But the dream still lingers. And Jackson—the man I could have loved, the man I brutally left—lingers as well.
I drag my fingers through my hair. I’d been so lost in my memories—so wrapped up in Jackson—that I hadn’t been paying attention. I’ve walked several blocks—a solid fifteen minute walk—without even realizing what I was doing.
“Shit.”
I bite out the curse, more scared than angry, because it’s been a long time since I’ve disappeared into myself like that. I tell myself that it’s okay. I’m just edgy and unsteady. But as I stand there, fighting the memories and the fear and the horrible nausea, I know that I have to get my shit together.
I glance around once again, but more for show than to actually get my bearings. I know where I am. More than that, I know what I want. What I need.
I’m practically vibrating with pent-up energy, and I need to burn it. Need to take control, be the one in charge.
And I know exactly how to manage that.
I turn off Hollywood Boulevard and head up Vine. In front of me, the cylindrical Capitol Records Building rises into the night sky, as if lighting my way. I’m not going that far, though. Instead, I’m heading for Avalon, an iconic Hollywood hotspot that’s been around in various incarnations since the twenties. Currently, it’s a popular dance club with excellent DJs and pretty fine techno music on Fridays. More importantly, it’s got a stellar dance floor and guaranteed crowds. I know, because this is where I used to come to lose myself in the days before Jackson.
I still come to dance or cut loose when I’ve had a crappy day. Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. But that’s all about the beat. Getting lost in the music.
That’s not why I’m here now.
Tonight, I’m broken. And I’m willing to fix myself the only way I know how.
As usual, there’s a line, but it moves fast, and soon enough I’m through the doors, trading the traffic sounds and Hollywood lights for a raucous techno-beat and the violent pop of purple, white, and blue lights shifting and changing over a dance floor full of writhing, throbbing bodies. There, I think, and start to edge myself through the crowd.
I scan faces as I go, searching for the right one. Because this isn’t about dancing. It’s about shaking off this entire fucking day. It’s about erasing my memories and my nightmares.
Mostly, it’s about proving that I’m no longer some weak little girl to be intimidated and frightened.
It’s more than that, too, and I damn well know it. This is about Jackson. About the way he blew me off. About the way he touched me. And about the goddamn devil’s bargain he tried to toss at me.
A bargain that I know damn well I can’t take, because didn’t I run from him once already?
I’m on the dance floor, hands in the air and my hips moving in time with the music when I see him. Not Jackson—not even close, really. But he’s tall and he’s dark and right then, that’s good enough. He’s standing by the stage, not dancing, but bouncing a little. He’s holding a highball glass with what looks like watered down whiskey, and every few moments, he takes a sip. I dance my way over to him, getting up close and personal with a few other candidates in the process, then pause in front of the one I picked.
“You’re doing it all wrong,” I say.
He cups his hand by his ear. “What?”
I lean close so that my lips are almost brushing his temple. “I said, you’re doing it all wrong.”
“Doing what?”
I take the glass out of his hand and set it on a nearby speaker. “Dancing,” I say, as I grab both of his hands with my own. “I’ll show you how to do it right.”
I lead him out onto the floor, not giving him a chance to protest. We slide in among other sweaty, pulsing couples. Touching, flirting, getting dangerously close and then pulling away. The mating dance of the young and single, and this man and I are going at it in full force. Building and building, hands to hands, hips to hips. And when I look at his face and see that he wants me, I know it’s time for step two.
Breathing hard, I move in close and hook my arms around his neck. “So, what’s your name?”
“Louis Dale. What’s yours?”
I shake my head. “Nope, that’s not the way we play this game, Louis.”
“What game?”
But all I do is smile and give him my hand. “Do you have a car nearby?”
“I—oh, yeah. Yeah, I sure do.”
I let him lead me out of the club, then across the street to a pay-to-park lot. He stops in front of a sporty gray Lexus. “Nice ride,” I say, easing in so that his back is against the car. My palms are flat against his chest. “What else have you got for me that’s nice?”
I press close, reveling in that rush of satisfaction when I feel him hard against me. I don’t want him—not really—but I do want this. The control. The power. The knowing that whatever I give or take tonight is because I’m giving or I’m taking. It’s been years since I’ve needed to feel that so tangibly, but dammit all to hell, I need it tonight.
“I think we need a hotel, Louis, don’t you?”
“Hell yes,” he says, then pushes me back and spins me around so that it is my back against the car and he’s crushed up against me. He’s breathing hard, leaning in for a kiss, but I only turn my head.
“Not just yet,” I say, because I’m the one in control tonight. But then I gasp as Louis is ripped away from me, the look of shock on his face almost comic as he stumbles backward, then lands on his ass a good two yards away.
“Not just yet?” Jackson growls. “Try not ever.” He grabs my hand and yanks me to him with such force that I fall against him. His arm goes immediately around my waist and despite my shock and anger—despite my embarrassment—I can’t help the wash of both relief and longing that crashes over me like a wave.
But I don’t want to be relieved, and so I shove violently back from him, burying the depth of my discomfort under the force of my words. “What the hell? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He ignores me, but aims his finger at Louis. “You. Get the fuck out of here.”
Louis’s eyes dart sideways—not to me so much as to the car. Then he sort of crab-walks backward before stumbling to his feet and holding his hands up in supplication. “Hey, man, she—”
“Go,” Jackson says.
Louis obeys, racing across to the far side of the parking lot.
As soon as he disappears into the shadows, Jackson grabs my arms. He yanks me toward him, so close we are breathing each other’s air. He is vibrating with fury, and for a moment I can’t tell if he wants to kiss me or hit me.
He does neither.
I see the struggle play out on his face, and then he slams me backward against Louis’s car. “What the fuck are you doing?” he demands. “You want danger? Try me, Sylvia, because you have no idea how dangerous I can be.” He tightens his grip on my arms. “Or maybe you want anonymous? Me again—because if you think you know me, princess, I promise you don’t.”