Say My Name (37 page)

Then I’ll look him in the eyes and see Jackson, and hate myself that much more.

I’ll be helpless.

Lost and alone, with no one to slay the dragon.

A burst of fury whips through me and I grab the ice bucket off the dresser and hurl it across the room. It makes an unsatisfying thud against the thin drywall and cheap paint.

“Goddamn you, Jackson Steele,” I shout. “God
fucking
damn you.”

He’d lied to me, by omission if not outright. Acted like he didn’t even know Jeremiah Stark when I asked him about it after the
LA Scandal
website fiasco. And maybe I could believe that tonight was just one of those first-meet coincidences if I hadn’t seen his face and overheard their conversation. But I had, and Jackson’s is a face I know—they’ve known each other for a long time. And they are obviously more than just casual acquaintances.

God, how could I have been so stupid? I put my trust—
all
of my trust—in that man.

And so help me, I actually believed I was falling in love with him.

No.
Damn me, I did fall in love with him, and that’s why this hurts so much.

I love him, or at least I loved the man I thought I knew.

And now, somehow, I have to manage to survive losing him all over again. Because I know now that the man I have fallen in love with is not the man who exists.

“Shit.”

The word sounds hollow, and I grab my phone to dial Cass, then end the call before it connects. It’s not her company I crave, but the ink.

Except how would I mark myself? What I feel is too big, too personal. Too damn much. And unless she can rip my body open and tattoo my heart, I don’t think there is any mark she could put on me that would help even out the pain that I’m feeling.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I throw myself on the bed and I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to cry. And yet still the tears won’t come.

I can’t even have that small relief to ease my pain.

Instead, I lay in the bed, lethargic and numb, and watch television as I fight the sleep that is determined to drag me under. Infomercials. Sitcoms. Bad animation.

Hour after hour until the dark, grimy window turns light.

Then I stumble from the room, my skin tight and my eyes grainy, and walk to the lobby for the complimentary breakfast of cold pastries and lukewarm coffee.

I sit at the cheap plastic table and sip coffee for over an hour. There is a newspaper at the place setting across from me, but I do not read it. There is a television playing one of LA’s inane morning programs, but I do not watch it. I just sit and stare and slide into myself, losing myself in my head in a way I haven’t done since Jackson laid out his proposition at the premiere.

Since then, I haven’t wanted to fade away.

Now, I can’t think of anything I want more.

Unless it’s to have back the Jackson I thought I knew.

God, I’m being maudlin.

Disgusted with myself, I shove to my feet. If I’m going to be depressed—and I think I have every right to be—I’m going somewhere more pleasant than this ugly motel lobby.

I go ahead and shower in my room, then change into a pair of sweatpants and a City of Angels T-shirt. I’d bought both from the small gift and snack area behind the reception counter. Not overly fashionable, but it blends better than my cocktail dress.

I get the clerk to call me a taxi, and once again I avoid home. Instead, I have the driver take me to the one place I have always gone when things go sideways for me in this city. The place where I would go to walk or sit or read on the weekends after my “sessions” with Bob, and where in high school I would go to escape the mean girl taunts. Where I sometimes even came just because I wanted to see something beautiful. The Getty Center.

The taxi drops me at the bottom of the hill and I get on the tram with a flood of tourists. I’m grateful it’s a Saturday. I want to be lost in the crowd, and camouflaged among the T-shirts, jeans, and ball caps that mark the out-of-town visitors.

The entire center is amazing, from the museum to the research facility to the tram that whisks people all around the complex. I have probably walked every square inch of this place at some point in my life.

Today, I choose the plaza and sit beside the fountain facing the rotunda.

I don’t think too much about why, but part of me knows that it is because the perfection and flow of this incredible building reminds me of Jackson. The center is a masterpiece of architectural beauty, a work of art in and of itself, and I am not sure if I came to bask or to torture myself.

I have no idea how long I sit there, the familiar numbness sliding back into my bones. All I know is that I’ve tuned out the world. And so when I hear him, it’s through a tunnel, and from a very long distance.

