Stark International: Under My Skin Part 20

I nod, because I agree. But my horrible, guilty secret is that I'm relieved. And I hate myself for it, because I don't want to deprive Jackson of his daughter. But I'm so d.a.m.n nervous about playing a role in raising her, this fragile little life that I may end up being responsible for.

And while I'm almost convinced that I can do it, I'm still selfishly happy for the reprieve.

Beside me, Ca.s.s's phone beeps, and she glances at the screen. "Siobhan's almost done. Wanna walk with me to the museum?"

I'm tempted, but I shake my head. "I should get back to it." As we start to rise, I remember what I keep forgetting. "Ollie told me on Monday to tell you h.e.l.lo. And no rush, but he's wondering what you're thinking about the franchise."

"Oh." She's already on her feet, but now she sits back down.

My eyes widen. "Trouble?"

"No. I don't think so. But I've been talking with Siobhan and I'm going to put it on hold."

"Really?" I'm both surprised and concerned. This is her pa.s.sion project, and one of the huge problems with her previous girlfriend, Zee, was that she wasn't supportive at all. I hadn't expected the same from Siobhan.

"Not permanently," Ca.s.s says, apparently reading my mind. "But Siobhan pointed out that right now, I'm the face of the company. But n.o.body outside the walls of my studio knows me. So I'm going to hire a publicist and start advertising. Really get my name out there. Create a logo. Brand myself. That kind of thing. Because I need that to lure franchisees, but also just to make my brand stronger, you know?"

"I think that's brilliant."

"It was Siobhan's idea," she says, and I'm certain she can see my relief on my face. "I know, right? Zee was such a slug. But Siobhan and I click." Her grin is wicked. "In more ways than one."

She stands again, then reaches down to give me a hand up before pulling me into a hug. "You and Jackson click, too," she says. "And that's important. It'll get you through a lot of s.h.i.t."

"Maybe," I say, hugging her back.

"Trust me," she says. "It's all going to be fine."

I don't answer. I hope she's right, of course, but I can't quite bring myself to believe her.

Two hours later, I'm wishing I had taken that walk to the museum because my head is about to explode from juggling eight million projects at once. "I'll find room in the budget," I say to the recalcitrant supervisor on the other end of the phone line. "Work twenty-four hours if you have to, but the helipad and the entire area need to be cleared and repaired by Monday."

I hang up the phone and close my eyes, then press my fingertips to the bridge of my nose. Despite working nonstop since my coffee break, I've still only made a dent in the cleanup. Or in my to-do list, for that matter.

I'm about to dive into the next task when Ethan calls. At least, I think it's Ethan. Since I'm a.s.suming my dad won't pull that horrible stunt again, I take the risk and answer it.

"I'm sorry," Ethan says. "I just found out. I can't believe he used my phone. I'm so, so, sorry."

"It's not your fault," I say. "He's the a.s.shole." I take a breath. "I'm sorry I didn't call you back right away. Everything's been crazy at work."

"It's okay. I figured you were p.i.s.sed about Dad telling me and needed to cool off."

"I wasn't," I say, even though I was. h.e.l.l, even though I am.

There is a long, uncomfortable silence, and then he says, "I shouldn't have told you."

s.h.i.t. I don't know what to say to that. Because part of me agrees. And yet another part of me hates the idea of more secrets between me and my brother.

"No," I finally say. "I was p.i.s.sed at Dad, not at you. And even though I don't like you knowing, I hated us having secrets. And I swear that was the only one on my end."

I wait for him to tell me the same, but he says nothing.

I frown, not sure if his silence is relief that I'm not p.i.s.sed or obfuscation.

"So, are we okay?" he asks after another long pause.

"We are." Because no matter my own issues and secrets, I'm not letting anything come between me and my brother. "I promise."

"Okay. Cool." He clears his throat. "Listen, about Jackson's little girl"

"Jackson wants me to be her guardian if he ends up in jail."

"Oh, Syl. s.h.i.t."

"I'm doing it," I say. "And I'm only telling you because of the no-secrets thing. I don't want to talk about it right now." More, I don't want to talk about it with Ethan. I know what he'd say, and I've already freaked myself out enough about mommyhood for the day.

"Ifine. Okay. Whatever." He draws a breath. "Are we cool?"

"We are," I a.s.sure him. "And I have to go. I'm not the one still lazing around on vacation."

He laughs. "Fair enough. I'll call you in a day or so. Might even make you come down here and help me buy furniture."

"You found a place?"

"Tiny, but on the beach."

"Of course I'll help." As I'm speaking, the elevator opens, and Jackson steps off.

"Cool. Love you."

"I love you, too," I say, and when I hang up the phone, I'm smiling.

"I hope that was Ethan or Ca.s.s," Jackson says as he crosses the reception area to my desk. "Otherwise you and I are going to have words."

"My secret lover," I say, grinning. "But if you work very hard, maybe you can make me forget all about him."

"I'll certainly do my best." He leans against the wall between Damien's door and my desk. His hands are in his pockets and he has the kind of smile that suggests he has things on his mind that aren't remotely related to work. The kinds of things that send a nice little tingle through me.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Steele?"

"I've been thinking about tonight."

"What a coincidence. So have I." We're planning to go to the island tomorrow afternoon to check in with the cleanup crew and stay overnight. Tonight, though, we're staying at my apartment again. I had been looking forward to sipping wine on my balcony and relaxing, but looking at him now I'm thinking that a more active evening would be very, very welcome.

