Say My Name (3 page)

Jackson said no.

“Shit.” I run my fingers through my hair, then look up at Clark, who has secured the helicopter and is heading my direction.

“Trouble?” he asks, his brow furrowed as he peers at my face.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I reply. Because there is no way I’m calling Damien and telling him that I blew it so badly I couldn’t even get a meeting. Which means that I very badly need a Plan B. Another starchitect. A magic potion. A goddamn freaking miracle.

I start to follow Clark into the alcove, then stop short, remembering. “Have a good weekend,” I say to him. “I need to make one more call.”

And then I scroll through my contacts, find Wyatt’s number, and call the photographer to see if he can wrangle that miracle.

“You do know how awesome this is, right?” Cass asks as she climbs into the limo and takes a seat opposite me.

She looks amazing, as usual, in a slinky black dress slit so far up her thigh it’s a wonder she didn’t flash the neighborhood. The dress is held up by a single, simple bow over her left shoulder, and she fills it out with the kind of curves I can only dream about. Her hair is red this week, and she is wearing it up so as to accentuate the dress. Other than a small diamond stud in her nose, she wears no jewelry, which makes the tattoo of an exotic bird on her shoulder, its tail feathers trailing down her arm in an explosion of color, all the more stunning.

As soon as she’s settled, Edward shuts the door and returns to the driver’s seat. We don’t see him, as we are snug behind the privacy screen, but I feel the motion as the limo pulls away from the curb in front of Cass’s tiny house in Venice Beach.

“Seriously, Syl. Your job perks rock.”

“Definitely on the upside of awesome,” I agree as I pass her a glass of wine. The limo is one of the Stark International fleet, and Edward is Damien’s personal driver, on loan to me for this evening. With any luck, I’ll make this worth Edward’s overtime.

“I think we both need a moment of deep contemplation,” Cass says. “You, in appreciation of the serious perks of your job. And me, in gratitude that you are so antisocial that there’s no one else you wanted to invite tonight.”

“Bitch,” I say, but I’m laughing as she closes her eyes and tilts her head back.

“Ommm,” she says, as if she’s in a yoga class and not in the back of a stretch limo on her way to a Hollywood release party.

I’d debated whether or not to bring her, but in the end had decided that not only would Cass get a kick out of a red carpet premiere, but she’d also make a damn fine human security blanket.

Cass has been my best friend since I marched into her dad’s tattoo parlor at the ripe old age of fifteen. He’d sent me packing, telling me in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t about to lose his license so some Brentwood brat could get a tat in order to piss off Mommy and Daddy.

I hadn’t cried—I haven’t cried since I was fourteen—but I had felt my face go hot as my temper and frustration rose. I’d called him a bastard, yelled that he didn’t know a thing about my parents and he sure as hell didn’t know anything about me. I don’t actually remember calling him a fucking prick, but Cass assures me that I did.

What I do remember is storming out, then running blindly until I reached the beach. I’d rushed across the bike path, almost knocking over a toddler, and then tripped in the sand. I’d fallen facedown and just laid there like an idiot, my forehead on my arm and my eyes squeezed together because I wanted to cry—so help me, I wanted the tears to flow—but they didn’t. They couldn’t.

I don’t know how long I laid there, breathing shallow so I wouldn’t suck up the sand. All I know is that she was there when I looked up, all long legs and tanned skin and short black hair slicked into dozens of spikes. She crouched on her haunches, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hand as she stared at me. Just rocked back and forth and stared.

“Go away,” I’d said.

“It’s not his fault. My mom bailed, and he’s gotta take care of me, so it’s not his fault. I mean, if they yank his license, they’ll close his shop and then they’ll repossess the house and we’ll end up living in the back of his Buick, and I’ll have to turn tricks in Hollywood just to keep us in Snickers and Diet Coke.”

My gut clenched at her words, and for a second I thought I would be sick. “Don’t,” I said. “That’s not even funny.”

Her eyes narrowed as she studied me, then she stood up, as gangly as a colt. She held out her hand to help me up. “He can’t do it, but I can.”

“Can what?”

“You want a tat, I can give you a tat.” She shrugged, as if tattooing someone was the kind of thing every teenage girl knew how to do.

“Bullshit.”

“Suit yourself.” She started to walk away.

