Say My Name (14 page)

He ignores me, but aims his finger at Louis. “You. Get the fuck out of here.”

Louis’s eyes dart sideways—not to me so much as to the car. Then he sort of crab-walks backward before stumbling to his feet and holding his hands up in supplication. “Hey, man, she—”

“Go,” Jackson says.

Louis obeys, racing across to the far side of the parking lot.

As soon as he disappears into the shadows, Jackson grabs my arms. He yanks me toward him, so close we are breathing each other’s air. He is vibrating with fury, and for a moment I can’t tell if he wants to kiss me or hit me.

He does neither.

I see the struggle play out on his face, and then he slams me backward against Louis’s car. “What the fuck are you doing?” he demands. “You want danger? Try me, Sylvia, because you have no idea how dangerous I can be.” He tightens his grip on my arms. “Or maybe you want anonymous? Me again—because if you think you know me, princess, I promise you don’t.”

“Jackson—”

“No.”
He releases one hand long enough to run his fingers through his hair, then pushes roughly back from me, breaking our connection completely. I press my hands against the side of the car, forcing myself to stay put, to stay still. Because goddamn me all to hell, in that moment I truly don’t know if I want to slap the shit out of him or wrap myself in his arms.

“You really think you can come back after all this time and bat your lashes and have me fall backward over myself to help you out?”

“It’s not like that. I—”

“And for
him
—for Damien Fucking Stark? We’re done, princess,” he says, lifting a finger toward my face. “You told
me
to leave, sweetheart. And five years later you fall back into my life. And pretty goddamn dramatically, too.”

I lick my lips. “It’s just business.”

“The hell it is.” I hear the sharp edge of emotion in his voice, as dangerous as a well-honed blade. The fight is obvious on his face, as well, and I press back against the car, wishing I could disappear through the metal. He’s fire and fury, and I have no idea what he is going to do. All I know is that all that passion is directed toward me, and that no matter what happens, I won’t leave this parking lot unscathed.

I see it in his eyes first—a quick flash of wildness before his hand lashes out and his palm slams hard against the Lexus. Then he pulls me close, and I don’t even have time to think before his mouth closes over mine.

The kiss is violent. Wild and desperate. And when I gasp, he takes advantage, thrusting his tongue into my mouth as one hand holds my head and the other slides up my chest to cup my breast. He deepens the kiss, claiming me with such intensity that I know I would not be standing were it not for his hands upon me.

The thin material of my dress does little to hide the heat of his hand, and even less to hide my arousal. My breast is heavy and with every stroke of his thumb against my painfully erect nipple, I want to beg him to just pull the damn dress down and let me feel skin on skin.

He pinches my nipple even as he bites down on my lower lip, swallowing my cry of pain and longing. Then his hand slides lower and lower. He cups my sex, and I cannot help the whimper that escapes me. Jackson hears it, too, and breaks the kiss long enough to meet my eyes, his hot and hard.

Then his mouth finds mine again, and goddamn me, I don’t even protest for show. I take him, welcome him. I revel in the taste of him even as his hand urges my skirt up. Even as he finds my sex, hot and wet and throbbing with need.

There is no romance. There’s no tenderness. He roughly shoves my lace panties to the side, exposing my flesh to his fingers. He thrusts his fingers inside me, and I moan as my body clenches tight around him, wanting him deeper, wanting more. Wanting to get lost in this moment and cling hard to everything I am feeling, but know that I cannot have.

His fingers are slick when he teases my clit, playing and stroking, teasing me to the edge and back. My body is alive with electricity, sparks dancing over me, my lips tingling, my nipples hard and tight and so painfully aroused. I want his touch, I want him inside me.

I simply want.

“Now,” he growls, making me forget both fear and reality. “Dammit, Sylvia, you come for me now.”

I do. And when I shatter in his arms—when I spin out and explode into the light-splattered night—I can only wish that I could stay like this, lost in pleasure with this man. But I know better than to believe in wishes, and when reason returns to me, I lean back, once again relying on the car and not Jackson to keep me steady.

