Say My Name (36 page)

She frowns, and for a moment I think she’s mad. Which fits, because I’m feeling guilty. “Oh, man, don’t you think I knew that?”

I blink, momentarily confused. “Wait. Knew what?”

“That there was more to tell. Duh.”

“You did?”

“Sure. And I’m glad you told Jackson the rest of it.”

I sit back, a little bit pleased and a little bit befuddled.

“It’s not a contest, Syl. What you tell him, what you tell me. I’m here if you need me, and I always will be.”

I close my eyes tight and hug my knees against my chest. “Thank you.”

“Not the kind of thing you say thank you for, but you’re welcome anyway. Seriously, Syl. Talk to me, don’t talk to me. I love you, and nothing’s going to change that. And I mean that in a fully clothed, platonic sort of way.”

A bubble of laughter bursts out of me. “Okay. Thanks.” I swallow. Then I draw a breath and I tell her the thing I haven’t quite been able to say yet, not even to myself. “I think I’m falling in love with him.”

She makes a dismissive noise. “I don’t.”

“Really?” I’m not sure if I’m hurt or surprised or disappointed.

“Falling? No way, babe. I think you’ve been in love with him since Atlanta.” She squeezes my hand. “Congrats on finally realizing it.”

My best friend, I realize, is a very smart woman. “I love you, too, you know.”

“Hell yeah, you do. I’m extremely lovable.”

We spend the rest of the night talking about nothing and everything, but it’s nice to spend time on the boat with the water lapping in the background and an open bottle—or two—of wine in front of us.

When I see Cass yawn and realize that the light is off in Jackson’s study, I call time-out and we both head down.

I give her a hug outside the guest room, tell her she can sleep as late as she wants, but I’ll be leaving insanely early to get to the office, and that I’ll text her with the time the limo will come for her.

Then I quietly open the bedroom door to go see the man I love.

He’s asleep in bed, his laptop open beside him. I take it away, then slide in next to him. He pulls me close in sleep, and I snuggle against him, as moved by that simple, unconscious gesture as anything else he’s done or said.

I’m content, I realize.

Content. Happy. And, yes, in love.

“I’m so glad the three of you could make it,” Michael Prado says as he greets me, Jackson, and Cass in the foyer of his astounding Beverly Hills home.

“We’re glad to be here,” Jackson says, shaking his friend’s hand. “I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Sylvia Brooks, and her friend Cassidy Cunningham.”

Girlfriend.

It’s the first time that Jackson has used that title, and I am so astounded that I almost don’t notice the hand that Michael extends for me to shake.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Jackson whispers after the introductions have been completed and we’ve joined the crowd in the ballroom. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” The word bubbles through me like champagne, and I catch Cass’s eye. “Yes, it is.”

“It’s not easy to shock her,” Cass says to Jackson. “I think the only way you’ll manage again is to strip her naked.”

He chuckles and swings an arm around her shoulder. “Nice try, but I’m not indulging your prurient fantasies.”

“Had to give it a shot.”

I roll my eyes at both of them, but it’s only for show. Not only am I still flying from the girlfriend label, but my best friend and my boyfriend have crossed that invisible line from friendly acquaintances to actual friends.

All things considered, life is pretty damn spiffy.

I lean against Jackson as I take in the surroundings. I’ve seen what an obscene amount of money can buy, but even I have to force myself not to stare. Freestanding architectural relics representing different periods in history are placed artfully throughout the space, and bits and pieces of Hollywood memorabilia are mixed among the antiquities. Movie posters, candid photographs of celebrities, pages from scripts, and even three Oscars cover the walls or fill display cases.

“It’s like a museum,” I say, then blush when I realize that Michael has joined our little trio.

“It’s meant to be,” he says. “I keep my memories here. It seemed easier than a scrapbook, and it makes the room uniquely appealing for events like this. As Jackson knows, the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project is one of my pet causes, and when they asked me to host a cocktail party and silent auction, I was happy to do it.”

“It’s a wonderful cause,” I say genuinely. “And I thought
Stone and Steele
was brilliant,” I add, though the truth is I still haven’t seen more than the first few minutes.

