"I never didn't want you." My words are a whisper, but I know that he can hear them.
"I know. I get it."
"What I mean is that it's more than that. I haven't been with a guy. Not since Atlanta."
"I know," he says.
"You do? How?"
When he looks at me, I see infinite understanding in his eyes. "The ribbon tattoo. There are no new initials."
"Oh." I smile, just a little. "You're right."
"Can you tell me why?"
I lift a shoulder. "Before, I needed it. Something would go wrong in my life. In school or a job interview, and I'd feel so lost and out of control, and I'd have to--"
"You'd have a Louis moment," he says.
I roll my eyes, but can't deny it. "Yeah, well, that surprised me, too. Because I thought I'd battled it back. I mean, since Atlanta, whenever I felt that way, I'd--oh, fuck." I cut myself off realizing that I was getting into territory I wasn't sure I wanted to enter, exposing things I wasn't sure I wanted to expose.
"Tell me." His voice is gentle. "Tell me, Syl, and let's see if we can't get past these last five years."
I rub my palms over my face, feeling weirdly embarrassed. "It's just that when I felt that way--lost, I mean--after Atlanta, well, I'd--god, it sounds stupid. But I'd follow you."
"Follow me?"
"Well, not in person. But your buildings. Your career. Everything," I add, thinking of the bits and pieces of gossip about the women in his personal life that I'd seen over the last five years.
"Why?"
It's a good question, and one I'm not entirely sure I have an answer to. As far as I'm concerned, a dozen shrinks would give a dozen explanations. "I don't really know. Maybe guilt, like you said. But I think the real reason was that I needed a reminder that I'm strong. If I'd left you and survived, then how could I not survive whatever else life threw at me? And then when I realized that I needed you for the resort ..."
I trail off with a shake of my head and suck in air. "It was like the gods were standing in a circle raising their middle fingers at me, you know? Because I'd survived so much, but the one thing I couldn't survive was you."
"And I went and made it worse for you. I'm sorry."
"No. Maybe. A little." I shrug. "The truth is, we made it worse for each other." I reach over and take his hand. "And now we're making it better."
"We are. Yes."
"Cass was with me at the premiere, by the way." I speak lightly, hoping to wash off some of the gloom I've cast over our drive. "She says you're hot."
"I'm flattered."
"You should be. You're not exactly her type."
"Dark hair? Blue eyes? An arrogant bastard?"
"A guy."
"Oh?"
I roll my eyes at the question in his voice. "She's just my best friend," I say. "We're not ... involved."
He sighs. "Well, I can still have my menage fantasies."
I laugh, but I can't deny that his words have gotten all twisted up inside me.
He must recognize my shift in mood, because he turns in his seat to frown at me. "You know I was joking, right?"
"About a three-way with me and Cass? Yeah. Besides, she'd twist your balls off if you suggested something like that. She's a little overprotective of me."
"I know the feeling. What I don't know is where your thoughts went all of a sudden."
"Just you and fantasies about women. And, you know, you and women. Forget the fantasies."
His finger taps a rhythm on the steering wheel. "I'm reasonably certain you couldn't be more vague if you tried."
"You've dated a lot of women." There. I have spit it out. "Irena Kent, for example. You were even with her at the premiere. It's all over the press that you're dating her." I'd confirmed that myself with a quick internet search after Jamie told me what she knew.
"Dating her? No. But I was sleeping with her. I'm not anymore."
"I see."
"Actually, I don't think you do. I've fucked a lot of women, Sylvia. Before and after Atlanta."
"And now you're sleeping with me." I hear both hurt and jealousy in my voice. And it pisses me off.
"No." His voice is hard. Firm. "None of them are like you."
"Why not?"
He takes my hand and lifts it to his lips for a gentle kiss. "Because you matter to me. And I didn't have anything to prove to them."
The words warm me, even though I don't entirely understand them.
"What do you have to prove to me?"
