As with any exceptional building, each room had its own personality despite being tied together by common elements. The Gallery Bar had long been Jackson’s favorite space, the live music, intimate lighting, excellent wine list, and extensive menu adding value to an already priceless space.
Now, Phil stood behind the long granite bar that served as one of the room’s focal points. Behind him, a menagerie of fine whiskeys danced in the glow of the room’s dim lighting. He was framed on either side by carved wooden angels, and in Jackson’s mind, it seemed as if all three—angels and man—were standing in judgment over him.
Phil cleared his throat, apparently realizing that he hadn’t moved. “Yeah. Sorry.” He started to exuberantly wipe the bar. “I just thought you looked familiar.”
“I must have one of those faces,” Jackson said dryly, knowing damn well that Phil knew who he was. Jackson Steele, celebrity architect. Jackson Steele, subject of the documentary, Stone and Steele, which had recently screened at the Chinese theater. Jackson Steele, newest addition to the team for The Resort at Cortez, a Stark Vacation Property.
Jackson Steele, released yesterday on bail after assaulting Robert Cabot Reed, producer, director, and overall vile human being.
The latter, of course, is what would have put Jackson on Phil’s radar. This was Los Angeles, after all, and in Los Angeles, anything entertainment-related passed as hard news. Forget the economy or strife overseas. In the City of Angels, Hollywood trumped everything else. And that meant that Jackson’s picture had been plastered all over the newspapers, local television, and social media.
He didn’t regret it. Not the fight. Not the arrest. He didn’t even regret the press, although he knew that they would dig. And if they dug deep enough, they’d find a whole cornucopia of reasons why Jackson might want to destroy the pathetic Mr. Reed.
Well, let them. He wasn’t the least bit repentant. Hell, if anything he wished he could do it again, because the few punches he’d managed to land on Reed had only been satisfying in the moment. But every time he thought about it—every time he pictured what the son of a bitch had done to Sylvia—he knew he hadn’t gone far enough.
He should have killed the bastard.
For the way he’d hurt the woman Jackson loved, Robert Cabot Reed deserved to die.
She’d been only fourteen at the time. A child. An innocent. And Reed had used her. Raped her. Humiliated her.
He’d been a photographer then, and she his model. A position of power and of trust, and he’d twisted that around, making it vile and dirty.
He’d hurt the girl, and he’d damaged the woman.
And Jackson couldn’t think of anything bad enough that could happen to the man.
He closed his eyes and thought of Sylvia. Her small, slim body that felt so right in his arms. The gold that highlighted her dark brown hair, making her face seem luminous. Christ, he wanted her beside him now. Wanted to twine his fingers with hers and hold her close. He wanted her strength, though she didn’t even realize how strong she was.
But this was something he had to do alone. And he needed to do it now.
He slid off the stool, then dropped a fifty on the bar. “Keep the change,” he said, as Phil’s eyes went wide.
He left the bar, moving quickly through the hotel’s glittering lobby to the main entrance that opened on South Grand Avenue. Stark Tower was just up the hill to the east. It was a cool October night, and the building glowed against the coal-black sky. Right now, Damien Stark was in the penthouse apartment with his wife, Nikki, probably unpacking after their long weekend in Manhattan.
Stark’s second assistant, Rachel Peters, had called Jackson that morning. “He’ll be back from New York this evening,” she’d said. “And he wants to see you tomorrow at eight sharp before the regular Tuesday briefing.”
“About the resort?” He’d asked the question casually, as if he couldn’t imagine any other reason that Stark would want to see him.