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.
Which means I can’t get to them unless I can figure out his password.
Which I am absolutely going to try to do, despite personal privacy and all those buzzwords. Because, frankly, I’m worried. And, yes, because I need to see him.
I try the basics first—his birthday, his social security number—which I get by calling the security team at Stark. The license plate number of his car. When those don’t work, I try the name of his projects. His company. His boat.
Nada.
Finally, I try my name, and am disappointed when that doesn’t work, either.
But it does give me an idea, and instead of using the Veronica, I simply try Ronnie.
And, voilà, the computer buzzes to life.
Since I’m really not trying to snoop, I go straight to his contacts and do a search for Sutter. I find him, Clay Sutter, easily enough, and scribble both his office and mobile numbers onto a scrap of paper. Then I log out, pull out my own phone, and dial.
There’s no answer at the office number, which doesn’t surprise me as it’s already past ten at night. I hang up when the answering machine clicks on, and try Sutter’s mobile number. Voice mail there, too.
Well, hell.
I hang up, because I’m not prepared to leave a message. Will he hear it tonight? More important, will he deliver it?
I’ve just decided that I don’t have a choice, and am about to call back, when it occurs to me to text him. After all, voice mails require logging in, opening the message, listening to it. Lots of people ignore voice mails, myself included, unless I absolutely recognize the number.
But a text will flash across his phone screen, and that’s what I want.
So I tap one out, then revise, then tap some more.
Finally, I send my message:
Looking for Jackson-911. This is Sylvia. Please, do you know where he is?
