one to three acres, most of that land allocated to the backyard. The place has a friendly, neighborhood vibe, but doesn’t feel like suburbia. The houses are private and expensive, and that gives the area a quiet, exclusive feel. And because each lot on the west side of the road overlooks the coast highway, each home has a view of the ocean that is positively to die for.

“Let me guess,” I say. “We’re going trick-or-treating early.”

“We’re not,” he says. “But feel free to put on a costume anytime you want.”

I raise my eyebrow. “I just might do that. But not if you don’t tell me what you’re up to.”

“Just a little farther.” As he speaks, the road curves sharply. He makes a left turn into a vacant lot, then stops the car.

I glance around, confused, and am about to ask Jackson, but he’s already getting out of the car. I do as well, then follow him deeper into the property, delighted to see that although it has no structure on it, some early developer terraced the hill so that there are stairs leading down to what will essentially be a private backyard to whatever house is ultimately built on the lot above.

“This is amazing,” I say, turning around and realizing that I have no line of sight to any of the houses on the street above. As for the coast highway, it is mostly camouflaged by the trees and brush that slope away from the area on which I now stand, which means that the dominant view is of sand and ocean. “I can’t believe this lot hasn’t been snatched up.”

“It was,” he says. “I bought it five years ago. Just a few months after you left Atlanta.”

“You—” I turn, something in his voice halting my words. “But you were living in Georgia.”

“I was staying in Georgia. I’ve always lived in California. And I left not long after you did. Things went downhill with Brighton pretty quickly.”

I know from official biographies that he’d grown up just outside of San Diego. I didn’t know that he’d ever lived in or considered living in Los Angeles. And now to find out that he’d come here—that he’d bought property even. Honestly, I’m not sure what to think about that, and I tell him as much.

“It’s not a trick question and there is no hidden meaning. But I wanted to show you this place because I think it’s special. And I thought of it last night when you told me about wanting the ocean and the stars.”

I look around at the bright blue sky and the blazing sun.

“Not today.”

“No,” he says with a laugh. “Not today.” He holds out his hand for me and I take it. “Will you tell me something?”

“Sure,” I say, but my voice is a little too light, because I’m nervous about where this might be leading. “At least, I will if I can.”

“Last night, when the nightmare came and you ran out on me, why did you go into the hills? Why not just race down Santa Monica or Sunset? Build up some speed? Or cruise down PCH? Or get on the highway and open her up? That time of night you could have gone all the way to the desert without hitting traffic. So why go up?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Usually when I’m upset or need to think I go to the Getty Center. I probably spent half my time in high school there.”

“But not last night.”

“No.” I frown, because the question hadn’t occurred to me. It had just seemed natural to go into the hills. To drive fast. “I was scared. I was running. I wasn’t thinking.”

“And yet you ran to Mulholland. Curves and hills and no guardrails. Sounds pretty scary, too.”

“Your inner psychologist is showing,” I say.

He laughs. “Perhaps. And perhaps I’m right. Maybe you were conquering fear with fear.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I hug myself, not really in the mood to be picked apart. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I think you were being smart.” He cocks his head, his blue eyes just a little devious. “Because we’re going to push you, Syl. Fight fear with fear. Take control by giving control.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then let me show you.” He steps back, then looks me up and down. “Take off your clothes.”

I see the heat in his eyes and hear the command in his voice and realize that he’s not kidding. Prickles of excitement skitter over me, but I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“No? That’s not the way this works, Sylvia. I tell you to get naked, and you do. I tell you to suck my cock, and you get on your knees.”

His voice is firm, commanding, and I take a step backward, shaking my head in both denial of his words and in defense against the way my body heats in response. “What kind of game are you playing, Jackson?”

“The only kind I ever play. Mine.” He crooks his finger. “Come here, baby. I want to show you something.”

I hesitate, and he laughs.

“Come on,” he urges. “I promise I don’t bite hard.”

I hear the echo from our past—the words he’d teased me with in Atlanta—and I move toward him.

“Good girl,” he says, meeting me, then pulling me into his arms so that my back is pressed to his chest and one of his arms holds me tight around the waist as we look out over the ocean.

“Beautiful,” he says, even as his free hand slowly tugs my skirt up.

“What are you doing?”

“Wait.” He kisses my ear, sending shock waves of pleasure through me at the same time his fingers find my panties. He slides his hand down, cupping my sex, then growling low and deep when he finds me hot and wet and ready.

He slides his fingers deep inside me, and I moan with pleasure even as my knees go weak.

He bends his head to whisper in my ear. “And that, beautiful, proves my point.”

“I—what?”

I turn in his arms. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“You like feeling used, Sylvia,” he says, and I immediately shake my head.

“The hell I do. I—”

The press of his finger to my lips silences me.

“I told you to strip. Told you that it was my prerogative to order you to suck me off. And baby, that didn’t just make you wet, you’re so aroused I bet it’s painful.”