I pushed myself up so that I was kneeling in the sand and watched her leave, never once looking back to see if I’d changed my mind.

I had. “Wait!”

She stopped. A moment passed, then another, then she turned. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Sixteen. How old are you?”

“I just turned fifteen. You can really do it?”

She came toward me, then stuck her leg out so that there was no missing the black rose on her ankle. “I can do it.”

“Will it hurt?”

She snorted. “Duh, yeah. But not any more than it would if he did it.”

I assume she was right about that, but I’ll never know for sure. Because Cass is the only one who has ever given me a tattoo, and she’s given me several. That first day we’d hung out on the beach until her dad had locked the shop. Then we’d snuck back in, and she’d adorned my pubic bone with a beautiful golden lock, sealed tight and bound with chains.

She asked me why I wanted that design, and I hadn’t told her. Not then. And even later, I didn’t tell her everything. Just the surface, but not the deep-down truth. And even though she’s my best friend, I don’t think I ever will.

That tat—and the ones that followed—are for me alone. They are secrets and triumphs, weaknesses and strengths. They are a map, and they are memories.

Most of all, they are mine.

“So who’s going to be there?” Cass asks after a while. “There’s a red carpet, right?”

“That’s what I hear. But don’t get too excited. It’s a documentary, not a blockbuster. I’m guessing a few studio execs, some agents, maybe a few C-listers.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that we’re gonna walk down a red fucking carpet. I guess I can knock that one off my bucket list.”

“I guess you can. The dress rocks, by the way. Where did you get it?”

“That Goodwill near Beverly Hills. It’s my favorite hunting ground.” Cass owns Totally Tattoo now and makes a good living, but it wasn’t always that way, and I don’t think I’ve ever once seen her buy retail.

“Usually I only score a ten-dollar pair of 7 For All Mankind jeans and some kick-ass tees,” she continues. “But this time there was an entire rack of evening clothes. I swear, I don’t get those women. Wear it once and then donate it.” She shrugs philosophically. “But whatever. I’m happy to take advantage of their economic idiocy.”

“And look incredibly hot in your frugality.”

“Damn skippy. You look pretty amazing yourself,” she adds.

“I should. I spent two hours getting a trim and having my makeup done.” I’ve worn my hair short since I was fifteen. That’s when I cut off my long, loose waves in favor of a cut that’s a cross between a pixie and a bob. At the time, all I’d wanted was a change, and as dramatic a one as I thought I could get away with. Since shaving my head was a bit too radical even for my mood, I’d dialed it back.

Now, though, I genuinely like the cut. According to Kelly, the girl who does my hair, it suits my oval-shaped face and highlights my cheekbones. Honestly, I don’t care about the reason. I just want to like what I see in the mirror.

“The red tips are especially awesome,” Cass says.

“I know, right? Isn’t it fun?” My hair is dark brown with natural golden highlights. Frankly, I like it that way, so I’ve never been tempted to follow Cass’s lead and dye my hair temporarily pink or purple or even just plain red.

Tonight, however, I thought I’d have a little fun, and I’d asked Kelly to see about giving me some colored highlights. She went a step further, focusing on the tips of a few chunks of hair in a way that seems not only fun but elegant.

“It’s awesome, yes, but what I meant was that the color matches your dress. Which is fabulous, by the way.”

“It should be. It cost a freaking fortune.”

I may not spend my life trolling consignment stores like Cass, but I rarely spend as much on a dress as I did on this one. It’s fire-engine red, and though I decided to go with cocktail length, I think it’s as elegant and sexy as Cass’s floor-skimming evening gown. And, yes, as I did a turn in front of the dressing room mirror, I’d tried to see myself through Jackson’s eyes. Not because I wanted to look hot—or, not entirely—but because I wanted to look successful. Competent.

Powerful.

“It works?” I ask Cass. “Not too slutty? Or worse, too corporate?”

“It’s perfect. You look like a confident, professional businesswoman. And clearly you took my advice and invested in a padded push-up bra, because you even have cleavage.”

“Bitch,” I say, but with the utmost affection. I’ve got an athletic build, slim and lean. Which is great when it comes to finding clothes, but not so great when I’m trying to fill out a dress.