“It really was,” Cass chimes in. She’s blond tonight, and so elegant that she looks as though she belongs among Prado’s treasures.

“You’re both very kind,” Prado says, then winks at Jackson. “Of course, I had excellent material. But first things first. Before you check out the silent auction, we need to get you drinks. I’ve done enough of these events to know that there’s a direct upward correlation between the amount of alcohol that goes into a person and the amount of their bid. And I really do want this event to be a success.”

“Well, if drinking your alcohol will help,” Cass says, “then I’m happy to oblige.”

Prado calls over a waiter with a tray of drinks, then selects an Amsterdam Art and Science for me, a Sydney Opera House for Cass, and a Guggenheim for Jackson. “A Cosmopolitan, an Old-Fashioned, and a vodka martini with a twist,” he says. “But we needed to keep with the theme.”

He points to the area beneath a massive curving staircase that sweeps across the far wall. “The auction items are set up on tables against that wall. You can’t see from here, but they extend back under the stairs, and we have quite a few goodies to bid on. I’ve invited a number of people with more money than time, so that means that not only do I anticipate a significant number of bids, but there are also some incredible prizes. You’ve donated thirty hours toward the design of a single-family home, haven’t you, Jackson?”

“You did?” I ask.

“A weak moment,” he says, and we all laugh.

“I like him,” I say to Jackson when Prado leaves us to go mingle with other guests.

“As do I. My one decent experience in Hollywood so far.”

“I don’t know about decent,” Cass says, “but there’s another Hollywood experience trying to get your attention.” She nods to the stairs, where Irena Kent is descending with a fortysomething bald man with a goatee and the kind of dark frame glasses people wear when they’re trying to look hip and artsy. There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t place him. Irena Kent, however, draws my attention completely. She’s got an arm hooked through the bald man’s, and with the other she’s waving to Jackson.

“Well, hell,” he says.

“You could ignore her.” I believe him that there is nothing going on with him and Irena Kent anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want to invite her over into our little circle. And, because I’m just that petty, the fact that he’s slept with her still stings.

“I could. But she’s with Robert Reed.”

Cass and I exchange shrugs.

“The asshole producer,” he explains.

“The one who wants to make the movie about the Santa Fe house?”

“The very one,” Jackson says. “And because of that, I’m going to go talk to them.”

“Why?” Cass asks. “I mean, if you don’t want them to make the movie.”

“Two reasons. One, I firmly believe in killing with kindness where appropriate. My attorneys can be the bad guys. I’ll be polite and charming and quietly toxic if it comes to that.”

“I like the way he thinks,” Cass says.

“And second,” he continues, “I want information. If they’re moving forward on the project, I want to know. I might learn something my lawyers can use.”

“Your boyfriend has a devious streak,” Cass teases. “I’d keep an eye on that.”

“You’re both welcome to join me. Syl?”

“You go ahead. I think Cass and I are going to go see if there’s any auction item we can actually afford to bid on.”

He meets my eyes before he kisses me, and I think I see understanding there. Cass is not quite as intuitive. “Why aren’t you going with him? He used to date her.”

“And there you have it,” I say. “Her, tall and statuesque and movie-star gorgeous. Me, utterly plain by comparison.”

“Hardly. You’re fabulous and you know it. And Jackson adores you.”

“And if I were standing right next to her, I might turn an unattractive shade of green. Besides,” I add, “we need alone time. What’s the deal with Zee?”

“I’m not sure. She was irritated you and Jackson met with me and Ollie.”

“Really? Why?”

“Not sure. I told her I would have loved her insight, too. But she wasn’t mad because she wanted to be there. She just didn’t want you guys there.”

“Did you tell her about tonight?”

Cass wrinkles her nose. “No.”

“Cass …”

“Hey, we’ve barely started dating. The rules for evening outings have not kicked in yet.”

She has a point. I forget how fast things have been moving with Jackson. Primarily because it feels like I’ve been with him forever. Or at least for five years.

We look at each of the silent auction items, and I even bid on a couple’s weekend at a boutique hotel in Laguna Beach. If I win, I’ll surprise Jackson. And if I don’t win, I may surprise him anyway.

