3. Blakely
THREE
Blakely
I brush my hand across the wall absentmindedly, steadying myself from stumbling, exhaustion wringing my bones. It’s been a long night and I can’t wait to pass out. My nail snags on the corner of a picture frame, making my steps falter, my fingertip throbbing from where it jammed against the metal. Cursing, I glare at the portrait responsible for my pain.
It’s of my mother. They all are photos of my mother, encased in ornate frames and hung throughout our house like a shrine. A way for my father to gaze at her beauty without having to admit out loud he’s never moved on after her death. After I killed her .
She was the great love of his life—at least that’s the way the story goes—and sometimes I can’t help but think the reason he’s a workaholic is so he doesn’t have to stare at me too long, afraid he’ll start blaming me for taking her away.
I have her eyes. Only 5 percent of people in the entire world have them, and sometimes, I stare at her unblinking face in the photos and search for familiarity. For forgiveness . The canary yellow swirls into deep brown, dipping into the center of her irises—a kaleidoscope of colors frozen in a portrait, making me ache to see the amber hues warm. They don’t, of course. Snapshots can’t capture a soul, only a memory.
I’m sure my dad would tell me anything I wanted to know, but every time I bring it up, grief tugs on his happiness, trying to make it rip off his skin and disappear into the ethers. Once it’s gone, who knows how long it will be until it comes back—until he comes back. So I don’t like to ask.
Something sharp slices my insides at the thought, dulling the pain in my finger and making me break from my stare down with a woman I’ve never known. Continuing the trek to my bedroom, I try to shake away the tumultuous thoughts so I can get at least a few hours of sleep, but it’s no use. In these late-night hours—the only ones where I’m truly by myself—the thoughts always creep up and find me in the darkness. Thoughts that whisper like the most vicious kind of bully, tormenting me with cutting words and truths I keep shrouded in the shadows.
After changing out of my dress and slipping into a robe, I step into my suite. Mozart’s Moonlight Sonata, third movement plays softly from the built-in speakers, just like it does every night. I methodically strip off my makeup, pumping the face cleanser onto my Clarisonic brush three times, ensuring the droplets form directly in the middle before moving it along my skin. Thirty seconds for each side, then again for my forehead and chin. No longer, no less.
It’s the routines that keep me focused. Keep me sane.
After applying the last of my creams and elixirs, I drop the robe and walk to the full-length mirror for my nightly inventory.
Drawing in a deep breath, I step on the scale, closing my eyes tightly and counting to twenty-five, envisioning the result I’d like to see. Slowly, I slide my lids open, the knot in my stomach tightening as the light filters back in. My eyes blur for the slightest second before the bright red numbers come into focus.
One hundred and twelve point six. Shit .
That’s point three over what it was yesterday. My mind races, mentally calculating everything I ate and drank today, a tidal wave of regret surging through my system, rising up my esophagus and making my insides pull.
It’s the vodka sodas, I just know it.
Normally, when I make appearances, I don’t drink. Being underage is usually reason enough, but for some reason, when I was offered a drink tonight, I convinced myself that just one would be fine. But then one turned into two. That’s one hundred and ninety-two calories, assuming the bartender didn’t overpour—which they probably did—so who knows how much it actually was? My heart rate accelerates, my throat closing around the uncertainty.
My body feels heavy, and as I step off the scale and stare in the mirror, I can almost see where the extra calories are already making a home. My face sours, the tang of disgust settling thick on my tongue.
Scoffing, I turn away, my lack of self-control smacking against my insides and making the haziness of exhaustion disappear, an antsy energy whipping through my muscles and pushing me toward my closet.
I can’t believe I put that poison in my body.
Weak, Blakely. Fucking pathetic.
Throwing on a sports bra and leggings, I glance at the clock on my nightstand, grimacing when I realize I’m supposed to be awake in four hours and headed to Donahue Motors. To the job my father has forced me into so that I can “start to take life seriously.”
