twenty-nine

The only reason Jackson got through the rest of Sunday was because he had Ronnie to take care of. And the only reason he survived Monday morning was because Stella took care of Ronnie, and Jackson buried himself in work.

But by mid-afternoon, even the pull of the resort wasn’t keeping him on track. He was edgy. Lost. Angry.

He wanted to lash out, and more than once during the morning he’d considered calling Sutter and getting him to open the gym. Maybe even go a few rounds. But the idea of losing himself to the dance and weave, the sweat and pain, the screaming muscles and pumped up adrenaline wasn’t doing it for him today.

No, he knew what the goddamn antidote for his misery was—and she’d up and left him.

Goddammit.

And for that matter, goddamn her. He wanted to be patient. He wanted to help. But at the same time he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. And it frustrated the hell out of him that while he could grab control from her in bed, in life, she had to make her own choices, her own decisions.

He only hoped she made the right one. Because he loved her, and he knew that she loved him. He wanted to make a family with her, a life. And he believed with all his heart that she wanted the same thing. But it was fear that had pushed her away. And all he could do was hope that her innate strength would bring her back. She had a lot of strength, after all. She’d pulled him back, hadn’t she?

Hell.

He glanced at the clock, saw that it was Ronnie’s snack time, and decided to go see if he could share a PB&J with his daughter and her nanny. He was almost to the elevator bank when his assistant, Lauren, called out to him. “Mr. Steele? Rachel just called down. She says there’s someone to see you on thirty-five.”

Sylvia? Surely not, but maybe she was being coy. He allowed himself the pleasure of the fantasy that she was waiting for him at her desk, but when he arrived, he was disappointed to see that it wasn’t her—and confused that it was Graham Elliott instead.

“Mr. Steele,” Graham said, walking to him and holding out his hand. “I’m sorry to bother you at the office. I’ve met Evelyn Dodge a time or two socially, and when I said I wanted to talk to you, she suggested I come by.” He shot a Hollywood smile toward Rachel, who looked like she was going to float out of her chair. “Ms. Peters has been nice enough to entertain me.”

“I, um, water? Would you like water? Or coffee? Or—”

Graham shook his head. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

Jackson slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “What can I do for you?” He tried to say it politely; he wasn’t sure he succeeded. This was the man who wanted to play him in a movie about the Fletcher house, after all. This was the man willing to foment the kind of scandal that would throw slime all over Jackson’s daughter.

“Two things, actually. I wanted to say congrats on getting your name cleared. And I wanted to tell you that I’m off the movie.”

Jackson shifted his weight. Not relaxing—not yet—but interested. And dubious. “Is that so?”

Graham seemed to deflate a bit. “Look, I’m breaking a confidence, but you should know that your dad was in bed with Reed. He was keen on getting the movie made. Figured it would be one hell of a payday. Even dropped that bombshell about you and your brother when interest waned. Guess he figured it would pick back up.”

Jackson stood perfectly still. “And you? Why were you involved?”

“The material rocks, man. And it’s not defamation. All that shit that happened to you—to the Fletchers—it’s a damn solid story and it would make one hell of a movie.”

“And yet you’re not going to make it.”

Graham met his eyes. “I’m not,” he said. “The material’s good, but my perspective has changed. My girlfriend’s pregnant, and if anyone messed with my kid, I’d fuck them up one side and down the other. But I guess you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? That’s why you were trying to kill the movie.”

Jackson nodded. “Yes. It was.”

“Was your dad the leak? About your daughter, I mean.”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I think the press just did their job and found the court papers in New Mexico.”

Graham nodded. “Listen, I can’t promise that no one else will hop on, but I can promise they’ll get no support from me. And with you no longer a suspect, the tabloids will back off. I predict they lose interest.”

“Thank you,” Jackson said, but the simple formality of his words couldn’t convey the extent of his relief. “And congratulations.”

Graham’s face broke into the smile that made him a household name. “Thanks. It’s pretty amazing, don’t you think?”

“What?”

“Fatherhood. It changes fucking everything.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said softly. “It does.”

A few minutes later, the elevator doors closed behind Graham, and Rachel let out a long sigh. “Wow.”

Jackson smiled indulgently. Considering she’d recently been burned by Trent’s deception, it was nice she’d gotten a celebrity treat. “Is Damien in?”

“Sorry, no. Do you want me to leave a message?”

Jackson shook his head. “No. I’ll tell him later.” He headed back to the elevator bank, fully intending to take the express to the apartment. Instead, he got into the regular car and descended to the parking garage. His mind was whirring as he strode to his Porsche. They were cut from the same cloth, Sylvia’s father and Jeremiah Stark. But at least Sylvia’s dad was trying to mend what he destroyed, even if murder was a rather dramatic way to apologize.

But not Jeremiah. He just kept hacking away at Jackson’s and Damien’s lives, as if they were gemstones and he was trying to mine a sliver, not caring that he was damaging the whole.

That was something Jackson was damn sure he wouldn’t do as a father. He’d make mistakes as a parent, sure. But he wouldn’t repeat his father’s. Sylvia knew that—he was one hundred percent certain that she believed in his ability to raise his child.

So why the hell couldn’t she see that in herself?

He was already out of the parking garage before he realized that his destination was Santa Monica. He’d been trying to give her space, but he was done. He wanted her. He needed her.

And he was damn sure she needed him.

Time to go bring back the woman he was going to marry. Time to convince her that she should stay. That this would work.

Because, dammit, he wasn’t going to lose her again.

thirty

I don’t actually know how I got here, but instead of going home after leaving my father, I went to Van Nuys and to the warehouse where Reed ran one of the studios where he so often photographed me.

Now I’m sitting in the parking lot in my Nissan, just staring at those nondescript, weathered walls that seem so dull. And I can’t help but wonder what is going on behind them now. For that matter, who knows what’s really going on behind any walls? Or inside anyone’s head?

I don’t know what my father was thinking back then, but I believe him now. His regret is real, his overture legitimate. I will never be as close to him as Jackson will be to Ronnie, but despite the fact that I never would have believed it before, I really do want to try and heal. To take his apology and his retreat and turn it around, box it up, and move past it.

I slide the car back into drive, not entirely certain why I came at all. Closure? Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to prove to myself that this wasn’t actually hell. That there was no fire and brimstone, and that any of the demons who live here are in my mind—and I can defeat them.