His grin is wide. "I guess you'll know once I prove it."
I shake my head, amused. "How much longer until we get to what you want to show me?"
"Not much farther."
"And no clues?"
"Not even one," he says.
"Fine. In that case I'll continue to harass you about old girlfriends."
"Oh, joy."
I smirk. "Actually, it's more about the movie, but talking about Irena Kent reminded me. My friend Jamie says she's hoping to get a starring role, and that's why she cozied up to you."
"I wouldn't be at all surprised." Jackson's voice is tight. "But considering I don't want to see the movie made at all, her plan is doomed to failure."
"Is it true you punched out the screenwriter?"
I see his hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Please tell me you didn't read that in the gossip rags."
"No, I heard it from Jamie. She heard it from a friend. Said it was very hush-hush."
"Good. I paid a lot of money to keep it hush-hush."
"So you really did punch the guy." I'm oddly fascinated by this. "I thought you were all about boxing clubs and not smacking down innocent people."
"Trust me," he says darkly. "That asshole was not innocent."
I decide not to press that point, but I can't stop thinking about the movie in general.
"What?" he says after we've driven about five miles in absolute silence.
"I didn't say anything."
"No, but your thoughts are deafening."
"I just don't get it," I admit. "That house is spectacular, and it's what put your career on the map. I know there was a tragedy there, but that was long after the house was completed and you were in Vegas working on the Union Bank building. So why does the thought of a movie bother you so much?"
"Because it's private." I hear the sharp edge to his voice and wince a bit. He notices, and I watch as his shoulders sag. "Sorry. But the whole project is surrounded by tragedy, and the damn producer who's interested in the film is sticking his nose in where it doesn't need to be. It's personal. It's private. And there are real people with real lives who are going to get hurt if the damn thing gets made."
I still don't understand, but I'm not going to push. It's clear enough to me that Jackson hasn't told me the entire story. But considering I'm hanging on tight to secrets of my own, I can hardly bitch too loudly.
I reach over and brush my hand over his shoulder. "I may not understand why, but I get that it's important to you. And I hope you get the movie shut down, too."
His smile is one of thanks and acknowledgment. "Speaking of movies, Michael is hosting a fund-raiser at his house Friday night. For the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project. It's a good cause, and he's a good guy. Will you go with me?"
"Of course." I wriggle a little in my seat. Considering everything we've now been through together, it's probably silly. But the thought of going on a proper date with Jackson makes me undeniably happy.
It's only then that I notice that he's slowed to make a right turn. I glance around, then look to him in question. "The Palisades?"
"You'll see."
He turns, and I pay attention as he climbs the canyon road, then turns and doubles back toward the ocean until the road makes a sharp right and we follow it, essentially traveling parallel to the coast highway, but well above it in the hills.
I actually know this neighborhood, as I've spent a lot of time driving in these hills searching the facades of these beautiful homes
for that unknown something that keeps eluding me.
The houses here are spaced far apart, with each lot taking up anywhere from one to three acres, most of that land allocated to the backyard. The place has a friendly, neighborhood vibe, but doesn't feel like suburbia. The houses are private and expensive, and that gives the area a quiet, exclusive feel. And because each lot on the west side of the road overlooks the coast highway, each home has a view of the ocean that is positively to die for.
"Let me guess," I say. "We're going trick-or-treating early."
"We're not," he says. "But feel free to put on a costume anytime you want."
I raise my eyebrow. "I just might do that. But not if you don't tell me what you're up to."
"Just a little farther." As he speaks, the road curves sharply. He makes a left turn into a vacant lot, then stops the car.
I glance around, confused, and am about to ask Jackson, but he's already getting out of the car. I do as well, then follow him deeper into the property, delighted to see that although it has no structure on it, some early developer terraced the hill so that there are stairs leading down to what will essentially be a private backyard to whatever house is ultimately built on the lot above.
