On My Knees

Page 85

To save my brother.
What did it matter that I’d been ashamed? That I’d hated it?
I realize with a start that I am standing there frozen. But this is a cubicle, and anyone can pop by and stick their head through the door.
With a small, panicked cry, I burst forward, then start to shove all the photos back into the envelope. As I do, I find a small, white envelope mixed in among them. It has no address, just my name.
I stare at it, certain that whatever is in the envelope is worse than those photos.
I don’t want to open it. I don’t want to know.
Roughly, I shove it to the far side of my desk, and then scoop the photos back into the big envelope. I seal the clasp. I cram the whole thing in my purse.
I want to run to the shredder, but I know that I can’t. I have to keep them.
And, dammit, I have to know what the letter says.
Slowly, I open it. Inside the envelope there is a small piece of paper with just a few words, but they are enough to send me falling into my chair as my knees buckle.
The public sees the movie or these pictures. Tell Steele it’s up to him.
Oh god oh god oh god.
I sit there, my hands on my knees, trying desperately to remember how to breathe. I’m not doing a very good job, and I’m afraid that any minute, I’m going to pass out. But I know that I have to hold it together. I’m in a fucking cubicle and I don’t want anyone to see me like this.
I try to think what to do, but my mind doesn’t seem to be working right.
Jackson. I need Jackson.
I fumble for my phone, then have to resist the urge to fling it across the room when it rolls to voice mail. I try again and again, but there is no answer. I start to send a text message, but my hands are shaking too much.
I need to get out of here. If I can just get out of here, then maybe I can breathe.
I take my tote bag and my phone and I head toward the elevator, then ride it all the way to the lobby. When I arrive and have cell service again, I text Rachel. I’m proud that I’ve calmed enough to manage that small task. I tell her that I’m meeting with a list of contractors and will be out of the office for the rest of the day.
Then I get back into the elevator and descend to the parking garage. And then, when I’m finally in my car, I clutch the steering wheel, close my eyes, and cry and cry and cry.
Enough.
After a good ten minutes lost in a crying jag, I grip the steering wheel, squeeze my eyes shut tight, and force myself to calm the fuck down. This sucks, yes. It’s completely, totally, one hundred percent fucked up.
But that doesn’t mean I have to go spiraling down into hysterics like some doe-eyed twit from the seventeenth century.
I am not a weak woman. I’m not.
I saw what I wanted with the Cortez resort, didn’t I? And I went after it.
I found the strength to walk away from Jackson five years ago when I thought I had to. And, yes, I had the mettle to later admit that I still wanted him, and that we could battle my nightmares together.
All of which translates into strong, right? So what the hell am I doing breaking down in my car?
I already melted down once over this asshole’s pictures of me. I’m not going to do it again just because there are more. Even if these new pictures are a billion times more horrible.
I’m not weak, I tell myself again. Because the more I say it, the more I believe it. I’m strong.
Hasn’t Jackson told me so over and over and over?
Jackson.
Christ, I’ve been selfish. Wanting him beside me to help me find strength, when the fact is that he’s just as deep into this as me. More, maybe, since at the end of the day what Reed wants is to make the movie, not release the pictures. Jackson’s going to be just as angry as I am scared. And he’s going to need me just as much as I need him.
Even while the thought makes me sad, it also comforts me. Because we’re in this together, he and I, and the truth is that we’re a pretty damn good team. Not only are we planning an entire resort together, but we’ve survived a hell of a lot of shit.
We can do this.
Granted, I don’t know how, since Reed has put us at crosspurposes—but we’ll figure it out. That’s what we do.
But I need Jackson beside me to do it, and so I rub my hands over my eyes, tell myself very sternly that I cannot break down over the phone, and dial his number again.
This time—thank you thank you thank you—he answers on the first ring.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Brooks,” he says in the kind of voice that suggests that he’s happy to hear from me, but deep into business-mode. “I’m just sitting down with Mr. Pierce to talk price on a couple thousand tons of burnished copper plating. Can I call you back in a few?”