And those are both very big things. Big, important, emotional things.
My own words to Cass return to haunt me. Maybe you were seeing what you wanted to see, instead of what was really there?
Is that what I’m doing with Jackson?
Am I seeing trust because I want to see it? Because I crave his presence? His touch?
Am I fabricating depth to a relationship that isn’t there?
And if I am, how do I stop?
More important, how do I tell the difference?
fourteen
“I am completely undrunk.” Cass scowls at me as I take one arm and Jackson takes the other.
“Not drunk at all,” I agree. “But we thought you might want to ride in the limo.”
“Yeah?”
“It has a bar,” I remind her. “In case you want to get more undrunk.”
She narrows her eyes, but she’s too wasted to decide whether I’m serious or not.
We leave through the front entrance that faces Sunset Boulevard, and I see that Edward has pulled the limo up by the valet stand. We maneuver Cass down the set of six steps, then move across the wide sidewalk. Beside us, a crowd is gathered behind the velvet rope, impatiently waiting to enter this popular hotspot.
We’re walking slowly in deference to Cass’s general state of inebriation, and when the first camera flash fires, I realize that we’ve been recognized. Suddenly, both the in-line crowd and the passersby are raising their phones and taking pictures. The rapid-fire flashes burst all around us, making me feel like we’re arriving at a movie premiere rather than going home to nurse a drunk friend.
Usually, this kind of attention doesn’t bother me. Damien attracts the paparazzi wherever he goes, which means it has little to nothing to do with me. I’m just the assistant in the background, much like the way Secret Service agents appear in so many candid photos of the president.
Tonight, however, is different. Tonight, we’ve already dealt with Graham Elliott’s celebrity inside the club. Out here, we are dealing with Jackson’s. Because this crowd wants pictures of the guy who bloodied the face of Robert Cabot Reed. And if they can get a shot of him with the former teen model that Reed photographed, then all the better.
Honestly, the thought makes my stomach curdle.
“Jackson! Jackson!”
“Why’d you punch him?”
“Sylvia! Why did you give up modeling?”
“What’s the status of the movie, Jackson? Is it true you’re trying to block production?”
“Someone just tweeted photos of you and Graham Elliott talking inside. Is he attached to the project?”
“How long have you and Sylvia been dating?”
The questions are coming on top of one another, and my initial calm in the face of the familiar has entirely evaporated.
I glance at Jackson, and it’s clear that he sees my panic. “Go,” he says, nodding toward the red-jacketed valet who is holding open the limo door for us. “I’ve got Cass.”
At this point, I’m all about self-preservation, and I bolt for the limo. I get settled, then punch the intercom to tell Edward, the driver, that we’re going to Jackson’s boat. I start to give him the address, but he cuts me off. “Don’t you worry, Ms. Brooks. I’ve got it under control.”
A moment later, Jackson guides my unsteady best friend into the limo and settles her on the back bench. He starts to cross the short distance to where I sit on the long side of the limo, but she tugs him down beside her.
He glances at me, but I just shrug, amused.
The moment we pull away from the curb, Cass peers around the interior. She looks at the bar, then looks to me sitting right beside it.
“Just one more,” she says. “Pretty please?”
I roll my eyes, but grab a tiny bottle of vodka. I pass it to her, and I’m about to pass her a glass with ice as well, but she’s already unscrewed the lid and is taking a sip.
“Was that such a good idea?” Jackson asks.
“Probably not,” I admit. “But she’s calling it quits with Zee, and I think she decided to drink away her angst while you and I were otherwise occupied.”
“Hell, yeah, I did.”
I grimace. “She’s on a bender now, and not driving. Might as well let her finish.”
Jackson tilts his head, and I see compassion in both his expression and the way he pulls her closer and gently strokes her hair. “I’m so sorry, kiddo.”
“It’s just not working with her,” Cass murmurs. “I know it hasn’t been that long, and she’s going to say that we just need to give it time, but—”