“I expected Evelyn to be here.” We’ve finished the auction review, and now we’re standing near a glass case with pages from the shooting script for
The Wizard of Oz.
I look out over the crowd, but don’t see her. For that matter, I don’t see Jackson. I do see Irena Kent, though, and take a petty amount of satisfaction from the fact that she is not with my boyfriend.

“Isn’t that her?” Cass asks, pointing to the far side of the room where Robert Reed stands chatting with Evelyn and a few other people I don’t know.

“Good eye,” I say. “Let’s go say hi.”

As we head that direction, I’m struck again by the feeling that I’ve met Reed before. I don’t think too much about it, though. It’s hard to grow up in LA and not run across celebrities here and there, especially now that I work for Stark.

But as we draw closer, I can overhear their conversation. His voice is also familiar, and I press my fingers to my temples, trying to place it. Then he extends a hand to one of the pretty young women. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Robert Cabot Reed. But you can call me Bob.”

I go completely cold.

“Syl?”

“It’s him.” My tongue feels thick, and I’m not entirely sure I’ve spoken.

“Him? I don’t—”

“I need to find Jackson.”

“I—”

“Jackson.”

“Oh god.” I hear understanding and panic in Cass’s voice. “Oh, holy fucking god.”

But I’m not listening. I’m stumbling blind through the house, my hands clenched tight at my sides because I
will not, will not, will not
lose it.

I manage to keep my shit together all the way to the foyer where Prado is still greeting latecomers.

“Have you seen Jackson?” The urgency in Cass’s voice makes me realize how scared she must be.

“Cassidy? Why, yes. He said he was going out front to take a phone call.” Prado steps toward us. “Are you all right?”

I don’t know what she tells him. All I know is that I am pure motion. That somehow I have gotten through the doors and out into the world, and now I am spinning, looking for him. By the valet stand. In the shadows by the street. Under the streetlight.

There.

I run to him, then stop dead when I see that he is not alone.

“Goddammit,” he says to his companion. “What the fuck are you doing here? I told you to stay away from me.”

I cannot hear the man’s reply, but Jackson’s retort is crystal clear.

“That’s bullshit,” he says. “Aren’t you the one who always says we can’t be seen together? Goddamn you, Jeremiah.”

“Syl!” Cass’s frantic voice cuts through the night, and both men turn toward me, their faces now lit by the soft golden light of the streetlamp.

Jackson Steele.

And Jeremiah Stark.

I make a sound like a whimper.

“Sylvia!” I hear the urgency in Jackson’s voice, and I see both shock and guilt on his face.

I turn—and I run.

“Sylvia, wait!”

But I don’t, I am running blind, at least until I stumble, then cry out at the sharp pain in my knee.

I’ve broken a heel and fallen on the curb.

I see a red-clad valet hurrying toward me from one direction. Behind me, I see Jackson sprinting toward me in the dark.

I scramble to my knees, because I can’t talk to him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

He lied to me. Oh, dear god, he lied to me.

“Sylvia,” he calls, and I stumble to my feet and reach out for the valet. “Dammit, Sylvia, stop!”

“Leave her alone!” Cass cries, and I look over my shoulder to see her tugging on Jackson’s sleeve. “Dammit, Jackson, just let her go.”

I clutch the valet’s hand. “Please. I need a taxi.”

“Of course.” The boy looks about seventeen and completely freaked out. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

“Just the taxi. Please. Hurry.”

There is one already in the pickup line, and he hurries me in. I collapse gratefully into the backseat, and as the car leaves the curved driveway for the street, the last thing I see before I fall inside myself is Jackson standing beside Cass, his body angled as if in motion, held in place only by her firm grip on his arm.

I sink back into the seat and try to decide where to go from here. Not home. Jackson will look for me there.

Not to the office, because I will be found.

In the end, I go to a motel. A boring little chain that charges way too much for its boring little rooms.

But I don’t care about the money or the decor. I don’t even care about the bed, because I do not intend to sleep.

I can’t, not tonight. Because tonight will be the worst.

Tonight, the nightmares will come, dark dragons with sharp teeth and fiery claws.

They will come and I’ll see Bob in my mind—
Cabot Reed
—and he’ll touch me and seduce me and I’ll come for him, and I’ll hate myself.