Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (6)

“Oh, no, really. I’m happy to make myself available anytime. And if it’s more convenient I’ll go to his hotel or he can come to my office. Whatever works.”

I hear her sigh, long and deep, and I bite my lower lip as she says, “No, Ms. Brooks, you misunderstand. Mr. Steele has asked that I decline your request for a meeting. And to express his regrets, of course.”

“His regrets?”

“He said that you would understand. He said that you two discussed this already. In Atlanta.”

“He—what?”

“I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Brooks. But I can assure you that Mr. Steele’s refusal is final.”

My mouth has gone completely dry. Not that it matters. I may want to argue, but it is too late. The line has gone dead.

I stare at my phone for a moment, not quite believing what I’ve just heard.

Jackson said no.

“Shit.” I run my fingers through my hair, then look up at Clark, who has secured the helicopter and is heading my direction.

“Trouble?” he asks, his brow furrowed as he peers at my face.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I reply. Because there is no way I’m calling Damien and telling him that I blew it so badly I couldn’t even get a meeting. Which means that I very badly need a Plan B. Another starchitect. A magic potion. A goddamn freaking miracle.

I start to follow Clark into the alcove, then stop short, remembering. “Have a good weekend,” I say to him. “I need to make one more call.”

And then I scroll through my contacts, find Wyatt’s number, and call the photographer to see if he can wrangle that miracle.

“You do know how awesome this is, right?” Cass asks as she climbs into the limo and takes a seat opposite me.

She looks amazing, as usual, in a slinky black dress slit so far up her thigh it’s a wonder she didn’t flash the neighborhood. The dress is held up by a single, simple bow over her left shoulder, and she fills it out with the kind of curves I can only dream about. Her hair is red this week, and she is wearing it up so as to accentuate the dress. Other than a small diamond stud in her nose, she wears no jewelry, which makes the tattoo of an exotic bird on her shoulder, its tail feathers trailing down her arm in an explosion of color, all the more stunning.

As soon as she’s settled, Edward shuts the door and returns to the driver’s seat. We don’t see him, as we are snug behind the privacy screen, but I feel the motion as the limo pulls away from the curb in front of Cass’s tiny house in Venice Beach.

“Seriously, Syl. Your job perks rock.”

“Definitely on the upside of awesome,” I agree as I pass her a glass of wine. The limo is one of the Stark International fleet, and Edward is Damien’s personal driver, on loan to me for this evening. With any luck, I’ll make this worth Edward’s overtime.

“I think we both need a moment of deep contemplation,” Cass says. “You, in appreciation of the serious perks of your job. And me, in gratitude that you are so antisocial that there’s no one else you wanted to invite tonight.”

“Bitch,” I say, but I’m laughing as she closes her eyes and tilts her head back.

“Ommm,” she says, as if she’s in a yoga class and not in the back of a stretch limo on her way to a Hollywood release party.

I’d debated whether or not to bring her, but in the end had decided that not only would Cass get a kick out of a red carpet premiere, but she’d also make a damn fine human security blanket.

Cass has been my best friend since I marched into her dad’s tattoo parlor at the ripe old age of fifteen. He’d sent me packing, telling me in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t about to lose his license so some Brentwood brat could get a tat in order to piss off Mommy and Daddy.

I hadn’t cried—I haven’t cried since I was fourteen—but I had felt my face go hot as my temper and frustration rose. I’d called him a bastard, yelled that he didn’t know a thing about my parents and he sure as hell didn’t know anything about me. I don’t actually remember calling him a fucking prick, but Cass assures me that I did.

What I do remember is storming out, then running blindly until I reached the beach. I’d rushed across the bike path, almost knocking over a toddler, and then tripped in the sand. I’d fallen facedown and just laid there like an idiot, my forehead on my arm and my eyes squeezed together because I wanted to cry—so help me, I wanted the tears to flow—but they didn’t. They couldn’t.

I don’t know how long I laid there, breathing shallow so I wouldn’t suck up the sand. All I know is that she was there when I looked up, all long legs and tanned skin and short black hair slicked into dozens of spikes. She crouched on her haunches, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hand as she stared at me. Just rocked back and forth and stared.

“Go away,” I’d said.

“It’s not his fault. My mom bailed, and he’s gotta take care of me, so it’s not his fault. I mean, if they yank his license, they’ll close his shop and then they’ll repossess the house and we’ll end up living in the back of his Buick, and I’ll have to turn tricks in Hollywood just to keep us in Snickers and Diet Coke.”

My gut clenched at her words, and for a second I thought I would be sick. “Don’t,” I said. “That’s not even funny.”