His eyes stay on me for an instant longer, but I cannot read his expression. Then he takes a single step back. “Goddamn you, Sylvia,” he whispers, holding his hands up as if in shock. “Goddamn you all to hell.”

I tremble, lost and light-headed and confused. “I—I thought you said we were done.”

“We may be done, but we’re not over. We’re a hell of a long way from over.” His tone is still harsh, but beneath it, I hear something more. Regret? Resignation?

I don’t know, but whatever it is rips through my heart, leaving it ragged.

He drags his fingers through his hair, then exhales. He looks me up and down. He says nothing about what just happened. Nothing about our past. Nothing about the present. His expression is harsh and hard and unreadable.

But his eyes …

His eyes don’t lie, and the tenderness I see there comes close to destroying me. Because tenderness from Jackson is something I can’t handle.

“Come on,” he says, then surprises me by taking my arm.

“Where are we going?”

“Unless you want to make poor Louis walk home, we should probably get away from his car. I imagine he’s hiding around here somewhere.”

“Right. Of course.” I take a deep breath and force my thoughts back in the right direction. This isn’t about me. This isn’t about Jackson. And it’s not about us, because there is no us.

It’s about the resort, and I’d do well to remember that. “There’s gotta be a coffee shop open back on the boulevard,” I say. “Let’s have some coffee and dessert and we can talk about the project.”

“I already gave you my terms, princess.”

I don’t bother to answer. I tell myself he can’t be serious. He’s too accomplished a businessman and this is too plum a project. And once his temper cools down we can move on to serious discussion.

From his expression, however, I think that the resort is the farthest thing from his mind. Still, he starts heading toward Hollywood Boulevard, and I consider that a victory.

But we don’t make it that far. Instead, he shifts right past the nightclub and leads me to the door of the Redbury Hotel, a luxury boutique hotel that Cass has raved about a few times.

“No way,” I say, but I remember the way his fingers felt inside me just moments ago, and I have to forcibly plant my feet outside the main entrance. “No fucking way.”

He turns around and I expect to see either frustration or irritation on his face. Instead, I watch him melt a little. “No,” he says simply, almost gently.

Then he leans in and kisses me, this time so softly and gently that I think I will melt. “I’m not the man you think I am.”

“You are,” I say.
And that is the heart of the problem.

He hesitates only a moment, and then continues through the doors. I consider protesting more, but I’m both confused and exhausted. I have no more fight left in me. And so I will stay beside him and see where this is going.

“Jackson Steele,” he says to the clerk. “Is Jennifer working tonight?”

“Of course, Mr. Steele. One moment.” A short while later, a stunning woman in a pencil skirt joins us in the lobby. She has a name tag pinned to her jacket lapel—Jennifer Trane, Night Manager.

“Jackson,” she says, shaking his hand in a manner that I’m certain would have been a very deep kiss were she not on the clock. “I didn’t realize you were checked in.”

“I’m not. I finally bit the bullet and got my own place. But my friend needs a place for the night. Could you see about getting her a room? Sylvia Brooks,” he says. “But I’ll take care of the charges.”

“The hell you will,” I say.

“We’ll get her settled,” Jennifer Trane the night manager says, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. If there is any jealousy lurking there, it is well hidden. Even so, I can’t help but wonder how they know each other. And as I wonder, I want to swiftly kick myself in the ass. Because I really don’t need to be going there.

“All set,” the night clerk says, then passes Jennifer a small envelope with my card key. “Right this way, Ms. Brooks,” Jennifer says, and I start to walk after her. For one moment, I consider simply bolting and getting a taxi. But my Santa Monica condo suddenly seems very far away, and the thought of a soft bed nearby is incredibly enticing.

I turn back, expecting to see Jackson behind me. Instead, he is still standing in the lobby. “Goodbye, Sylvia,” he says. And for the second time that night, Jackson Steele walks away.

Sylvia …

Sylvia …

Sylvia!

I sit bolt upright, breathing hard. I’m in a strange, dark room, and something is buzzing repeatedly, sounding to my tormented mind like my name being called over and over and over again.

But it’s not my name. It’s my phone. And as I scramble to find it, reality returns.

I’m in a hotel room. I’m by myself.

And Jackson is standing firm on his ultimatum about the resort.

