Usually, this kind of attention doesn’t bother me. Damien attracts the paparazzi wherever he goes, which means it has little to nothing to do with me. I’m just the assistant in the background, much like the way Secret Service agents appear in so many candid photos of the president.
Tonight, however, is different. Tonight, we’ve already dealt with Graham Elliott’s celebrity inside the club. Out here, we are dealing with Jackson’s. Because this crowd wants pictures of the guy who bloodied the face of Robert Cabot Reed. And if they can get a shot of him with the former teen model that Reed photographed, then all the better.
Honestly, the thought makes my stomach curdle.
“Jackson! Jackson!”
“Why’d you punch him?”
“Sylvia! Why did you give up modeling?”
“What’s the status of the movie, Jackson? Is it true you’re trying to block production?”
“Someone just tweeted photos of you and Graham Elliott talking inside. Is he attached to the project?”
“How long have you and Sylvia been dating?”
The questions are coming on top of one another, and my initial calm in the face of the familiar has entirely evaporated.
I glance at Jackson, and it’s clear that he sees my panic. “Go,” he says, nodding toward the red-jacketed valet who is holding open the limo door for us. “I’ve got Cass.”
At this point, I’m all about self-preservation, and I bolt for the limo. I get settled, then punch the intercom to tell Edward, the driver, that we’re going to Jackson’s boat. I start to give him the address, but he cuts me off. “Don’t you worry, Ms. Brooks. I’ve got it under control.”
A moment later, Jackson guides my unsteady best friend into the limo and settles her on the back bench. He starts to cross the short distance to where I sit on the long side of the limo, but she tugs him down beside her.
He glances at me, but I just shrug, amused.
The moment we pull away from the curb, Cass peers around the interior. She looks at the bar, then looks to me sitting right beside it.
“Just one more,” she says. “Pretty please?”
I roll my eyes, but grab a tiny bottle of vodka. I pass it to her, and I’m about to pass her a glass with ice as well, but she’s already unscrewed the lid and is taking a sip.
“Was that such a good idea?” Jackson asks.
“Probably not,” I admit. “But she’s calling it quits with Zee, and I think she decided to drink away her angst while you and I were otherwise occupied.”
“Hell, yeah, I did.”
I grimace. “She’s on a bender now, and not driving. Might as well let her finish.”
Jackson tilts his head, and I see compassion in both his expression and the way he pulls her closer and gently strokes her hair. “I’m so sorry, kiddo.”
“It’s just not working with her,” Cass murmurs. “I know it hasn’t been that long, and she’s going to say that we just need to give it time, but—”
“But you know,” Jackson says. “You already know the way it is.”
She shifts in his arms, her head flopping back a bit as she tries to look him in the eyes. “Yeah, I do. Is that dumb?”
Jackson shakes his head. “Not dumb at all. You can know the truth in a heartbeat if you’re willing to really look.” He turns to face me. “I’m really looking.”
My chest feels suddenly tight, and I nod. Just one single nod of acknowledgment, but it fills me up. And all my earlier worry and angst seems to melt like cotton candy in the rain. Because though we may have secrets, there is nothing shallow or fake about what is between Jackson and me. It is real. It is right. It is us.
Cass glances between the two of us. “That was the most romantic thing ever.” She turns her focus to Jackson. “Is there an XX chromosome version of you out there?”
“Sorry. Just the one brother.”
She makes a face. “That you know of,” she says, and both Jackson and I have to laugh.
She drifts off, her head tucked up against his chest and his arm around her shoulders.
“You look very parental,” I say, and the light from the street-lamps as we turn into the marina must catch his face strangely, because for a moment it looks as though he flinches.
The illusion passes quickly as he smiles. “I’m hoping that I won’t find any daughter of mine quite this wasted.” But he strokes her hair as he speaks, and I can’t help thinking that Jackson will be the kind of dad who’ll protect his family with a wild ferocity, even if that means sacrificing himself.
And as Edward takes us the rest of the distance to Jackson’s boat, I realize he’s proven that already. Not for a daughter, but for me. Because god knows when he beat the crap out of Robert Cabot Reed, he did a hell of a lot more for me than my father ever did.