“Sylvia?” His fingertips brush my shoulder. “Sweetheart, I’m here.”

Jackson.

His voice, his touch, his scent.

I shift in my seat and look up at him. He looks raw and more ragged than I feel. I have at least showered. Jackson still wears the suit he’d put on last night, though his collar is now open and the tie has been shoved into a pocket where it peeks out in a small splash of red.

“I don’t want you here.” It’s a lie. It’s the absolute worst of lies, because I do want him. But not like this. Not with the games and the deceit and everything he kept hidden.

“What you think you know,” he says, “you don’t.”

“You fucking liar,” I say, my words low and measured. “I needed something real to hold on to, and you were an illusion the whole goddamn time.”

“Sylvia—”

“Was this always about Damien? About Stark International?”

He shakes his head. “Damien is the reason I said no to the Bahamas project. You’re the reason I said yes to Santa Cortez.”

I say nothing. Because what the hell is there for me to say?

“When this started,” he continues, “I wanted to hurt you. You’d left me. And to make it worse, I thought you’d gone to Damien. And so help me, I wanted payback. I wanted to make you weak. To make you wild. That first night? I planned to make you need me so badly that I was like air to you. So fucking essential that losing me would destroy you.”

I clench my jaw and hug myself, forcing myself not to spit out the acknowledgment that he has damn well achieved what he set out to do.

“And then, when I was your whole goddamn world, I was going to leave you. To have my revenge in the knowledge that you were burning in anger and loss.”

I lift my head so that I can see his eyes. I expect to see triumph. Instead, I see regret. I see tenderness, too, and because of that, I stay despite the almost overpowering urge to spring to my feet and run.

“But all of that changed, Sylvia. I would rather die than hurt you. I thought I was strong; I’m not. I thought I was brave; I’m not. Because where you are concerned, I have no strength to leave, and even the thought of losing you breaks me completely.”

“I guess you’re going to have to get used to it,” I say. “Because you’ve already lost me.”

“Sweetheart—” His hand closes over my wrist and I rip it away.

“You
lied
to me. After everything I’ve told you. After all of myself that I’ve given to you. You fucking
lied
to me.”

“I didn’t.”

I push up to my feet. “Oh, Christ, Jackson.”

“Listen to me. No,” he says, grabbing my hand as I start to walk away.
“Listen.”

I turn to face him, but I don’t sit down. Instead, I stand with my arms crossed over my chest and my jaw tight.

He stands as well, then shoves his hands into his pockets. “I kept things from you, I did. Maybe more than I should.”

“Gee. You think? Like maybe you should have mentioned you were scheming with Jeremiah Stark?”

“I wasn’t. But I do know him. I’ve known him for a very long time.” He draws a breath and drags his fingers through his hair. “Dammit, Syl. Jeremiah Stark is my father.”

I stumble. I actually take a step backward, as if he’s shoved at me with the palm of his hand.

“What?” I finally say, even though I’m absolutely certain that I’ve heard him correctly.

“Damien’s my half-brother.” The words are flat, and it’s very obvious that he’s not particularly thrilled with his family tree.

I’m not really sure how to process that, and so I sit down on the edge of the fountain again. After a moment, Jackson sits beside me.

“Does Damien know?” I ask.

“No. I told you the truth about my dad. My family. I just didn’t tell you who.”

“You should have.” I try to organize my thoughts, but this news is out of left field. “All those times I asked you what your problem with Damien was, and you didn’t say a word.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe I should have. I don’t know.” I can see the anguish on his face, but I don’t try to comfort him. I’m too hurt. Too numb. “Don’t you get it? It’s a secret I’ve lived with my entire life. It wasn’t something I could just shout out.”

“No,” I say tightly. “I wouldn’t know a thing about difficult secrets.”

“Is that what this is? Tit for tat? You told me about Bob and because I didn’t immediately toss my emotional garbage into the mix you’re punishing me?”

