Stark International: Under My Skin Part 11

"You're p.i.s.sed," Damien said mildly.

Jackson glared at him. "Some a.s.shole I don't know has a camera aimed at my home and is snapping pictures of me and my girlfriend."

He glared at Damien, as if the fact that his brother handed him the picture made him responsible for all this s.h.i.+t. "d.a.m.n right I'm p.i.s.sed."

Damien nodded as if the response pleased him. "It's a safe bet that Jeremiah's not p.i.s.sed at all. On the contrary, he's soaking up the attention." He paused just long enough for the words to soak in past Jackson's still-bubbling anger. "Don't trust him, Jackson. Just a little bit of brotherly advice from me to you."

Jackson pushed down the lingering anger as he considered the other man. "You know, I used to wonder what happened between the two of you. I thought that you were such a s.h.i.+t to him. I mean, I had reason to hate him. He was always gone. Kept me and my mom hidden away. But you had himand yet I looked at you and thought you were a complete p.r.i.c.k. Demanding. A prima donna. Too G.o.dd.a.m.n full of yourself."

"So glad your impression has changed," Damien said wryly.

Jackson chuckled. "About some things. Not others. But seriously, after I learned about Germanyafter it all hit the press"

He cut himself off with a small shudder, thinking of the things his brother had endured, all with their father's knowledge and without his protection. He thought of Sylvia, who had suffered so similarly, and he had to fight a sudden rush of anger against Jeremiah, Reed, and Sylvia's father. Not to mention a universe in which even one child had to endure such horrors.

He took a sip of scotch, blinking back a wave of emotion, because now Ronnie was at the forefront of his mind, and he really couldn't understand the way those men had sacrificed their children, because there was nothingnothinghe wouldn't do to protect that little girl.

"Anyway," he finally said. "I understand why you set up your foundation. It's a good cause. I'll be back volunteering as soon as they let me."

Damien nodded, but didn't say anything more. Jackson hadn't expected him to.

"My point is that after all that s.h.i.+t hit the tabloids, I understood your issues. But I still thought you were a s.h.i.+t. I knew all about you after Brighton, remember? Or at least I thought I did." He'd recently learned, to his chagrin, that Damien's last-minute land buy in an Atlanta-based development deal five years ago had saved Jackson's a.s.s, not screwed him. If Damien hadn't swooped in and destroyed the deal, most of the key players in the Brighton Consortium would have been sucked into a RICO case, their fortunes and their reputations destroyed.

Most of the players, however, didn't realize that Damien had saved their a.s.s.

"As far as I was concerned," Jackson continued, "you were heartless. Ruthless. You had to be. How else could you climb so far so fast?"

"I can be all those things," Damien said easily.

"Can be, yeah. But it's not who you are." He downed the last of his scotch. "I've seen what you've done for Syl's career. I've seen how fiercely you watch after your wife, and I've heard about what you've done for her friends. And I know now that you weren't trying to f.u.c.k me or anyone over on Brighton."

He flashed his most charming smile at his brother. "Make no mistake, I'll call you out the second I think you're doing something to f.u.c.k up Cortez, but as for Damien Stark the man? Maybe you're not the devil I thought you were."

"Don't spread it around," Damien said. "I have a reputation to protect, after all."

"My lips are sealed." Jackson glanced down to check his watch. "Should we head back?"

"In a minute. Detective Garrison asked me to see him tomorrow," Damien said flatly, referring to one of the two detectives who'd spent the morning grilling Jackson.

A cold, hard knot formed in Jackson's gut. "Why?"

"Presumably because they think my half-brother committed murder. More specifically, because you also work for me, and as I think I mentioned once, I've met Reed a time or two. But all that is just speculation."

"Well, s.h.i.+t. I'm sorry."

Damien's brows rose slightly. "Sorry?"

"That this mess is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with you, too."

"Murder isn't the kind of thing that stays contained."

"So what are you going to say to him?"

"That I don't think you did it."

Jackson studied him. "That's not what you said a few minutes ago."

Damien didn't smile, but Jackson saw the hint of amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes. "I'm not talking to the police right now, am I? I'll tell them that I don't know you that well, but I do know you're not stupid. And killing him just a few days after beating the s.h.i.+t out of him would be very, very stupid." He waited a beat, then leaned closer, his elbows on the bar. "Jackson, stupid doesn't run in our family. Jeremiah's a s.h.i.+t, but he's not stupid, either. If he did leak our relations.h.i.+phe had an endgame."

"Like what?"

Damien leaned back. "I have no idea. But you wanted to know who else might want Reed dead. I say add him to the list of possibles. Jeremiah knew Reed. You said so yourself."

Jackson considered, then nodded slowly. "I'll talk to Harriet. Have her keep an eye on him. Maybe he'll end up being my reasonable doubt."

"You don't have to do that," Damien said.

"No, you convinced me."

"I mean, it's already done."

Jackson narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Is it?"

