“I want to see.”
I remember every ad that was published, and Jackson is right. As far as images go, there is nothing risqué about them. But I know the backstory. To me, each and every one is vile. And just the idea that they are out in the world again is tearing me up inside.
But that’s not the only reason I want to see the photos. I believe Jackson, of course, and yet I need to see for myself. Because I remember the click click of Reed’s camera. I remember everything he had me wear. Every pose he had me strike. Every button on every piece of clothing.
I recall with unerring, horrible clarity where he had me put my hands. The way he told me to touch myself.
I know what other photos he took. Ones that were never intended for retail ads.
And the thought that those horrific images might now be circulating, too, makes me cold with terror.
Jackson hands me his phone, his web browser already open to the proper page. I glance at the photos, then sag with relief when I see that, yes, they really are just the ads.
When I pass the phone back to Jackson, I see that he is watching me intently. “There are others, aren’t there?”
I nod. “I’ve never seen them,” I admit. “But I know he took them.”
He closes his eyes, his entire body tense. I understand why—he’s fighting for control the same way that I am.
The knowledge soothes me, because I know that I’m not alone.
“I hate it,” I admit. “Not knowing what’s coming next. Even having these bland ads out there bothers me. I mean, I know that the public doesn’t know the backstory, but I still hate it. I don’t like the reminder of what happened to me. I don’t like anything about it at all.”
I kick off my shoes and put my feet up on the seat so that I can hug my knees. I’m wearing a skirt, but it’s loose, and it drapes over my legs like a blanket.
I feel foolish, like a little girl needing comfort. Because nothing bad has actually happened today. Everything that is bothering me is in the past or a vague possibility of something that might happen in the future.
But I am bothered nonetheless.
Jackson’s arm is already around me, but now he pulls me closer. “Tell me,” he says. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I hesitate, but I comply. “The reality of the moment isn’t terrible at all,” I say. “But look at me. I’m a mess. I mean, how much of a wreck am I going to be if the worst really does happen?”
“It won’t,” he says.
I almost laugh. “You’re a lot of things, Jackson Steele, and I know that you’re a man who likes to be in control. But I’m pretty sure this one is out of your hands.”
For a moment I think he’s going to argue, but instead he just looks at me with eyes filled with pain. “I’m so sorry I brought this on you.”
“You didn’t. Reed did.”
“I’ll grant you that,” Jackson says. “But I think the fact that I beat the crap out of him brought it to the press’s more immediate attention.”
He puts a hand on my knees and eases my legs down, turning me a bit as he does so that I’m sitting sideways in the backseat with my legs over his thighs. I’m not wearing hose, and as he strokes my calf, I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation of his fingers upon my skin.
“They’re just poking into me, you know,” he says. “They found this connection, and it’s interesting because of the resort. Because we’re working on the resort together, and because you work for Damien. That’s where the photos came from.” His hand stops moving, cupping my leg. “But the truth about what Reed did to you isn’t going to come out. They won’t even get close to it.”
I nod.
“Everyone assumes I assaulted Reed because of the movie, and you just watch. That’s where the next round of idiotic tabloid coverage is going to focus. My shit, not yours.” He cups my chin so that he can look me in the eyes; his are warm and tender and concerned. “Okay?”
“Okay.” I draw in a breath. He still hasn’t told me why he doesn’t want the movie made. All I know is that Reed is producing a feature film that is based on the events surrounding a residential property in Santa Fe that Jackson designed and built. It’s an exceptional house that sealed his reputation as one of the world’s most talented contemporary architects.
I’d read all about it at the time, both because I was following Jackson’s career, despite the fact that we weren’t together then, and because architecture is a passion of mine. And because I’d followed it, I knew what came after—a murder-suicide that tainted the spectacular property, forever burying the exquisite architecture under a layer of scandal.