On My Knees

Page 13

And, yes, I hate myself because despite what has happened—despite knowing that Jackson is in pain—I don’t want to quit this job that I love.
“Goddammit.” I grab an eraser off the table and hurl it across the room. It hits the window just inches away from where Jackson’s pencils had struck. It makes no sound, then drops to the ground.
All in all, pretty damn unsatisfying, and I fall back into Jackson’s chair, close my eyes, and lower my head to his desk.
I’m lost and I’m angry and I’m confused.
Most of all, I’m impotent. Because I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know where to begin.
Don’t you know by now that I always need you?
His words echo in my mind, and I can’t help but wonder if he really meant them. Does he need me?
More important, does he need me now?
As it turns out, the question is moot, because Jackson is nowhere to be found, and by midnight I really don’t care what he wants or needs anymore. Now it’s all about me. Because I’m terrified that something horrible has happened to him, and all that matters is what I want and what I need.
What I need is to find him.
He’s not answering his phone. He’s not answering his texts.
I drive all the way to Marina del Rey only to discover that he’s not on his boat.
And when I call the Redbury, a boutique hotel that I know he’s stayed at before, I am assured that he is not registered there either.
I end up at my Santa Monica condo, and though I know perfectly well that I haven’t yet given him a key, I say a little prayer that he’s inside. That he’s fallen asleep on the back patio, and that by the time morning rolls around, we’ll be laughing about my antics to find him when he was at my place all along.
But he’s not here, either, and my options are dwindling even as my fears are rising. This is no longer about soothing his anger or hurt feelings. This is about being really and truly scared that Jackson is beat up and bloody somewhere. He has one hell of a temper, after all.
Hadn’t he gone after Reed?
Didn’t he have a scar on his forehead, a souvenir from when I had left him in Atlanta five long years ago?
“I turned anger into fights,” he’d once told me. “And I channeled control into sex.”
We’d certainly covered the sex part already. But now I am terribly afraid that he’s moved on to the fighting portion of the program.
I snatch up my phone and start to hit the speed dial for my best friend, Cass. But then I glance at the clock and see that it is after two in the morning. I hesitate, because she must be dead asleep by now. Then I say fuck it and dial. As far as I’m concerned, this is the kind of situation that is squarely covered by the best friend emergency pact.
“Who the fuck is this?”
The female who answers the phone is not Cass, and it takes a moment for my addled brain to regroup. “Zee, it’s Sylvia. I’m sorry I woke you, but it’s an emergency. Can you put Cass on?”
She sighs deeply before saying, “Sure. Whatever. Hold on.” At least, those are the words that filter across the cellular connection. But I hear what she’s really saying, and it sounds a hell of a lot more like, “You fucking bitch, it’s the middle of the night.”
Of course, I might be projecting. Cass and Zee—which is short for Zelda—have been dating for all of about five minutes, but already I’m seeing angst and insecurity all over my best friend. And I’m sorry, but Cass is on the upside of awesome, and if Zee doesn’t see that, then she is seriously warped.
“What’s wrong?” Cass barks out the question without preamble, and with no hint of sleep in her voice. She’s good in a crisis, and always has been, and it’s times like this when I’m even more grateful that she’s on my team.
“Jackson,” I say, then give her the quick and dirty rundown of what’s transpired. I don’t have to tell her that Jackson is Damien’s half-brother because Jackson already did that himself. He’d been desperate to find me, and he’d gone to Cass, then laid it all out for her, knowing that if anyone could help him find his way back to me, it was my best friend.
“I know he goes to gyms to blow off steam,” I say. “The kind with rings and boxing clubs. But no gym is gonna be open at this hour. What if he’s gotten in with one of those underground fight club groups? You know, the bare knuckles thing where the guys beat the shit out of each other and other people bet on it.”
I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, of course. I’m stringing together tidbits from fiction, movies, television, and short pieces I’ve caught on the evening news. But the idea that secret fight clubs exist makes perfect sense to me. And if they do exist, then I have no doubt that a man as capable and determined as Jackson would know how to find one.