"How important to you is our night in?" he asks.

I c.o.c.k my head. "You have another plan?"

"Remember the Dominion Gate concert I mentioned?"

"Yes." I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. "Why?"

"I forgot that the tickets were by lottery. I found out today that I scored four. I thought it would be a fun way to escape reality for a bit."

"I guess it would." I frown. "Wait. You're saying the concert is tonight?"

"At The Rafters," he says, naming a relatively new club in Burbank.

"All the way in the Valley?"

"That's where the music's happening. You want to go?"

"Of course," I lie. "I've been wearing the T-shirt. I ought to see the band."

He starts to push away from the wall to stand up straight, but doesn't. Instead, he remains still, his attention on my face.

"What?" I finally demand.

"You really don't want to go." It's not a question.

I hesitate, but then concede. "I really don't. But you do, and I really love you. And I know I'll have fun once we get there."

"You're sure?"

I stand up and go to him, then hook my arms around his waist. "I'd do a lot more than that for you. Yes, I'm sure." I brush a kiss over his lips. "And you're rightescaping reality sounds like a d.a.m.n good plan."

He cups my chin, holding my head in place as he looks into my eyes, his irises moving slightly as he studies me. "Do you have any idea how much I love you?"

Pleasure sweeps through and around me, as soft and warm as a blanket, and I realize that I'm grinning so widely it hurts. "Yes," I say simply. "I do."

I press my head to his chest, breathing deep as he strokes my back, and in that moment, I think I know what heaven must be like. Safe and warm and wonderful.

I sigh with pleasure, then lean back after a moment. "Did you say you have four tickets?"

"I'd originally thought we could invite Nikki and Damien."

My brows rise. "Really?"

"Hey, I'm all about the brotherly bonding. But Damien's in Palm Springs tonight, and Nikki's already got plans."

"Spa weekend with Jamie," I say.

"You're very well informed."

"It's my job. Plus Nikki invited me. I told her I'd rather stay here with you." I rise up on my toes so that I can whisper in his ear. "I'm hoping you'll give me a very thorough ma.s.sage. Since I'm not getting my spa visit, I mean."

"You can count on it," he says as his hand slides around to cup my a.s.s. He squeezes, and I squeal, then laugh. "You're going to need one after standing for a few hours."

I take a step back, eyeing him dubiously. "Standing?"

"No seats at The Rafters," he says. "But lots of good beer and definitely a lot of good music."

He looks so excited that I can hardly deny him, especially considering the h.e.l.l he's been living through. "All right," I say. "It's a date."

"Then we'll do it up right. I'll pick you up at seven. The show starts at ten. We'll have dinner and get there by nine-thirty. Sound good?"

"Sounds perfect."

"Should I invite Ca.s.s and Siobhan? I've got the two extra tickets."

The questionasked so simply and with complete sinceritysends an unexpected wave of pleasure washing over me.

"Yeah," I say. "That would be great." And then I ease back into his arms and kiss him softly. "As a matter of fact, you're great, too."

nineteen.

When we'd first arrived at The Raftersa nondescript building near the North Hollywood/Burbank borderI'd a.s.sumed that Edward had pulled up at the wrong location. It had the appearance of a shack that someone had put up in their backyard and then painted black. Albeit a very large shack.

Jackson a.s.sured us that this was the place, though, and when I took a closer look, that was clear enough. Not only was there a sandwich board sign in the parking lot announcing Dominion Gate, but there was also a line of concertgoers that snaked around the building.

I'd glanced at Jackson, dubious, but he'd only laughed and told me it would be fun.

Honestly, he was right.

Now that we're inside, I'm not certain how the place managed to pa.s.s all the various required inspections because I am absolutely certain that the reverb from the band's ba.s.s is going to make all the walls collapse on us. Even the concrete floor is moving, though that may be an illusion. Or it may be the result of hundreds of people dancing madly to the earsplitting music.

But despite all that, I am having a great timeand considering we are jammed in like sardines in an under-air-conditioned building and standing way too close to the speakers, that says a lot. About the music, maybe. But it's more about Jackson. He's clearly having a great timeworry free, loose. h.e.l.l, almost boyish.

And I'll put up with a lot to see him happy.

The crowd is thick, and I'm smushed in between him and Ca.s.s, who leans over to say something to me. I have no idea what, though, because I can't hear a d.a.m.n thing. I hold up my hands in question, and she rolls her eyes, then points to a girl who's dancing a few people away. At first I think Ca.s.s is checking out the girlwhich seems very un-Ca.s.sidy-like considering Siobhan is jamming to the music at her opposite side.

Then I realize that the girl is taking pictures with her camera phone. Not of the band, but of Jackson.

I'd like to think that's because he looks so incredibly hot in faded, threadbare jeans and a short-sleeved Henley shirt that sticks to his sweat-slicked body in a way that makes me sigh.

Unfortunately, I know otherwise. Someone had recognized him as we were coming inand I'd heard the rumble of gossip about "that architect who offed the producer" as it rolled through the crowd before the opening band took the stage.

No one has actually approached us, though, and so Jackson is taking it in stride.

I look back at Ca.s.s and shrug, silently letting her know we're not going to worry about it. Tonight is about the four of us having fun, and so long as n.o.body gets right in his face, they can take all the snaps they want.