Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (98)

“Isn’t that her?” Cass asks, pointing to the far side of the room where Robert Reed stands chatting with Evelyn and a few other people I don’t know.

“Good eye,” I say. “Let’s go say hi.”

As we head that direction, I’m struck again by the feeling that I’ve met Reed before. I don’t think too much about it, though. It’s hard to grow up in LA and not run across celebrities here and there, especially now that I work for Stark.

But as we draw closer, I can overhear their conversation. His voice is also familiar, and I press my fingers to my temples, trying to place it. Then he extends a hand to one of the pretty young women. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Robert Cabot Reed. But you can call me Bob.”

I go completely cold.

“Syl?”

“It’s him.” My tongue feels thick, and I’m not entirely sure I’ve spoken.

“Him? I don’t—”

“I need to find Jackson.”

“I—”

“Jackson.”

“Oh god.” I hear understanding and panic in Cass’s voice. “Oh, holy fucking god.”

But I’m not listening. I’m stumbling blind through the house, my hands clenched tight at my sides because I will not, will not, will not lose it.

I manage to keep my shit together all the way to the foyer where Prado is still greeting latecomers.

“Have you seen Jackson?” The urgency in Cass’s voice makes me realize how scared she must be.

“Cassidy? Why, yes. He said he was going out front to take a phone call.” Prado steps toward us. “Are you all right?”

I don’t know what she tells him. All I know is that I am pure motion. That somehow I have gotten through the doors and out into the world, and now I am spinning, looking for him. By the valet stand. In the shadows by the street. Under the streetlight.

There.

I run to him, then stop dead when I see that he is not alone.

“Goddammit,” he says to his companion. “What the fuck are you doing here? I told you to stay away from me.”

I cannot hear the man’s reply, but Jackson’s retort is crystal clear.

“That’s bullshit,” he says. “Aren’t you the one who always says we can’t be seen together? Goddamn you, Jeremiah.”

“Syl!” Cass’s frantic voice cuts through the night, and both men turn toward me, their faces now lit by the soft golden light of the streetlamp.

Jackson Steele.

And Jeremiah Stark.

I make a sound like a whimper.

“Sylvia!” I hear the urgency in Jackson’s voice, and I see both shock and guilt on his face.

I turn—and I run.

“Sylvia, wait!”

But I don’t, I am running blind, at least until I stumble, then cry out at the sharp pain in my knee.

I’ve broken a heel and fallen on the curb.

I see a red-clad valet hurrying toward me from one direction. Behind me, I see Jackson sprinting toward me in the dark.

I scramble to my knees, because I can’t talk to him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

He lied to me. Oh, dear god, he lied to me.

“Sylvia,” he calls, and I stumble to my feet and reach out for the valet. “Dammit, Sylvia, stop!”

“Leave her alone!” Cass cries, and I look over my shoulder to see her tugging on Jackson’s sleeve. “Dammit, Jackson, just let her go.”

I clutch the valet’s hand. “Please. I need a taxi.”

“Of course.” The boy looks about seventeen and completely freaked out. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

“Just the taxi. Please. Hurry.”

There is one already in the pickup line, and he hurries me in. I collapse gratefully into the backseat, and as the car leaves the curved driveway for the street, the last thing I see before I fall inside myself is Jackson standing beside Cass, his body angled as if in motion, held in place only by her firm grip on his arm.

I sink back into the seat and try to decide where to go from here. Not home. Jackson will look for me there.

Not to the office, because I will be found.

In the end, I go to a motel. A boring little chain that charges way too much for its boring little rooms.

But I don’t care about the money or the decor. I don’t even care about the bed, because I do not intend to sleep.

I can’t, not tonight. Because tonight will be the worst.

Tonight, the nightmares will come, dark dragons with sharp teeth and fiery claws.

They will come and I’ll see Bob in my mind—Cabot Reed—and he’ll touch me and seduce me and I’ll come for him, and I’ll hate myself.

Then I’ll look him in the eyes and see Jackson, and hate myself that much more.

I’ll be helpless.

Lost and alone, with no one to slay the dragon.

A burst of fury whips through me and I grab the ice bucket off the dresser and hurl it across the room. It makes an unsatisfying thud against the thin drywall and cheap paint.

“Goddamn you, Jackson Steele,” I shout. “God fucking damn you.”

He’d lied to me, by omission if not outright. Acted like he didn’t even know Jeremiah Stark when I asked him about it after the LA Scandal website fiasco. And maybe I could believe that tonight was just one of those first-meet coincidences if I hadn’t seen his face and overheard their conversation. But I had, and Jackson’s is a face I know—they’ve known each other for a long time. And they are obviously more than just casual acquaintances.