“No.” The word is vehement and full of certainty. I look her straight in the eye. “No way. There’s nothing that would push me away.” Even this, I realize. It’s a bump. A fight. But in the end we’ll work our way past it. Won’t we?
“And he knows that?” she asks.
“Of course.”
“Fair enough. Maybe he doesn’t want to tell you because there’s nothing to tell. Damien told me that his attorney hasn’t gotten a court date. Maybe he’s not going to pursue it. Or maybe he was planning to tell you tomorrow or next week and you jumped the gun. I don’t know, Syl. But neither do you.”
“You think I shouldn’t be mad.”
“I didn’t say that. Be mad all you want. Just don’t be unfair.”
I think about that. Have I been unfair?
She leans back against the porcelain sink. “The thing is, I’ve seen you two together, and it’s intimate, you know? You fit. And I’m guessing that it’s even more intimate than you’ve let on. But that’s not—I mean—oh, shit.”
“What?”
“It’s just that intimacy’s not a key, you know? You don’t just get close to someone and expect that to open a door and everything comes tumbling out like an overstuffed closet.”
I have to sigh. Because she’s right. And I know that. It’s just that this secret is so big that it seemed like a game changer. But maybe it’s not. Maybe the game stays the same.
twenty-two
Jackson’s not answering his phone, which probably means he doesn’t want to talk to me.
Honestly, I don’t care. We need to talk, and if he wants to send me away or lock me topside on the boat while he goes below deck, he can do that.
But until he takes those extreme measures, I’m doing whatever it takes to get to him. To talk to him.
To tell him how I feel.
And, yes, to tell him that I was wrong.
Which is why I am now pulling into the marina and parking my car. And when I do, I realize that the reason I’m able to park so close to Jackson’s boat is because his car isn’t in its assigned slot.
Fuck.
I try to think where else he could be, but the fact is that I just don’t know. LA is a big city, and he could be anywhere.
I pull out my cell phone and dial the office, checking in with both the night receptionist and the security staff, but I am assured across the board that Jackson isn’t at Stark Tower.
He wouldn’t have gone to a club—not even to blow off steam.
And while his usual modus operandi is to fuck his way through moments like this, even after a fight, I do not believe that he would find another woman.
Then again, that’s not really his MO, is it? I’m the one who begged him to use me when he felt out of control. When he had to lash out.
It’s not a fast, hard fuck that he’ll be gunning for.
It’s a fight.
Shit.
I close my eyes and try to figure out what to do. I’m certain that I’m right, but that knowledge doesn’t do me a whole lot of good. This is LA, after all, where hard bodies rule, and that means there are more gyms in this city than Damien has dollars.
I haven’t got a clue where to start.
And since I don’t know where to go, I’m going to have to settle on going nowhere.
I make my way onto the boat, grateful that Jackson has given me a spare key.
I get a glass of wine and settle on the couch in his office area, thinking that I’ll take my mind off his absence by watching a movie or something, but I’m way too distracted for that. I’m actually considering calling Ryan and getting that intelligence agent friend of his to track Jackson’s OnStar when I realize there’s one thing I haven’t tried.
I stand up, trying to remember the name of the friend who was hooked in to where all the underground fights took place. Butter? Cutter? No, Sutter! I do a little fist-pump, because I’m certain that I’m right.
Not that the name does me any good on its own, but if Jackson has Sutter’s contact info …
I head over to his desk and poke around for a Rolodex or address book. But like all the rest of us, Jackson is living very squarely in the twenty-first century. Which means his contacts are filed electronically. Which means they are on his computer.