I settle back as Jackson maneuvers onto the freeway. Jackson and Damien may never be as close as I am with my brother, Ethan, but at least they’ve left epic acrimony and distrust behind. Then again, considering who their father is, maybe they’ll bond over their mutually wretched childhoods. That would put them leaps and bounds ahead of me and Ethan, because as much as I love my brother, I haven’t shared with him the hell I went through during our youth. Not only because I don’t want his pity, but because I don’t want his guilt.
Ethan knows that I modeled, and that the money I earned went toward the medical treatments that saved his life. But he doesn’t know how much those treatments cost or what exactly our father was selling to Reed. Not just my image, but me. To photograph, to touch. To use.
And though I hated every goddamn minute of it—though I begged my father to make it stop—I never did the one thing that was always in my power to do. I never ran. Because I knew that we needed the money. That despite the horror of it all, somehow I was helping to save my brother.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, because now my father is in my head, and I really, really don’t want him there. I’d pushed him out after he called me in Santa Fe, and I’m not at all pleased that I’ve let him back in.
“Dammit,” Jackson says under his breath, and for a moment I actually think he’s commenting on my thoughts.
When I come to my senses, I’m absurdly grateful for the distraction. “What?”
“I completely forgot to call Ronnie at bedtime, and now it’s almost eleven there.” He slams his hand against the steering wheel. “Shit. So much for father of the year.”
“Text Betty,” I suggest. “Tell her not to answer her phone. Then call and leave a message for Ronnie that she can play to her in the morning.”
Jackson pauses at the road that turns into the marina where his boat is docked. Then he shifts in his seat and stares at me.
I squirm a little under his inspection. “Um, what?”
“Maybe you should get father of the year. That’s brilliant.”
A delighted laugh bubbles out of me. “I aim to please.”
He reaches over and slides his hand very slowly over my jean-clad leg. “And you do it very, very well.”
I’m still tingling from the sensual tone of his voice and the heat from his touch as we approach the entrance to the marina. It’s marked by a guard station with a gate that lifts and lowers to allow residents and their guests to enter. Never once, however, have I seen it down, and usually the guard who sits in the small station simply waves us through.
Today, though, the gate is lowered—and it’s easy enough to see why. Dozens of reporters line the drive—some are even perched on camp-style chairs or sprawled on the ground, as if they’ve been waiting for hours. But they rise to their feet as Jackson’s Porsche approaches, and rush toward us en masse, almost like a swarm of bees zeroing in on a target.
“Fuck,” Jackson says, and I silently second the curse, even though we both know that we should have expected this.
“Jackson! How long have you known Damien Stark is your half-brother?”
“Did you follow your brother’s trial in Germany?”
“Sylvia, did you know your boss and your boyfriend were related?”
“What’s the status of the Fletcher house movie, Jackson? Is it tabled now that Reed is dead?”
Jackson is inching the car forward, though I have a feeling he wants to gun it and maybe run over a few toes in the process. He reaches the guard station and rolls the window down to talk to the man inside.
“How long has this been going on, Charlie?”
“Couple of hours, Mr. Steele. The property managers are hiring extra security. We’ll keep them out of your hair.”
“I’ll pay for the extra men.” Jackson’s voice is tight.
“Well, sir, I guess that’s up to you. We’ve got the cameras on and there’ll be extra men walking the property tonight. But you be sure and lock the gate to your dock and the doors on the Veronica.”
“I will. Thanks, Charlie. And sorry.”
“Not your fault, Mr. Steele,” the guard says loyally, though I can tell from Jackson’s face he disagrees.
He remains tense all the way to his parking slot in front of his boat, and once he kills the engine, he turns to me. I shake my head and press a finger over his lips. I don’t know if he’s about to curse them or apologize for them, but I don’t want to hear either. Instead, I want to make him forget. And so I lean toward him as I lower my hand and press it over his thigh, just close enough to his cock to let him know that the paparazzi are the very last thing I’m interested in at the moment.
