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.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I’m not. No.”
I gape at him, my head shaking a little bit as I try to wrap my mind around what he’s saying. “Jackson,” I say gently, “there are paparazzi everywhere. I saw the pictures of you and Damien walking to the Biltmore, so I know you’ve seen them. And last night at the marina? And if you didn’t already know it, then let me be the first to tell you that those fucking bastards have splashed pictures of you and me and your dad all over social media.”
“I saw.”
“Well, then, hello? The boat is really not the place we want to be now.”
A muscle in his cheek twitches, and I tense, because more and more it’s become clear that he’s not just in a mood—he’s in a dangerous mood.
“Okay,” I say. “What happened?”
“The walk down was fine, but when we were ready to leave we saw that they’d practically swarmed the Biltmore. Phil got us out the service entrance,” he says, referring to the bartender he chats with sometimes. “And I felt so damn smug all the way back to the Tower and into my car, because Damien and I went into the Tower the same way, through the loading dock in the back.”
“So you beat them.”
“We snuck around like rats,” he said. “Or like criminals.” He meets my eyes as he says the last, his voice harsh and hard and angry.
“Jackson—”
“No. I’m not living my life that way. We’re going to the boat. We’re going about our business. We’re going to pretend like the fuckers don’t even exist.” He draws a breath. “Pack your things, Sylvia. You’re coming with me.”
I press my lips together, because I get it now, fully and completely. I understand where he’s coming from. What he’s trying to do.
I once told Jackson that his work was all about power and control, and he agreed with me. But he’d taken it further. “It’s not just what I do. It’s who I am.”