Well, hell.

As for the rest of it—the memories, the zoning out, the way he touched me—I really don’t want to go there.

But even though I tell myself that, I can’t help the jolt of disappointment when I finally squint at my now-silent phone and see that the call wasn’t from Jackson.

Damn.

I sit up, stretching as I play the voice mail from Cass.

“Hey, girl, I tried to find you last night, and then someone said they saw you leaving with Jackson right behind you. So I hope that Jackson said yes to the resort and you’re home sleeping the sleep of victory. Or he said no, and you’re home sleeping the sleep of defeat. Either way, I hope you didn’t do something stupid. Zee and I are about to crash for a few hours, but if you get this right away, then call me. It’s, um, not quite eight. And if I don’t hear from you by ten, I’m going to be supremely pissed. No excuses, Syl. Call me.”

The phone goes dead.

Well
, I think.
All right then.

I hesitate, because I’m not entirely sure I want to talk. But this is Cass and she loves me and even though she didn’t outright say it, I also know that she’s worried. So I bite the bullet and call.

“You bitch,” she says without preamble. “You didn’t even text me. Where were you? Were you with Jackson?”

“I’m sorry. I just didn’t think. And no. I mean, yes. I mean, later. I was with Jackson later.”

“So you’re home now?”

I glance around the hotel and frown. “I’m at the Redbury.”

The pause is so long that I pull my phone away from my ear so that I can make sure we haven’t been disconnected.

“Did you fuck him?”

“No!” My tone is full of righteous indignation, which, considering Jackson had his fingers in my panties, is a little bit disingenuous. “I wasn’t even with him most of the time. I—oh, shit, Cass. I went to Avalon.”

“Fuck me sideways, Syl. Seriously?”

Now the worry is plain in her voice, and it’s clear that she understood my meaning—I didn’t go there just to dance.

I rush to reassure her. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Am I giving you another tattoo?” Her words are controlled and evenly spaced. Not anger, I think. But fear.

“No,” I say, grateful that Jackson showed up when he did. “Almost,” I admit. “But no.”

“I’m on my way,” she says.

“No, Cass, really. I’m fine. I’m going to get cleaned up and get to the office. See if I can find another architect who will make the investors happy.” I say it lightly, even though I know there’s no way in hell.

“You’re sure? You don’t have a car, and I’m not that far away.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “And you don’t want to leave Zee, and she doesn’t want to spend the morning with me. Seriously, it’s all good.”

“Okay. Listen, Zee lives in Silver Lake, and my cell signal is for shit here, so if you call and I don’t answer, leave a message and I’ll call you back from her landline.”

“I won’t. I’m fine. Quit playing Mommy.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” I say gently. “It’s all good.”

I can practically see her dissatisfied expression. “Fine. Tonight, then. I’ve got a one o’clock that should take a couple of hours, but after that I’m free. Meet me at the shop at three?”

And because we both need reassurance that I’m all right, I nod. “Yeah,” I say into the phone. “We can grab a late lunch.”

“Forget the late lunch. I’m going to want an early drink.”

I laugh, and we end the call.

I briefly consider whether I should go back to sleep for a few hours or just grab a taxi and get out of here. After I hit the bathroom, though, I decide to compromise on a shower. Because this bathroom is truly fab. With black tiled walls, ultra-modern fixtures, and a walk-in rain shower.

I turn the water on and wait for the temperature to adjust, standing naked in front of the mirror as I do.

Am I giving you another tattoo?

Cass’s words seem to echo in the small room, and I slide my hand down until my fingers brush the lock that Cass inked just above my line of pubic hair. The first of so many. The mirror isn’t a full-length style, but if I stand back far enough I can see most of myself. And the truth is, I don’t need to see anyway. I know where they all are. Every souvenir. Every mark. Every pain, and every memory.

I turn my leg out, revealing the curving red ribbon inked onto the soft skin between my torso and left thigh, the ribbon curling from my pubis to my hip. And on it, the ornately scripted initials,
TS, KC, DW.
Small and intricately designed, like the text of a medieval manuscript, so that the letters appear to be little more than a random design. Of course, they are anything but.