“Bob?” I repeat. “That’s all you have to say? Just some half-assed mention before we get back to your daddy issues?” His words are like a stiletto through my heart, because goddammit,
Bob
is what started all of this. Robert Cabot Reed, the asshole producer who wants to make the movie about Jackson’s Santa Fe house.
Bob
, the guy who has his claws in both of our lives, and all Jackson can think about is how I’m pissed that he didn’t tell me about Damien right then?

I say none of that, but the force of my emotions drives me to my feet again, and I’m about to lay it all out for him in harsh, clipped tones.

But he’s looking at me with such genuine confusion that I hold my tongue.

And that’s when I realize—Jackson has no idea about Robert Cabot Reed. He only knows that I was looking for him outside. He has no idea why. No idea that my mood, my fears, my entire meltdown wasn’t entirely driven by his little confab with Jeremiah Stark.

Suddenly, I feel very tired.

“I need to go home.” Right then, I need my condo. My patio. I need to curl up on my lounger and sleep. And with any luck, I’m exhausted enough that the dreams won’t come.

“Come back to the boat with me. Please, Syl. We need to talk more. I don’t want this to be the thing that breaks us. My father’s taken too much from me already.”

“He wasn’t the one who kept secrets from me,” I whisper. “That was you.”

I see the way my words make him flinch, and I almost take them back. But they are true, and so I simply shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Maybe we do need to talk. But right now, I need to be alone.”

I don’t give him time to answer. Instead, I just walk away, even though doing so leaves a hole in my heart.

Exhaustion pulls me under, and I sleep through the rest of Saturday, and a good chunk of Sunday morning. The sun is high in the sky when I finally wake on the patio lounger, twisted up in the blanket that I’d pulled over myself.

I remember that there were nightmares, but I do not remember what they were. I only remember one, and in it I ran. Faster and faster, farther and farther. But I never escaped what was chasing me.

I don’t even know what I was running from. I can only assume it was everything.

I wrap the blanket around myself and stumble inside. I feel achy and old, as if my body doesn’t want to function anymore.

And I really don’t want to be alone.

I take a hot shower, and that relieves some of my aches, but not the one inside me.

The truth is that it’s Jackson I want, but I’m not ready for that.

And so I call the only other person I can.

“Can I stay with you?” I ask the moment Cass answers her phone.

“God, Syl, I should come over there and strangle you. Do you know how worried I’ve been? Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone?”

“I’m sorry. I had it on silent. I just needed time.”

I hear her sigh. “Sorry. I know. I get it.
Shit.
Listen, are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll survive. But I really don’t want to be alone.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“I can drive.”

“Are you a complete emotional wreck?”

I actually laugh, which feels nice. “Duh.”

“Then you don’t need to be driving. Stay there. I’ll be right over to get you.”

True to her word, she’s at my door by the time I’ve tossed some clothes into a duffel bag.

“And you broke how many traffic laws?” I ask as I pull open the door.

She doesn’t answer. Instead she tosses her arms around me and locks me in a hug.

“Come on. I’ll take good care of you.”

“You sure it’s okay?” I ask as we head down to the street. “Zee doesn’t mind?”

Cass waves her hand. “Oh, please. Of course not.”

But I see a shadow on her face, and it worries me.

I don’t get the chance to ask her about it, though, because we’ve reached the parking area, and she is standing beside her bike.

I blink at her. “Seriously?”

“What? Traffic is a bitch this time of day on a Sunday, and I needed to get here fast. And you’ve only got a duffel.”

My smile is watery as I hug her. “I love you.”

“Well, yeah.” She grins. “I’m very lovable.” She unstraps the spare helmet she’s brought for me and hands it over. “Get on.”

I climb on the back of her ten-year-old Ducati, put on the helmet, and hook my arms around her waist.

“You should go to him,” she says as she starts the bike, but then she pulls out and takes off into traffic. If she says any more, I don’t hear it, because my face is buried in the back of her jacket, and I’m lost in the thoughts she has sparked.

Sixteen minutes later we pull up in front of her house. “Because he’s really kind of a wreck,” she says, as if the conversation hadn’t been interrupted at all.

“I’m kind of a wreck,” I correct. “And how do you know about Jackson, anyway?”

“I talked to him,” she says as she tugs off her helmet.