"This is amazing," I say, turning around and realizing that I have no line of sight to any of the houses on the street above. As for the coast highway, it is mostly camouflaged by the trees and brush that slope away from the area on which I now stand, which means that the dominant view is of sand and ocean. "I can't believe this lot hasn't been snatched up."
"It was," he says. "I bought it five years ago. Just a few months after you left Atlanta."
"You--" I turn, something in his voice halting my words. "But you were living in Georgia."
"I was staying in Georgia. I've always lived in California. And I left not long after you did. Things went downhill with Brighton pretty quickly."
I know from official biographies that he'd grown up just outside of San Diego. I didn't know that he'd ever lived in or considered living in Los Angeles. And now to find out that he'd come here--that he'd bought property even. Honestly, I'm not sure what to think about that, and I tell him as much.
"It's not a trick question and there is no hidden meaning. But I wanted to show you this place because I think it's special. And I thought of it last night when you told me about wanting the ocean and the stars."
I look around at the bright blue sky and the blazing sun.
"Not today."
"No," he says with a laugh. "Not today." He holds out his hand for me and I take it. "Will you tell me something?"
"Sure," I say, but my voice is a little too light, because I'm nervous about where this might be leading. "At least, I will if I can."
"Last night, when the nightmare came and you ran out on me, why did you go into the hills? Why not just race down Santa Monica or Sunset? Build up some speed? Or cruise down PCH? Or get on the highway and open her up? That time of night you could have gone all the way to the desert without hitting traffic. So why go up?"
"I don't know," I say honestly. "Usually when I'm upset or need to think I go to the Getty Center. I probably spent half my time in high school there."
"But not last night."
"No." I frown, because the question hadn't occurred to me. It had just seemed natural to go into the hills. To drive fast. "I was scared. I was running. I wasn't thinking."
"And yet you ran to Mulholland. Curves and hills and no guardrails. Sounds pretty scary, too."
"Your inner psychologist is showing," I say.
He laughs. "Perhaps. And perhaps I'm right. Maybe you were conquering fear with fear."
"I don't know. Maybe." I hug myself, not really in the mood to be picked apart. "Why does it matter?"
"Because I think you were being smart." He cocks his head, his blue eyes just a little devious. "Because we're going to push you, Syl. Fight fear with fear. Take control by giving control."
I shake my head. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Then let me show you." He steps back, then looks me up and down. "Take off your clothes."
I see the heat in his eyes and hear the command in his voice and realize that he's not kidding. Prickles of excitement skitter over me, but I shake my head. "I don't think so."
"No? That's not the way this works, Sylvia. I tell you to get naked, and you do. I tell you to suck my cock, and you get on your knees."
His voice is firm, commanding, and I take a step backward, shaking my head in both denial of his words and in defense against the way my body heats in response. "What kind of game are you playing, Jackson?"
"The only kind I ever play. Mine." He crooks his finger. "Come here, baby. I want to show you something."
I hesitate, and he laughs.
"Come on," he urges. "I promise I don't bite hard."
I hear the echo from our past--the words he'd teased me with in Atlanta--and I move toward him.
"Good girl," he says, meeting me, then pulling me into his arms so that my back is pressed to his chest and one of his arms holds me tight around the waist as we look out over the ocean.
"Beautiful," he says, even as his free hand slowly tugs my skirt up.
"What are you doing?"
"Wait." He kisses my ear, sending shock waves of pleasure through me at the same time his fingers find my panties. He slides his hand down, cupping my sex, then growling low and deep when he finds me hot and wet and ready.
He slides his fingers deep inside me, and I moan with pleasure even as my knees go weak.
He bends his head to whisper in my ear. "And that, beautiful, proves my point."
"I--what?"
I turn in his arms. I have no idea what he's talking about.
"You like feeling used, Sylvia," he says, and I immediately shake my head.
"The hell I do. I--"
The press of his finger to my lips silences me.
"I told you to strip. Told you that it was my prerogative to order you to suck me off. And baby, that didn't just make you wet, you're so aroused I bet it's painful."