Damien lifted a shoulder. "Like I said, Jeremiah Stark always has an endgame. I'd like to know what it is. Besides," he added with a significant look to Jackson, "maybe he did kill Reed."

"Anything's possible," Jackson said dryly. "But what would he gain?"

"I don't know," Damien admitted. "If he were another man, I'd say maybe he was trying to protect you. Keep the movie from being made. Keep Reed from suing you for the a.s.sault. Maybe even protect his granddaughter."

"He doesn't know about her," Jackson said tightly.

"Are you sure?" When Jackson stayed silent, because, dammit, he wasn't sure, Damien continued. "It doesn't matter. My point is that Jeremiah Stark looks after one person and one person only."

He met Jackson's eyes. "So watch your back, Steele. Because you may not see him coming."

eleven.

Since it is already the end of the workday and I am still too riled about that d.a.m.n photo to focus, I decide to grab a few files and head home to work there.

Home, of course, is the operative word. Because Jackson and I have been spending more and more time on his boat since his drafting table and other work tools are there. And as for me, I like to stretch out on his comfy lounge chairs with a gla.s.s of wine and relax to the sound and rhythm of the ocean. I'd like to do that tonight, in fact. But I can't, and that p.i.s.ses me off.

Because tonight, the boat isn't my destination; my condo is. Not that I don't love my condoI do. But I'd rather be in my place because I'm craving my own stuff. Not because the d.a.m.n paparazzi are messing with our lives.

And, yes, I trust that the property managers at the marina are doing their job. None of those c.o.c.kroaches are getting access to the boat or even the parking lot. But that didn't stop them from taking those pictures last night, and that was invasive enough for me.

Tonight, I sleep in my own bed.

It occurs to me as I reach Santa Monica that the press might be staking out my place as well, but when I pull my Nissan up to the entrance to the underground parking garage no one is there, and my shoulders dip in relief. It's possible there are a few stragglers by the main entrance to the building, but that's outside on the Third Street Promenade, and since I'm coming in through the garage, I don't even have to see them.

As I head to the elevator, I shoot Jackson a textSafe and sound in the condo. See you soon.

I still don't have a reply by the time I get upstairs, but I'm not surprised. He's with Damien, after all, and on top of everything that's happened recently, they have a lifetime of catching up to do.

So do I, I realize, as I step into my condo. Or maybe not a lifetime of catching up, but at least several days' worth.

I wrinkle my nose, because the place has that closed-up smell that is one part dirty laundry and two parts something left in the trash I forgot to take out.

I remedy that first, emptying the trash from all of the rooms, then shoving a lemon down the disposal and turning it on while I run the trash to the chute. I hit the b.u.t.ton for the back door as I step into the hall, and by the time I return thirty seconds later, my garage-style door has almost completely ascended, letting in a nice, cleansing ocean breeze.

On a normal day, I'd be irritated with myself for doing something as stupid as forgetting to take the trash out. Today, however, is not normal. I want a distraction, and cleaning seems like just the ticket.

Within half an hour, I've gone through the pantry and refrigerator and tossed every bit of old food. An hour after that, I've vacuumed, added some essential oils to the potpourri I keep on a table in front of the couch, completed one load of laundry and started a second, and am telling myself that I wasn't worried by Jackson's lack of response two hours ago, and I have no reason to be worried now. We'd all left work early, so it's only seven. For all I know, drinks turned into dinner. And if that's the case, I should be happy. After all, I love Jackson and I respect Damien; I want them to get along.

But despite telling myself that, the sense of dread in my stomach doesn't ease, and though I really don't want to, I pull out my phone. This time, I'm not going to text Jackson.

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, n.o.body 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 s.h.i.+nes on Jackson, the more likely the press will dig.

And if they learn about the blackmailif that goes public I s.h.i.+ver, 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 f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have splashed pictures of you and me and your dad all over social media."

"I saw."

"Well, then, h.e.l.lo? 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 moodhe'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 d.a.m.n 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 f.u.c.kers 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."

Those words from so many years ago come back to haunt me now, because that is the root of his angerhis inability to control the scandal, to tame the media storm. He wants to press a reset b.u.t.ton and return everything to normal, and he can't.

So yeah. I get why he's frustrated. Why he's hurting. And, yes, I understand why he wants to go back to the boat.

I understand it. But I'm not going along with it.

Slowly, I shake my head. "We're staying here tonight."

"The h.e.l.l we are."

"G.o.ddammit, Jackson," I say, my temper rising to match his. "I'm sorry the world isn't operating to your liking right now, but you can't kill a man and then act like nothing has changed."

He'd taken a single step toward me, but now he takes one back, his head c.o.c.ked slightly to the side as he studies me. I stand there, breathing hard, aware that something has s.h.i.+fted for him, but not entirely sure if I've made my point or simply p.i.s.sed him off further. Finally, he speaks, his words coming slowly and without inflection. "I think if I kill a man, that's exactly how I should act. Not guilty."

"I'm talking about being smart. I'm talking about just staying the h.e.l.l away from the press. Don't go walking in right under their noses. Don't give them any fodder."