Under My Skin

Page 80

But there’s no Jackson there, either.
I drive by the lot in the Palisades, thinking that perhaps he’s simply melancholy. Again, nothing.
I’m still baffled and stymied when I swing by Cass’s house. She, at least, is at home.
“He’s probably beating the shit out of someone,” Cass says.
I make a face, because I’m afraid that Cass is right. “I hope not,” I say. “If the press gets a picture of that, it’s not exactly going to help his case.”
“Have you called Harriet?”
I haven’t, and it’s a good idea. I call, but get only voice mail. I’m about to bitch to Cass some more, when the phone rings, and I can’t help but be impressed by Harriet’s promptness.
“Are you okay?” she says, and I’m touched that she’s asking. I’m not the one who is her client, after all.
“Not really. I want to find him, Harriet. Do you know where he is?”
I’m afraid that she’s going to tell me that she’s not allowed to say. Or worse, that she’s certain he’s made the right decision and she thinks it would be better not to tell me.
But she surprises me by saying, “He’s got a room at the Biltmore.”
“Thank you.” The words are thick with relief. My next, however, are tentative. “Is he—I mean, how is he doing?”
“Let’s just say that I wouldn’t have told you where he is if I didn’t think that seeing you would do him good.”
I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Thank you,” I say again, then end the call.
I look at Cass.
“Don’t waste time talking to me,” she says. “Go.”
I do. And I’m pretty sure I break every speed record known to man getting from Venice Beach to downtown LA. I leave my car with the valet then burst into the hotel, only to lose steam when the front desk clerk absolutely refuses to tell me Jackson’s number. Some bullshit song and dance about privacy. And he digs his heels in even more when I decline his suggestion that I call up to Jackson’s room.
Damn.
It’s not even three in the afternoon yet, but I figure I can stake out the lobby if I have to, and for as long as I have to. But before I do that, I step into the Gallery Bar, just because it’s Jackson’s favorite place and being in there will make me feel closer to him.
And the moment I do, I see him.
I wasn’t expecting it, not this early. But he’s at the bar, and Phil is in front of him, chatting as he refills Jackson’s glass.
I straighten my shoulders, strengthen my resolve, and march in that direction.
He knows I am there before I say anything. I can tell from the tightening of his posture. The way his drink stills on the way to his mouth. “Sylvia,” he says, then turns in his stool to face me.
I take the seat next to him. “Fancy meeting you here.”
He looks at me, and the flicker of pleasure I see in his eyes gives me hope. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Free country,” I counter.
“Dammit, Syl.” Frustration spikes his voice, and Phil slips quietly away, letting us talk.
“Don’t. I saw it in your eyes. You were happy to see me.”
“Always,” he says. “That’s why it was so hard to let you go.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
He doesn’t argue. “How did you find me?”
“I looked for you at the boat. At the office. I ended up calling Harriet. Don’t be mad at her.”
“I’m not,” he says, and that flutter of hope inside me blooms wider.
I take the scotch that Jackson still holds, then drink deeply, my eyes never leaving his. Then I put the glass down defiantly on the bar. “I need you to hear me out. If nothing else, you owe me that much, okay?”
He’s silent for a moment, then he nods, his acquiescence surprising me. “All right.”
“You’re an idiot,” I begin. “An idiot if you think you can push me away so easily. You can’t, and you and I both know it.”
He doesn’t say anything, and once again, I take that as encouragement.
“Do you remember when Damien made me fire you and I felt guilty for not quitting my job, too?”
“Of course.”
“Do you remember what you told me?” I don’t wait for his answer. Instead, I hurry on. “You said you’d never ask me to walk away from something I love. But dammit, Jackson, there’s nothing in this world I love more than you.”