Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (56)

“Lovely,” he says as his camera clicks. “Just perfect. Now let’s add a little heat to these photos.”

The other me shakes her head. “I don’t think—”

“Hush,” he says as he steps closer. “I need these photos to stand out, and how can they miss with you in them? Innocence mixed with passion. And if there’s arousal … oh, Elle, that photo will pop.” His hand brushes her nipple, and I watch as the other me gasps. But I don’t feel it. Over here, away, I don’t feel a thing.

His smile is slow. “There you go. You see? That beautiful flush. The camera loves it. And I’ll tell you a secret, Elle. I do, too. There aren’t many fourteen-year-old girls as mature as you. With such a natural heat. Do one more button for me. For the camera.”

“Don’t,” I say to the me in the dress.

But she bites her lip and lifts her hands to the dress. And I suck in air because I know this. I’ve seen it.

I remember what happens. The way he finishes the rest of the buttons for her. The things he says so that it seems okay but really isn’t. The way it feels when his hands are on her—when he touches her. When he’s inside her.

And the shame and loathing that come after.

I remember it, and so I scream for her. I yell for her to fight it. To stop him.

But I don’t hear me. Only Bob does. And when he turns to me with a victorious smile, it’s Jackson’s face that I see.

I sit up, gasping for air, then jump when Jackson’s hand strokes my thigh.

“Syl?” His voice is sleepy, concerned.

But I don’t answer. Instead, I run to the living room and throw on the dress, ignoring the ripped underwear and not bothering with the bra.

I stand for a second, unsure, then I tiptoe back into the bedroom and dig in the pocket of his khakis for his wallet. I find the valet ticket, and I clutch it tight, breathing hard.

“Syl? What’s going on?”

I look up to see him blinking at me as he switches on the bedside lamp.

Fear clutches me, and I can barely breathe.

I spring to my feet and race out of the bedroom, then out of the suite. I jab my finger on the elevator button and will it to whisk me to the lobby at something close to the speed of light.

The young man at the valet stand doesn’t question me when he brings me the Porsche, and I’m grateful that I remembered my purse so that I can tip him.

I slide behind the wheel, lock the doors, and peel out of the driveway.

I have no idea where I’m going. I only know that I want to escape.

But since it’s my own skin I want to leave behind, it’s never going to happen. And all I can hope is that somehow, someway, I can drive fast enough to leave the nightmares behind.





thirteen


I race up Coldwater Canyon, hugging the road’s curves, watching as the spray of light from the headlights turns the tree-lined road into a fairy tale path of dark shadows and witches’ fingers that are reaching out to claim me.

But it’s not the shadows I’m running from. It’s not even Jackson. Not entirely.

It’s Jackson and myself and the whole fucked up situation.

Because damn me to hell, all Jackson wants is to punish me. I know that—I know it. And yet all he has to do is crook a finger to make me melt.

Just like Bob did all those years ago.

Fuck.

This was a mistake. Such a huge mistake. I should never have gotten in Jackson’s bed, and if that meant abandoning the resort, then I should have just walked away. Because I cannot be this woman. I can’t be the girl who surrenders. Who gives in. I have to hold on tight to control, because it is the only protection I have.

I hate that as well.

And so I drive, taking the curves wildly, trying desperately to lose myself in the thrill of danger, burying my fear under this rush of pure adrenal sensation and absolute concentration.

Except it doesn’t work. My head is too full, my thoughts too wild, and with one violent turn of the wheel, I whip the car into a turnaround and slam on the brakes. The Porsche jolts to a stop dangerously close to the drop-off, and for a moment I wonder what that would have been like, soaring out into space and then dropping down, down, down into nothingness.

I push the thought away. That is not me; not who I am at all. And it never has been.

Even as a teen, when I so desperately wanted it to end, I never wanted to end me. Instead I wanted to get lost inside myself, to find that safe place and to cling to talismans that would protect me from the nightmares.

My whole life, I’ve managed to keep a tight hold, with only two exceptions—Atlanta and right now.

And there’s Jackson Steele right in the middle, sending me battering about as if he is a storm and I am nothing more than a cork bobbing in violent waters.

I get out of the car and walk to the edge, then look down at the lights of the world. The houses where happy people sleep through dreamless nights.

I am jealous, I realize. And I am alone.

I close my eyes against a sudden, powerful longing for Jackson. To let him hold and soothe me.

You’re a fool, I think. A goddamn, messed up fool.

The purr of an engine pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to see a black sedan pull into the turnaround.

I frown. I’m not looking for company, and I’m not stupid. I’m a woman alone in the dark standing beside a pretty damn expensive car. All of which means that this is my cue to leave.