I expect her to shoot me a snarky comeback, but instead there is only silence. “What?” I demand, when I can’t take it any longer.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

It is the gentleness in her voice that cuts through me. Cass is loud and boisterous, and I am used to that. Softness from her can break me.

I nod. “I’ve put my heart and soul into this project. I’m not going to let it die if I can save it.”

“Even if saving it hurts you?”

I force myself not to wince. “It won’t.”

“Dammit, Syl, it already has. Do you think I don’t get it? There is no one who knows you better than I do, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m the one who inked your back when you got back to LA from Atlanta. I know how wrecked you were, and I swear to god, if you hadn’t been pumped up about the job with Stark you would have just crumbled into dust and blown away.”

“Cass, don’t—”

“Don’t what? Don’t worry about you?”

“It was five years ago. I put it behind me.”

“And now it’s back in front of you.”

“No,” I say, and then stop, because she is right. “Okay, maybe. Yes. Guilty as charged. I’m walking into the lion’s den. Pouring the gasoline and striking the match. Jumping off the cliff. Pick your metaphor, because it doesn’t matter. I have to do this.”

“Why?”

“Are you really asking me that?”

Her shoulders droop. “No. I get it. I’ve watched you work this project. I know how much it means to you. It’s like me and the studio. I loved working for my dad, but it’s better now that the place is totally mine. I feel, I don’t know, grown up. Complete.”

“Yeah. It’s like that.”

“It’s just that he already said no, right? He told Stark, and then he refused to even take a meeting with you. So do you really believe you can change his mind?”

“I have to believe it,” I say. “Right now, unsupported optimism is all I’ve got going for me.”

“Oh, man. Don’t say that.”

I lean forward to take her hand. “I can do this. And I’ll be fine. Really. I’m not as fragile as I used to be. I can do this,” I repeat, as much to convince myself as her.

“Fuck yeah, you can,” she says, though the words are belied by a weak smile.

“Come on,” I urge. “How can I fail when I look this hot?”

That gets a laugh. “You’ve got a point,” she admits. “I mean, right now you look good enough to eat. And, hell, I can remember when you schlepped around looking so ratty that not even a dog would want to give you a lick.”

“No kidding, right?” I’d spent my last years of high school trying very hard to be invisible. It was Cass who’d slapped some sense into me the summer before I started college at UCLA.

It’s a day I remember with crystal clarity. It was a Tuesday, and we’d decided to go check out the campus that would soon become my home. A couple of upperclassmen had given us both the onceover, and my immediate reaction had been to hunch my shoulders and cross my arms over my chest.

“Are you a fucking moron?” she’d asked in that gentle Cassidy way that she has.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on, Syl. You need to stop this. You’re totally hot and you hide it under ugly sweatshirts and baggy jeans. And the hair—”

“I am
not
growing out my hair.”

“Have ya considered maybe, I don’t know,
combing
it?”

I’d shoved my hands into the pockets of my baggy jeans and stared at the sidewalk.

“Look,” she’d said more gently. “I get it. I do. You wanna get all comfy on my shrink couch and I’ll tell you exactly what is going on in that head of yours.”

“I didn’t finally tell you about what happened so you could pick me apart,” I’d snapped.

“Guess what? I don’t care. Because you are my best friend and I love you and you are handing that asshole power on a silver fucking platter.”

“I’m not handing him anything,” I’d said. “He is gone. Long gone.” And thank god for that.

“The hell he is. He’s the reason you walk around looking like you’re trying to get typecast as Dumpy Female Neighbor. Maybe you haven’t seen the prick since you turned fifteen, but he is with you every fucking day.”

I’d clenched my hands into fists as my temper rose. “Do not even think about going there,” I’d said, lifting my head and taking a step toward her.

“I’m already there.” Cassidy is only about three inches taller than me, but she’s always been larger than life, and I’d been overwhelmed by her shadow. And that had just made me angrier. I was hurting. I was lost. And even my best friend wasn’t backing me.

“Just. Fucking.
Don’t.
”

“Don’t what?” she’d asked. “Don’t tell you the truth? Don’t try to beat through that thick head of yours how absurd this is? Some pervert photographer preys on you because you were young and pretty, and so now you’re still trying everything in your power to disappear? Fuck that shit. You were fourteen—
fourteen.
He was the asshole.”