Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (38)

“No, Cass, really. I’m fine. I’m going to get cleaned up and get to the office. See if I can find another architect who will make the investors happy.” I say it lightly, even though I know there’s no way in hell.

“You’re sure? You don’t have a car, and I’m not that far away.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “And you don’t want to leave Zee, and she doesn’t want to spend the morning with me. Seriously, it’s all good.”

“Okay. Listen, Zee lives in Silver Lake, and my cell signal is for shit here, so if you call and I don’t answer, leave a message and I’ll call you back from her landline.”

“I won’t. I’m fine. Quit playing Mommy.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” I say gently. “It’s all good.”

I can practically see her dissatisfied expression. “Fine. Tonight, then. I’ve got a one o’clock that should take a couple of hours, but after that I’m free. Meet me at the shop at three?”

And because we both need reassurance that I’m all right, I nod. “Yeah,” I say into the phone. “We can grab a late lunch.”

“Forget the late lunch. I’m going to want an early drink.”

I laugh, and we end the call.

I briefly consider whether I should go back to sleep for a few hours or just grab a taxi and get out of here. After I hit the bathroom, though, I decide to compromise on a shower. Because this bathroom is truly fab. With black tiled walls, ultra-modern fixtures, and a walk-in rain shower.

I turn the water on and wait for the temperature to adjust, standing naked in front of the mirror as I do.

Am I giving you another tattoo?

Cass’s words seem to echo in the small room, and I slide my hand down until my fingers brush the lock that Cass inked just above my line of pubic hair. The first of so many. The mirror isn’t a full-length style, but if I stand back far enough I can see most of myself. And the truth is, I don’t need to see anyway. I know where they all are. Every souvenir. Every mark. Every pain, and every memory.

I turn my leg out, revealing the curving red ribbon inked onto the soft skin between my torso and left thigh, the ribbon curling from my pubis to my hip. And on it, the ornately scripted initials, TS, KC, DW. Small and intricately designed, like the text of a medieval manuscript, so that the letters appear to be little more than a random design. Of course, they are anything but.

I remember that night with Jackson—one night that held all the force and emotion of a lifetime. He’d traced his finger on the ribbon, and asked what it meant. I’d told him that it meant nothing, but that was a lie. The initials mean everything. They are a mark of both shame and power. A reminder of who I was, and who I will never be again.

They represent men like Louis. Men I’d gone after in those years before Jackson. Men I’d taken to bed so that I could use instead of being used.

I drag my teeth over my lower lip, silently thanking Jackson for stopping me last night. Preventing me from going so far that I would have no choice but to add LD—Louis Dale—to my collection.

I haven’t done that—trapped a guy in my sights and gone after him like that—since before Atlanta. But last night, I’d craved that release, that control. This morning, I would only have regretted it.

I shift sideways so that I can glimpse my back. From this angle I can tell only that something has been inked in red between the two dimples above each of my ass cheeks. But that’s okay, I know the tat. Even though I have never seen it except in reflection, I know the line and the curves. An ornate J intertwined with an S, like a fancy monogram.

Jackson’s initials—and they are marking me.

I sigh and reach back, pressing my palm flat over the tat. I’d gone to Cass the day I returned from Atlanta. I didn’t explain, didn’t say a word. It was at least a month before I told her anything about Jackson and me. But I’d needed the ink right away. I’d needed the pain that marked the memory. And I’d needed a piece of him to be with me always.

There are other tats. On my breasts, between my shoulder blades, marking my hips. A silent path winding through the pain in my life. All discreet, so that no corporate skirt and blouse would ever reveal my secrets. But all there when I need them.

Right now, I tell myself, I don’t need them. I’m doing fine. I have a career in which I’m advancing, good friends, a great boss. I’m moving forward in my life; I no longer have to stand naked before a mirror and trace the path of my triumphs and tragedies to give me strength.

And for years, I’ve felt strong and capable and in control.

But now the world is getting gray around the edges again, and the control I’ve always clutched so desperately is slipping away as if I’m holding tight with buttered fingers.

Fingers of panic are creeping back in through the cracks in my veneer, and I know why. Because instead of conquering them, I hid from them. I ran as fast as I could from Jackson, and then curled up into a little ball, living an anesthetized life.

But he’s back now, and I’m tingling all over, just like a numb limb coming back to life, and I honestly don’t know if I can handle this.

No, that’s not true. I know that I can’t handle it. I know, because I couldn’t handle it the first time.

Somehow, I need to get Jackson Steele out of my head.