I say nothing; he's hit just a little too close to the truth.
"You get off on submitting. On giving up control to a man. But you remember the shit that sick fuck did to you--how he took control, how he made you do things against your will--and it makes you ashamed when you get turned on, and that's when the nightmares come."
I hug my arms tight around myself, not liking his words and not understanding how he can be so damn perceptive. But so far he's not saying a thing that I can argue with.
"But it's not the same with me, baby. Bob stole your control. I haven't. I'm calling it being used because that's how you see it, but that's not really true. It's giving yourself over in trust. He took from you, baby. You didn't give him a goddamn thing. But when you submit to me, you give me everything."
I do not move. I do not speak. I just stand there as he peels apart the layers of my life, hoping that he truly understands what he's seeing.
"So we're going to do exactly what I told you yesterday. You're mine, Sylvia. Wholly and completely. You're ready for me when I say and how I say. You're mine to pleasure. To take. To fuck. Do you understand me?"
"You said we were breaking that deal."
"And we did. The first time around I was taking. This time, I want you to give control to me. Willingly, sweetheart. Hell, even enthusiastically. Because I promise you, I will make it worthwhile."
I lick my lips. I am undeniably aroused--he's definitely nailed that much. But I'm scared, too. "What will you do?"
"All sorts of things, baby. Because the more you give, the less scared you'll be."
"You're talking kink? Bondage? Toys?"
"All of the above. But we'll start slow." He brushes my lips with his fingertip. "Is that panic in your eyes, or excitement?"
"A little of both," I admit.
"You ran from me in Atlanta because I didn't know what you were battling. But I do now, and we're going to figh
t it together. And, sweetheart, I think this is one battle we're both going to enjoy."
I am breathing hard, my body tight with anticipation and wonder. Could he really be right? Can I really beat back my fears by giving in to Jackson's desires? Hell, to my own desires?
"Will you let me help you?" His voice is tight. Earnest. "Will you give yourself to me and let me fight this battle for you?"
I draw a breath, seeing him now as the knight from my fantasies. "Yes. Oh, god, Jackson. Yes."
"Good." His grin is slow and very, very wicked. "Now take off your clothes."
I want to protest that we are outside on a vacant lot, but the words won't come. I have just agreed to submit, and damn me, I do not want to take back what I have given him.
And, truth be told, the idea of standing naked on this hilltop with Jackson is undeniably exciting.
I strip, then lay my clothes on the jacket he has taken off. Once I'm naked, he steps behind me, then cups my breasts and slides his hands over me. "You're mine now," he says. "These breasts, this body. This cunt." His fingers tease me, and I tilt my head back, losing myself in the sensation of being stroked, aroused. "No touching without permission, sweetheart. I find out you got yourself off, and there will be a price to pay. Do you understand?"
I nod.
"This is how I want you always," he adds, stroking my sex and teasing me to the brink. "Wet and hot and open for me. So close to the edge that the stroke of my finger over the palm of your hand makes you explode. I want you ready for me. Wild for me. Not because I demand it, but because you want it. Not because I'm taking, but because you're giving."
He's been stroking me in time with his words, teasing my clit with tight circles that are building and building until I am quite certain that I will come so hard and so fast that I could fly all the way to the Pacific.
"Tell me you want that," he demands.
"Yes," I say as he turns me in his arms, then gasp as his mouth closes over mine. The kiss is deep and wild and deliciously intimate, and I cling to him, afraid that I will fall to the ground if I don't.
When he breaks the kiss, he breaks all contact, and I whimper, because I was so very close to breaking apart in his arms.
"Please," I say, but he only shakes his head and tells me to get dressed.
"But--"
"You don't want to be late, do you?" he asks, and I grimace, because I have entirely forgotten that we are supposed to be in Malibu.
I slip on the dress then bend for my panties, but Jackson gets them first, and tucks them in his pocket. "You don't need those."