“Jackson,” she says, shaking his hand in a manner that I’m certain would have been a very deep kiss were she not on the clock. “I didn’t realize you were checked in.”
“I’m not. I finally bit the bullet and got my own place. But my friend needs a place for the night. Could you see about getting her a room? Sylvia Brooks,” he says. “But I’ll take care of the charges.”
“The hell you will,” I say.
“We’ll get her settled,” Jennifer Trane the night manager says, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. If there is any jealousy lurking there, it is well hidden. Even so, I can’t help but wonder how they know each other. And as I wonder, I want to swiftly kick myself in the ass. Because I really don’t need to be going there.
“All set,” the night clerk says, then passes Jennifer a small envelope with my card key. “Right this way, Ms. Brooks,” Jennifer says, and I start to walk after her. For one moment, I consider simply bolting and getting a taxi. But my Santa Monica condo suddenly seems very far away, and the thought of a soft bed nearby is incredibly enticing.
I turn back, expecting to see Jackson behind me. Instead, he is still standing in the lobby. “Goodbye, Sylvia,” he says. And for the second time that night, Jackson Steele walks away.
eight
Sylvia …
Sylvia …
Sylvia!
I sit bolt upright, breathing hard. I’m in a strange, dark room, and something is buzzing repeatedly, sounding to my tormented mind like my name being called over and over and over again.
But it’s not my name. It’s my phone. And as I scramble to find it, reality returns.
I’m in a hotel room. I’m by myself.
And Jackson is standing firm on his ultimatum about the resort.
Well, hell.
As for the rest of it—the memories, the zoning out, the way he touched me—I really don’t want to go there.
But even though I tell myself that, I can’t help the jolt of disappointment when I finally squint at my now-silent phone and see that the call wasn’t from Jackson.
Damn.
I sit up, stretching as I play the voice mail from Cass.
“Hey, girl, I tried to find you last night, and then someone said they saw you leaving with Jackson right behind you. So I hope that Jackson said yes to the resort and you’re home sleeping the sleep of victory. Or he said no, and you’re home sleeping the sleep of defeat. Either way, I hope you didn’t do something stupid. Zee and I are about to crash for a few hours, but if you get this right away, then call me. It’s, um, not quite eight. And if I don’t hear from you by ten, I’m going to be supremely pissed. No excuses, Syl. Call me.”
The phone goes dead.
Well, I think. All right then.
I hesitate, because I’m not entirely sure I want to talk. But this is Cass and she loves me and even though she didn’t outright say it, I also know that she’s worried. So I bite the bullet and call.
“You bitch,” she says without preamble. “You didn’t even text me. Where were you? Were you with Jackson?”
“I’m sorry. I just didn’t think. And no. I mean, yes. I mean, later. I was with Jackson later.”
“So you’re home now?”
I glance around the hotel and frown. “I’m at the Redbury.”
The pause is so long that I pull my phone away from my ear so that I can make sure we haven’t been disconnected.
“Did you fuck him?”
“No!” My tone is full of righteous indignation, which, considering Jackson had his fingers in my panties, is a little bit disingenuous. “I wasn’t even with him most of the time. I—oh, shit, Cass. I went to Avalon.”
“Fuck me sideways, Syl. Seriously?”
Now the worry is plain in her voice, and it’s clear that she understood my meaning—I didn’t go there just to dance.
I rush to reassure her. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“Am I giving you another tattoo?” Her words are controlled and evenly spaced. Not anger, I think. But fear.
“No,” I say, grateful that Jackson showed up when he did. “Almost,” I admit. “But no.”
“I’m on my way,” she says.
“No, Cass, really. I’m fine. I’m going to get cleaned up and get to the office. See if I can find another architect who will make the investors happy.” I say it lightly, even though I know there’s no way in hell.
“You’re sure? You don’t have a car, and I’m not that far away.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “And you don’t want to leave Zee, and she doesn’t want to spend the morning with me. Seriously, it’s all good.”
“Okay. Listen, Zee lives in Silver Lake, and my cell signal is for shit here, so if you call and I don’t answer, leave a message and I’ll call you back from her landline.”
“I won’t. I’m fine. Quit playing Mommy.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be,” I say gently. “It’s all good.”
I can practically see her dissatisfied expression. “Fine. Tonight, then. I’ve got a one o’clock that should take a couple of hours, but after that I’m free. Meet me at the shop at three?”
And because we both need reassurance that I’m all right, I nod. “Yeah,” I say into the phone. “We can grab a late lunch.”
“Forget the late lunch. I’m going to want an early drink.”
I laugh, and we end the call.
I briefly consider whether I should go back to sleep for a few hours or just grab a taxi and get out of here. After I hit the bathroom, though, I decide to compromise on a shower. Because this bathroom is truly fab. With black tiled walls, ultra-modern fixtures, and a walk-in rain shower.
I turn the water on and wait for the temperature to adjust, standing naked in front of the mirror as I do.
Am I giving you another tattoo?
Cass’s words seem to echo in the small room, and I slide my hand down until my fingers brush the lock that Cass inked just above my line of pubic hair. The first of so many. The mirror isn’t a full-length style, but if I stand back far enough I can see most of myself. And the truth is, I don’t need to see anyway. I know where they all are. Every souvenir. Every mark. Every pain, and every memory.
I turn my leg out, revealing the curving red ribbon inked onto the soft skin between my torso and left thigh, the ribbon curling from my pubis to my hip. And on it, the ornately scripted initials, TS, KC, DW. Small and intricately designed, like the text of a medieval manuscript, so that the letters appear to be little more than a random design. Of course, they are anything but.
I remember that night with Jackson—one night that held all the force and emotion of a lifetime. He’d traced his finger on the ribbon, and asked what it meant. I’d told him that it meant nothing, but that was a lie. The initials mean everything. They are a mark of both shame and power. A reminder of who I was, and who I will never be again.
They represent men like Louis. Men I’d gone after in those years before Jackson. Men I’d taken to bed so that I could use instead of being used.