“You can count on it,” he says as his hand slides around to cup my ass. He squeezes, and I squeal, then laugh. “You’re going to need one after standing for a few hours.”
I take a step back, eyeing him dubiously. “Standing?”
“No seats at The Rafters,” he says. “But lots of good beer and definitely a lot of good music.”
He looks so excited that I can hardly deny him, especially considering the hell he’s been living through. “All right,” I say. “It’s a date.”
“Then we’ll do it up right. I’ll pick you up at seven. The show starts at ten. We’ll have dinner and get there by nine-thirty. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Should I invite Cass and Siobhan? I’ve got the two extra tickets.”
The question—asked so simply and with complete sincerity—sends an unexpected wave of pleasure washing over me.
“Yeah,” I say. “That would be great.” And then I ease back into his arms and kiss him softly. “As a matter of fact, you’re great, too.”
nineteen
When we’d first arrived at The Rafters—a nondescript building near the North Hollywood/Burbank border—I’d assumed that Edward had pulled up at the wrong location. It had the appearance of a shack that someone had put up in their backyard and then painted black. Albeit a very large shack.
Jackson assured us that this was the place, though, and when I took a closer look, that was clear enough. Not only was there a sandwich board sign in the parking lot announcing Dominion Gate, but there was also a line of concertgoers that snaked around the building.
I’d glanced at Jackson, dubious, but he’d only laughed and told me it would be fun.
Honestly, he was right.
Now that we’re inside, I’m not certain how the place managed to pass all the various required inspections because I am absolutely certain that the reverb from the band’s bass is going to make all the walls collapse on us. Even the concrete floor is moving, though that may be an illusion. Or it may be the result of hundreds of people dancing madly to the earsplitting music.
But despite all that, I am having a great time—and considering we are jammed in like sardines in an under-air-conditioned building and standing way too close to the speakers, that says a lot. About the music, maybe. But it’s more about Jackson. He’s clearly having a great time—worry free, loose. Hell, almost boyish.
And I’ll put up with a lot to see him happy.
The crowd is thick, and I’m smushed in between him and Cass, who leans over to say something to me. I have no idea what, though, because I can’t hear a damn thing. I hold up my hands in question, and she rolls her eyes, then points to a girl who’s dancing a few people away. At first I think Cass is checking out the girl—which seems very un-Cassidy-like considering Siobhan is jamming to the music at her opposite side.
Then I realize that the girl is taking pictures with her camera phone. Not of the band, but of Jackson.
I’d like to think that’s because he looks so incredibly hot in faded, threadbare jeans and a short-sleeved Henley shirt that sticks to his sweat-slicked body in a way that makes me sigh.
Unfortunately, I know otherwise. Someone had recognized him as we were coming in—and I’d heard the rumble of gossip about “that architect who offed the producer” as it rolled through the crowd before the opening band took the stage.
No one has actually approached us, though, and so Jackson is taking it in stride.
I look back at Cass and shrug, silently letting her know we’re not going to worry about it. Tonight is about the four of us having fun, and so long as nobody gets right in his face, they can take all the snaps they want.
By the time the concert ends, I’m practically deaf. I’m also covered in a thin layer of sweat and the sleeveless mock turtleneck that I’d paired with a thin leather jacket and matching mini skirt is clinging to my body. I’m also thinking that despite the cool November evening, the leather skirt was a mistake, as it’s stuck to both my ass and thighs.
And as for my feet—well, I have no one to blame but myself. Jackson warned me we’d be standing. Apparently my favorite low black sandals aren’t the all-purpose shoes I’d thought they were.
All in all, I can’t wait for the blast of cool air when we get outside. So I’m thrilled that we’re heading toward the door, even if we are part of a human wave, so up close and personal that I can smell at least seventeen different shampoos and deodorants.
Jackson has his arm tight around my waist, and I can feel Cass pressed up behind me so as to not lose us in the crowd. The entrance is a set of wide double doors that open straight onto the parking lot, so the wave is actually moving pretty fast, and as soon as we step past the doors I sigh with pleasure as the cool air washes over me. And then I immediately cringe as the cameras start flashing.
Jackson grabs my hand and Cass presses her palm to my shoulder even as I register that these are not camera phones. These are Nikons and Canons and Ricohs, and they’re being held by photographers who stand next to reporters with microphones sporting logos like TMZ and ET and god only knows what else.
I turn to Jackson, confused and panicked, because this is a step up from the paparazzi we’ve been dodging. I hope desperately that there is a movie star inside. Surely this isn’t all about Jackson.
Except it is. They’re calling his name. They’re mentioning Reed. They’re talking about the movie. About Damien. The assault. The Fletcher house in Santa Fe. And I don’t get it because Jackson hasn’t been arrested and nothing has changed, and—
“Is it true that Arvin Fletcher’s granddaughter is your daughter?”
“Why is she hidden away?”
“Is Veronica the reason you’ve been trying to block the movie?”
“Is it true the movie’s been green-lit? Do you think Reed’s death drummed up more interest?”
Behind me, Cass gasps, pulling me out of the weird tunnel vision funk I’d slipped into when the questions started flowing. I hear Siobhan mumble something, and then take off running, shoving her way past us and through the crowd.
I have no idea what she’s doing, but it doesn’t matter, because I can’t seem to move. My hand aches, and I realize Jackson is squeezing it tight, and I think that’s good. Because if he’s grabbing on to me, he’s not pummeling someone else.
When I look at him, though, I’m certain that is exactly what’s going to happen. And when another question rings out—“Did you kill Reed to keep your daughter a secret?”—I know that the paparazzi have gone too far.
I feel him tense beside me. I see the anger held tight in his face.
And, god help me, I feel the cool, helpless sense of loss when he lets go of my hand and bursts forward, undoubtedly to pound the shit out of the idiot reporter who has no idea what door he’s just opened.
I lunge for Jackson, then actually yank him back by the waistband of his jeans.
He turns to me, his face awash with anger, and I think, Oh, shit. That picture will be all over the tabloids, then he’s bursting forward again, his fist flying out, and before I even have time to scream his name, the reporter is flat on his ass, his hand pressed to his jaw, and Jackson is about to swoop down for another punch.
“No!”
I scream the word so loudly it hurts my throat, but it works. Jackson turns to me, his face eerily white under the flash of so many cameras.
He’s breathing hard, his eyes wild, and I’m really not sure how the hell to get us out of this mess. And then I hear someone calling for Cass, and then Cass is tugging at the back of my shirt.
It’s Siobhan, and her head is poked up out of the limo’s skylight.