For just a moment, I consider giving myself some leeway and slipping between my sheets, but the overwhelming need to watch the calories burn away on the elliptical wins, choking me with impatience.
As I rush down the hall and toward the staircase, I keep my head down, not wanting to see identical eyes on a stranger’s face staring back at me.
Judging me, just like everybody else.
“You look tired.” Jackson’s voice rumbles across the entrance of Donahue Motors, his wavy, dirty-blond hair swishing against his jaw.
My stomach flips, and I push my sunglasses to my head as I stop in front of him. “That’s usually code for you look like shit, so thank you, once again, for your never-ending kindness.”
His thick, pale arms cross against his broad chest, the tendons in his forearms flexing at the movement. My gut clenches.
Damn, he’s pretty.
His brow quirks, and he leans forward. “Fine. You look like shit. Better?”
The words—even though I pushed for them—cause anxiety to creep through the cracks of my makeup. My fingers strain against the urge to pull out a mirror and make sure I don’t actually look like a train wreck. It’s early, and nobody here gives a damn one way or the other, but you never know when someone will be lurking—when a photo will be taken and end up circulating online. It only takes a second, and I can’t afford a shitty picture. It doesn’t fit the brand.
The longer I internally panic, the more Jackson’s eyes narrow, his grassy-green gaze sharp and penetrating, like he’s trying to strip away my paint and see the bodywork underneath.
A thrill zips through me, loving the weight of his stare. My chest relaxes from where it was gripping my lungs tight.
I swallow, meeting his gaze and daring him to dig deeper. To press further.
“Jax, honey, your order came in this morning.” Karen, the office assistant, walks in from the back hall, causing Jackson to break our connection. Charm glides over his body like an aura, polishing away his grit—a blinding white smile spreading across his face as he spins to face her.
His elbows rest on top of the reception counter. “Karen, what would I do without you?”
I watch, fascinated, as the hue on Karen’s porcelain cheeks blooms a deep shade of rose and she legit giggles like a schoolgirl. Gross, Karen. You’re like sixty. Get it together.
“Oh, hush. You’d do just fine.”
Jackson’s smile grows, his hand leaping to his heart. “I beg to differ. You’re the cherry to my pie, sweet thing.”
She playfully pushes against his arm. “And you’re an insufferable flirt, has anyone ever told you that?”
“I just call it like I see it.” He winks.
I snort, my hand slapping over my mouth at the noise.
Jackson’s back stiffens and he looks toward me. “Something funny, Blake?”
I bite my lip and shake my head. Blake. Why he gives me a nickname when he won’t give me the time of day is beyond me.
He runs his big hand through his hair, and my eyes track the motion. Normally, I’m not a fan of longer hair on guys, but for some reason, with Jackson, I can’t imagine him any other way.
And I have imagined him. Frequently. Not that I’d ever admit it out loud. He’s not my type, and definitely not the kind of person who I could have on my arm in public. He may have the movie star looks, but he doesn’t have the pedigree. At the root of everything, he’s blue-collar. My father’s employee and someone who would never understand the lifestyle.
He’s too old for me anyway.
He taps his knuckles on the countertop. “See ya later, Karen. Don’t work too hard or I’ll be forced to come back up here and take you out for an extra-long lunch.”
She smiles, her blush deepening as she waves him off.
He turns, sparing me a single glance and disappearing through the glass doors leading to the garage.
Smiling softly at Karen, I walk closer. “I’m at your service today, Karen. Put me to work.”
The grin she held for Jackson slips from her face, transforming into a grimace as she regards me. “Like usual, Miss Donahue, not much for you to do other than manning the front desk and answering calls. I can handle the rest.”
Irritation surges through my insides even as I keep a smile painted on my face. “It’s just Blakely, Karen.”
Karen hums and grabs a stack of papers as she walks away.
