Damien lifted a brow, the expression almost smug. “Like you did after she left you in Atlanta?”
Jackson’s gut twisted as he fought against the truth of Damien’s words. This was different, dammit. He was going to fucking prison. “I just need to know if you’ll stand as Ronnie’s guardian, Damien. The rest isn’t up for discussion.”
For a moment, he thought his brother would argue. But then Damien nodded. “Of course I will. I need to talk it over with Nikki, but I’m certain she won’t have a problem. Ronnie’s my niece, after all.”
Jackson nodded slowly, relieved. “Thank you,” he said simply.
Everything around him was going to shit. But Ronnie, at least, was going to be okay.
“Damien told me what happened,” Nikki says. She’s arrived at my apartment with a bottle of wine. “It may only be lunchtime, but I figured you could use this.”
“Thanks.” I step back to let her in. I’m not entirely sure I want company, but I can’t deny that I appreciate the thought. And I know that Nikki understands what I’m feeling. Damien walked away from her once, too. I’d been working his desk, and even I hadn’t known where he was. And like Jackson, he’d done it supposedly to protect her.
So if I’m going to commiserate with someone, it makes sense that it’s Nikki.
“How are you doing?” she asks as I open the wine and pour two glasses.
We’ve moved to the patio, me on the chaise and Nikki in the chair. But right now, I don’t feel like sitting, so I stand up and walk to the rail, then look out at the neighboring building and the ocean beyond.
“Like the world is falling down around my ears,” I admit. “The resort is a mess. Just this morning, we lost two more investors because the word is out that Jackson is surrendering himself on Monday. And of course the press is all over that, calling Santa Cortez ‘troubled.’ How fucking annoying is that?”
“Very,” she says gently. “But I meant about Jackson.”
“I know you did.” I sigh deeply and return to the chaise. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’m angry or hurt or something else all together.”
“All of the above, I’d imagine.”
I nod. “The thing is, I know that I can be alone.” And it’s true—it’s true because Jackson taught me how to let go of my security blanket. How to find the strength inside myself. “But I don’t want to be alone. I want Jackson beside me.”
“Even though he might not be beside you?” she asks. “He’s right, you know. Damien talked with Charles and Harriet. With all the evidence against Jackson—especially the prior assault, his temper, the argument that witness overheard—Harriet’s pretty certain the DA is going to play hardball. And she’s even more certain that they’ll be able to get in evidence of the underground fighting he does.”
My eyes go to hers. “You know about that?”
“I do now. The court will soon.”
“Fuck.” She’s right; a history of violent behavior is only going to make Jackson look like a hot-head who lost his temper and killed the man who refused to back off the movie.
“Maybe he’s right.” Her voice is soft. “Maybe you should walk away.”
My answer, when it comes, is fierce. “Hell, no. I want Jackson. I want Ronnie. I want the man I love and everything that comes with him.”
Something sparks in her eyes, and when she says, “I know you do,” I sag a little with relief at this proof that she really does get it.
“So how do I get him back? How do I make this goddamn stubborn man change his mind?”
“I don’t know,” she admits.
“What did you do?” I ask, knowing that she will understand I’m talking about Damien.
She lifts a shoulder. “I cried a lot. And then I fought.” She looks at me, then actually smiles. “Actually, with Jackson, fighting’s probably a damn good way to go.”
twenty-three
I wake to the sound of Jackson’s voice.
A wave of relief washes over me, followed quickly by disappointment when I realize he’s not in my condo. Instead, I’m hearing his voice on the television, and I realize I must have fallen asleep in bed with the television on.
Now, a morning news show is playing, and the image on screen is Jackson on the deck of his boat with Harriet beside him.
“You’re surrendering yourself tomorrow?” a reporter asks.
“I am,” he says.
“What about the Cortez Resort? Are you resigning?”
“I’m not. Assuming I get out on bail, I’ll continue the work. If I’m incarcerated, then we’ll either figure out a way for me to work while in custody or I’ll support the project’s efforts to find another architect.”
“The project’s efforts?” another reporter repeats. “You mean Sylvia Brooks? She’s the project manager, right?”
“Correct.”
“So where is she today? You two have a personal relationship as well. How does she feel about your arrest?”
His face tightens. “Ms. Brooks and I have only a professional relationship. We’re not together anymore.”
That sets off a new buzz from the crowd of reporters, but all it does for me is make my stomach hurt. Goddamn Jackson. I know what he’s doing. He’s making sure that our break-up is coming at me from all sides.
He’s making sure that I understand it’s real.
Well, fuck that.
Nikki’s right. If I want him back, I have to fight.
And I think it’s appropriate that Jackson is a fan of bare knuckles fighting. Because right now, the gloves are coming off.
It takes me no time to get dressed, but my problem is that I don’t know where I’m going. I try the boat first, but he’s not there. Then I try the office, because maybe he’s trying to get as much done on the resort as possible before he surrenders himself.
But there’s no Jackson there, either.
I drive by the lot in the Palisades, thinking that perhaps he’s simply melancholy. Again, nothing.
I’m still baffled and stymied when I swing by Cass’s house. She, at least, is at home.
“He’s probably beating the shit out of someone,” Cass says.
I make a face, because I’m afraid that Cass is right. “I hope not,” I say. “If the press gets a picture of that, it’s not exactly going to help his case.”
“Have you called Harriet?”
I haven’t, and it’s a good idea. I call, but get only voice mail. I’m about to bitch to Cass some more, when the phone rings, and I can’t help but be impressed by Harriet’s promptness.
“Are you okay?” she says, and I’m touched that she’s asking. I’m not the one who is her client, after all.
“Not really. I want to find him, Harriet. Do you know where he is?”
I’m afraid that she’s going to tell me that she’s not allowed to say. Or worse, that she’s certain he’s made the right decision and she thinks it would be better not to tell me.
But she surprises me by saying, “He’s got a room at the Biltmore.”
“Thank you.” The words are thick with relief. My next, however, are tentative. “Is he—I mean, how is he doing?”
“Let’s just say that I wouldn’t have told you where he is if I didn’t think that seeing you would do him good.”
I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Thank you,” I say again, then end the call.
I look at Cass.
“Don’t waste time talking to me,” she says. “Go.”
I do. And I’m pretty sure I break every speed record known to man getting from Venice Beach to downtown LA. I leave my car with the valet then burst into the hotel, only to lose steam when the front desk clerk absolutely refuses to tell me Jackson’s number. Some bullshit song and dance about privacy. And he digs his heels in even more when I decline his suggestion that I call up to Jackson’s room.
Damn.
It’s not even three in the afternoon yet, but I figure I can stake out the lobby if I have to, and for as long as I have to. But before I do that, I step into the Gallery Bar, just because it’s Jackson’s favorite place and being in there will make me feel closer to him.