Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (100)

I clench my jaw and hug myself, forcing myself not to spit out the acknowledgment that he has damn well achieved what he set out to do.

“And then, when I was your whole goddamn world, I was going to leave you. To have my revenge in the knowledge that you were burning in anger and loss.”

I lift my head so that I can see his eyes. I expect to see triumph. Instead, I see regret. I see tenderness, too, and because of that, I stay despite the almost overpowering urge to spring to my feet and run.

“But all of that changed, Sylvia. I would rather die than hurt you. I thought I was strong; I’m not. I thought I was brave; I’m not. Because where you are concerned, I have no strength to leave, and even the thought of losing you breaks me completely.”

“I guess you’re going to have to get used to it,” I say. “Because you’ve already lost me.”

“Sweetheart—” His hand closes over my wrist and I rip it away.

“You lied to me. After everything I’ve told you. After all of myself that I’ve given to you. You fucking lied to me.”

“I didn’t.”

I push up to my feet. “Oh, Christ, Jackson.”

“Listen to me. No,” he says, grabbing my hand as I start to walk away. “Listen.”

I turn to face him, but I don’t sit down. Instead, I stand with my arms crossed over my chest and my jaw tight.

He stands as well, then shoves his hands into his pockets. “I kept things from you, I did. Maybe more than I should.”

“Gee. You think? Like maybe you should have mentioned you were scheming with Jeremiah Stark?”

“I wasn’t. But I do know him. I’ve known him for a very long time.” He draws a breath and drags his fingers through his hair. “Dammit, Syl. Jeremiah Stark is my father.”

I stumble. I actually take a step backward, as if he’s shoved at me with the palm of his hand.

“What?” I finally say, even though I’m absolutely certain that I’ve heard him correctly.

“Damien’s my half-brother.” The words are flat, and it’s very obvious that he’s not particularly thrilled with his family tree.

I’m not really sure how to process that, and so I sit down on the edge of the fountain again. After a moment, Jackson sits beside me.

“Does Damien know?” I ask.

“No. I told you the truth about my dad. My family. I just didn’t tell you who.”

“You should have.” I try to organize my thoughts, but this news is out of left field. “All those times I asked you what your problem with Damien was, and you didn’t say a word.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe I should have. I don’t know.” I can see the anguish on his face, but I don’t try to comfort him. I’m too hurt. Too numb. “Don’t you get it? It’s a secret I’ve lived with my entire life. It wasn’t something I could just shout out.”

“No,” I say tightly. “I wouldn’t know a thing about difficult secrets.”

“Is that what this is? Tit for tat? You told me about Bob and because I didn’t immediately toss my emotional garbage into the mix you’re punishing me?”

“Bob?” I repeat. “That’s all you have to say? Just some half-assed mention before we get back to your daddy issues?” His words are like a stiletto through my heart, because goddammit, Bob is what started all of this. Robert Cabot Reed, the asshole producer who wants to make the movie about Jackson’s Santa Fe house. Bob, the guy who has his claws in both of our lives, and all Jackson can think about is how I’m pissed that he didn’t tell me about Damien right then?

I say none of that, but the force of my emotions drives me to my feet again, and I’m about to lay it all out for him in harsh, clipped tones.

But he’s looking at me with such genuine confusion that I hold my tongue.

And that’s when I realize—Jackson has no idea about Robert Cabot Reed. He only knows that I was looking for him outside. He has no idea why. No idea that my mood, my fears, my entire meltdown wasn’t entirely driven by his little confab with Jeremiah Stark.

Suddenly, I feel very tired.

“I need to go home.” Right then, I need my condo. My patio. I need to curl up on my lounger and sleep. And with any luck, I’m exhausted enough that the dreams won’t come.

“Come back to the boat with me. Please, Syl. We need to talk more. I don’t want this to be the thing that breaks us. My father’s taken too much from me already.”

“He wasn’t the one who kept secrets from me,” I whisper. “That was you.”

I see the way my words make him flinch, and I almost take them back. But they are true, and so I simply shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Maybe we do need to talk. But right now, I need to be alone.”

I don’t give him time to answer. Instead, I just walk away, even though doing so leaves a hole in my heart.





twenty-four


Exhaustion pulls me under, and I sleep through the rest of Saturday, and a good chunk of Sunday morning. The sun is high in the sky when I finally wake on the patio lounger, twisted up in the blanket that I’d pulled over myself.

I remember that there were nightmares, but I do not remember what they were. I only remember one, and in it I ran. Faster and faster, farther and farther. But I never escaped what was chasing me.