Under My Skin

Page 41

As I head to the elevator, I shoot Jackson a text—Safe and sound in the condo. See you soon.
I still don’t have a reply by the time I get upstairs, but I’m not surprised. He’s with Damien, after all, and on top of everything that’s happened recently, they have a lifetime of catching up to do.
So do I, I realize, as I step into my condo. Or maybe not a lifetime of catching up, but at least several days’ worth.
I wrinkle my nose, because the place has that closed-up smell that is one part dirty laundry and two parts something left in the trash I forgot to take out.
I remedy that first, emptying the trash from all of the rooms, then shoving a lemon down the disposal and turning it on while I run the trash to the chute. I hit the button for the back door as I step into the hall, and by the time I return thirty seconds later, my garage-style door has almost completely ascended, letting in a nice, cleansing ocean breeze.
On a normal day, I’d be irritated with myself for doing something as stupid as forgetting to take the trash out. Today, however, is not normal. I want a distraction, and cleaning seems like just the ticket.
Within half an hour, I’ve gone through the pantry and refrigerator and tossed every bit of old food. An hour after that, I’ve vacuumed, added some essential oils to the potpourri I keep on a table in front of the couch, completed one load of laundry and started a second, and am telling myself that I wasn’t worried by Jackson’s lack of response two hours ago, and I have no reason to be worried now. We’d all left work early, so it’s only seven. For all I know, drinks turned into dinner. And if that’s the case, I should be happy. After all, I love Jackson and I respect Damien; I want them to get along.
But despite telling myself that, the sense of dread in my stomach doesn’t ease, and though I really don’t want to, I pull out my phone. This time, I’m not going to text Jackson.
This time, I’m searching social media.
And, dammit, there he is. Not just one picture, but several.
Jackson and Damien walking down the hill to the Biltmore, presumably taken by one of the photographers who’ve taken to camping outside Stark Tower just on the off chance another prime shot like the one of Megan kissing Jackson comes along.
Then there’s a shot of them entering the Biltmore, then several of the exterior of the hotel with the hashtag #StarkSteeleWatch.
Great.
Of course, there’s nothing inherently bad about any of these pictures. It’s just the fact of them that bothers me. That they exist at all, and that they exist because a layer of Jackson’s privacy has been stripped away.
Damien has always been news-fodder, of course, but for the most part, nobody camps out at the Tower anymore, primarily because there’s no Stark scandal at the moment. Or, at least, there wasn’t.
Now there’s murder and sabotage and sibling speculation, and the frenzy has started up all over again.
I sigh, knowing that it won’t die down until after Jackson is either cleared or tried. And so long as I’m tied to Jackson, I’m in the thick of it, too. Right now, the press is only interested in me as Jackson’s girlfriend and the resort’s project manager. Yes, they know that I was a model for Reed years ago, but those photos are so tame that they’ve died down on social media. But the more I’m caught in the spotlight that shines on Jackson, the more likely the press will dig.
And if they learn about the blackmail—if that goes public—
I shiver, because that is a thought that I really can’t let into my head.
With an effort, I force my mind away from all this. I plug my phone into the small speakers in my kitchen, and my favorite playlist starts blaring out Basket Case from Green Day. That’ll work, I think, as I crank the volume and then go to change the sheets. That, and then vacuuming, will keep me busy for another half-hour.
And if I haven’t heard from Jackson by then, I’ll call Nikki. If I can’t find my boyfriend, maybe she at least knows how to find her husband.
I strip the sheets, then ball them up and start to carry them from the bedroom to the small laundry closet that is just off the kitchen. But the moment I turn around, I drop them, and a small, startled “oh!” escapes me.
“Let’s go,” Jackson says. He’s by my breakfast bar tapping the key I gave him against the granite counter. He stands tall and straight, his eyes hard, his expression defiant. But what it is that he is defying, I really don’t know.
“Go?” I repeat. “Go where.”
A flicker of irritation crosses his face. “Back to the boat.”