But it’s not the shadows I’m running from. It’s not even Jackson. Not entirely.
It’s Jackson and myself and the whole fucked up situation.
Because damn me to hell, all Jackson wants is to punish me. I know that—I know it. And yet all he has to do is crook a finger to make me melt.
Just like Bob did all those years ago.
Fuck.
This was a mistake. Such a huge mistake. I should never have gotten in Jackson’s bed, and if that meant abandoning the resort, then I should have just walked away. Because I cannot be this woman. I can’t be the girl who surrenders. Who gives in. I have to hold on tight to control, because it is the only protection I have.
I hate that as well.
And so I drive, taking the curves wildly, trying desperately to lose myself in the thrill of danger, burying my fear under this rush of pure adrenal sensation and absolute concentration.
Except it doesn’t work. My head is too full, my thoughts too wild, and with one violent turn of the wheel, I whip the car into a turnaround and slam on the brakes. The Porsche jolts to a stop dangerously close to the drop-off, and for a moment I wonder what that would have been like, soaring out into space and then dropping down, down, down into nothingness.
I push the thought away. That is not me; not who I am at all. And it never has been.
Even as a teen, when I so desperately wanted it to end, I never wanted to end me. Instead I wanted to get lost inside myself, to find that safe place and to cling to talismans that would protect me from the nightmares.
My whole life, I’ve managed to keep a tight hold, with only two exceptions—Atlanta and right now.
And there’s Jackson Steele right in the middle, sending me battering about as if he is a storm and I am nothing more than a cork bobbing in violent waters.
I get out of the car and walk to the edge, then look down at the lights of the world. The houses where happy people sleep through dreamless nights.
I am jealous, I realize. And I am alone.
I close my eyes against a sudden, powerful longing for Jackson. To let him hold and soothe me.
You’re a fool, I think. A goddamn, messed up fool.
The purr of an engine pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to see a black sedan pull into the turnaround.
I frown. I’m not looking for company, and I’m not stupid. I’m a woman alone in the dark standing beside a pretty damn expensive car. All of which means that this is my cue to leave.
I get back into the Porsche, lock the doors, and back out.
The sedan is still there, its engine off, its interior dark.
But as I turn the wheel so that I can maneuver back onto the street, my headlights sweep over the sedan, and for a moment the interior is illuminated.
It’s Jackson.
Somehow, he followed me.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, expecting a wave of anger.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel a little less lost. A little bit safe.
And because of that, I feel a little bit scared.
I don’t go back to the hotel. Instead, I go home.
I feel like a sleepwalker as I stand in my front hallway and press the button to open the back patio door. It rolls up, and I move forward in time with the motion.
I have no idea what I want right now.
No, that’s not true. I’ve known since the moment my headlights revealed him.
I want Jackson.
I want him here beside me. I want him to hold and soothe me. But I can’t have what I want, not only because of this ridiculous game that we are locked in, but because there is no future there. In the end, he will have his revenge and leave. Or I will push him away, my only defense against my fears and insecurities, those horrible demons with which I cannot live, and that I do not know how to fight.
Either way, I will be alone.
And that’s why I am here on my patio, my blanket wrapped tight around me, and my eyes closed in the hope that sleep might find me.
Sylvia.
I smile, letting the sound of my name on his lips slide into my dreams. I feel the press of a hand on my shoulder, gentle but firm, and I take a long, deep breath. These are not the cold fingers of a nightmare, but the warm and soothing touch of that knight I so often imagine. I shift, pulling the blanket up under my chin, wanting to go deeper into this place of safety that I so rarely find in sleep.
Sylvia. Baby, wake up.
I stir, confused, then open my eyes to find Jackson’s blue ones looking back at me, full of concern.
“There you are,” he says gently.
“I—” Since I have no idea what I intended to say, I stop talking. But I force myself to sit up and peer at him and convince myself that he’s not a figment of my imagination. “You came after me,” I say. “In the car. On the road.”
