Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (70)

I actually know this neighborhood, as I’ve spent a lot of time driving in these hills searching the facades of these beautiful homes for that unknown something that keeps eluding me.

The houses here are spaced far apart, with each lot taking up anywhere from one to three acres, most of that land allocated to the backyard. The place has a friendly, neighborhood vibe, but doesn’t feel like suburbia. The houses are private and expensive, and that gives the area a quiet, exclusive feel. And because each lot on the west side of the road overlooks the coast highway, each home has a view of the ocean that is positively to die for.

“Let me guess,” I say. “We’re going trick-or-treating early.”

“We’re not,” he says. “But feel free to put on a costume anytime you want.”

I raise my eyebrow. “I just might do that. But not if you don’t tell me what you’re up to.”

“Just a little farther.” As he speaks, the road curves sharply. He makes a left turn into a vacant lot, then stops the car.

I glance around, confused, and am about to ask Jackson, but he’s already getting out of the car. I do as well, then follow him deeper into the property, delighted to see that although it has no structure on it, some early developer terraced the hill so that there are stairs leading down to what will essentially be a private backyard to whatever house is ultimately built on the lot above.

“This is amazing,” I say, turning around and realizing that I have no line of sight to any of the houses on the street above. As for the coast highway, it is mostly camouflaged by the trees and brush that slope away from the area on which I now stand, which means that the dominant view is of sand and ocean. “I can’t believe this lot hasn’t been snatched up.”

“It was,” he says. “I bought it five years ago. Just a few months after you left Atlanta.”

“You—” I turn, something in his voice halting my words. “But you were living in Georgia.”

“I was staying in Georgia. I’ve always lived in California. And I left not long after you did. Things went downhill with Brighton pretty quickly.”

I know from official biographies that he’d grown up just outside of San Diego. I didn’t know that he’d ever lived in or considered living in Los Angeles. And now to find out that he’d come here—that he’d bought property even. Honestly, I’m not sure what to think about that, and I tell him as much.

“It’s not a trick question and there is no hidden meaning. But I wanted to show you this place because I think it’s special. And I thought of it last night when you told me about wanting the ocean and the stars.”

I look around at the bright blue sky and the blazing sun.

“Not today.”

“No,” he says with a laugh. “Not today.” He holds out his hand for me and I take it. “Will you tell me something?”

“Sure,” I say, but my voice is a little too light, because I’m nervous about where this might be leading. “At least, I will if I can.”

“Last night, when the nightmare came and you ran out on me, why did you go into the hills? Why not just race down Santa Monica or Sunset? Build up some speed? Or cruise down PCH? Or get on the highway and open her up? That time of night you could have gone all the way to the desert without hitting traffic. So why go up?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Usually when I’m upset or need to think I go to the Getty Center. I probably spent half my time in high school there.”

“But not last night.”

“No.” I frown, because the question hadn’t occurred to me. It had just seemed natural to go into the hills. To drive fast. “I was scared. I was running. I wasn’t thinking.”

“And yet you ran to Mulholland. Curves and hills and no guardrails. Sounds pretty scary, too.”

“Your inner psychologist is showing,” I say.

He laughs. “Perhaps. And perhaps I’m right. Maybe you were conquering fear with fear.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I hug myself, not really in the mood to be picked apart. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I think you were being smart.” He cocks his head, his blue eyes just a little devious. “Because we’re going to push you, Syl. Fight fear with fear. Take control by giving control.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then let me show you.” He steps back, then looks me up and down. “Take off your clothes.”

I see the heat in his eyes and hear the command in his voice and realize that he’s not kidding. Prickles of excitement skitter over me, but I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“No? That’s not the way this works, Sylvia. I tell you to get naked, and you do. I tell you to suck my cock, and you get on your knees.”

His voice is firm, commanding, and I take a step backward, shaking my head in both denial of his words and in defense against the way my body heats in response. “What kind of game are you playing, Jackson?”

“The only kind I ever play. Mine.” He crooks his finger. “Come here, baby. I want to show you something.”

I hesitate, and he laughs.

“Come on,” he urges. “I promise I don’t bite hard.”