I plop into the reception desk chair, spinning around and sighing as I resign myself to my fate. I have to play nice, for my father’s sake, but being here makes me itch. Every minute that ticks away on the clock is another wasted second that I could be dedicating to my career. The one nobody takes seriously except me. They don’t understand the dedication, and I don’t think they ever will.
There was a moment when I thought my father saw the truth. When he sat me down, saying he wanted me to take up a position with Donahue Inc., my chest warmed, thinking that he saw how hard I worked at being an influencer. At the business I conduct behind the scenes. But, of course, he didn’t. He sees the pictures in the papers and falls for the act, just like everyone else.
So instead of giving me a real chance to prove my worth, he stowed me away at Donahue Motors, a branch of his conglomerate responsible for making prop cars used in the movies he produces.
Out of sight, out of mind.
I could have told him no, I suppose. But I know he’s doing it out of love, even if it’s misguided, and I don’t want to disappoint him. He’s the only family I’ve got.
Besides, he’s not a bad father, just an absent one.
A squeak from the hallway brings me out of my thoughts. Karen comes back around the corner, huffing and puffing, pushing a dolly with large boxes.
I jump out of my chair, rushing to her side. “Let me do that, Karen. Where are they going?”
“Oh no, Miss Donahue, don’t worry about me. I’ve got years left in these bones yet,” she protests.
I don’t listen, moving her to the side, my hands replacing hers on the handle.
She doesn’t put up a fight. “They’re going out to the garage. It’s the order Jax has been waiting on.”
“On it.” I smile, winking at her. I’m overcompensating, trying for the thousandth time to gain her approval, but it doesn’t work. She gives me nothing more than a small lift in the corner of her mouth and goes behind the front desk, already on to her next task.
Pushing through the glass doors that lead into the expansive garage, I roll the boxes over to the shelving of inventory and glance around, looking for broad shoulders and sun-kissed hair.
I find him hunched under the hood of a forest-green convertible. I’m not sure what kind of car it is, only that it looks old and expensive.
“You know,” I say, my stomach tightening as his back straightens from my voice. “I sincerely hope you come with better lines than what you used on poor Karen when you’re trying to snag some vag.”
He sighs, straightening up and looking at me with a blank face. Turning, he sets his tool down and walks around the car, leaning against the driver’s side door.
“Should you be leaning against that?” I gesture toward the convertible.
“Should you be using words like ‘snag some vag’?” he bites back.
A pang of excitement slams into my stomach. Jackson’s feisty today.
“Well, I don’t know what lingo you old folk are into these days, but vag is short for vagina .” I smile big and wide.
His jaw twitches. “I’m familiar.”
Smirking, I eye him up and down, wiggling my eyebrows. “Oh, I have no doubt.” Walking over and peering inside the front of the car, I wrap my fingers around a rod that’s holding up the hood. “What ya working on?”
I feel the heat of his body as he comes to stand next to me. His hand wraps around mine, the weight of his touch as he peels my fingers off the metal making my breath stick in my throat.
“Be careful, please. You could hurt yourself,” he murmurs next to my ear.
Blowing out a shaky exhale, my stomach clenches. “Careful, Jackson. It almost sounds like you care.” Spinning around, my eyes rest on his Adam’s apple, the intensity of his attention wrapping around me like a blanket.
I peer up at him through my lashes, marveling at the sharp angles of his jaw, inhaling the scent of rubber and oil, mixed with a delicious spice I can’t place. It’s heady, and it makes me lightheaded.
He takes a step back, snapping a hairband against his wrist. “Look, Blakely, I don’t have time for this. This car is supposed to be on your dad’s set tomorrow, so if you’re not in here to help, then get the fuck out.”
I raise my chin, my defenses rising at his brush-off. “I am here to help. My dad sent me, actually, and I doubt he’d like to hear that you’re anything less than nice.”
“He sent you here to be watched because you’re still a kid who can’t take anything seriously for one goddamn second,” he snaps. “So, go ahead. Run and tell your daddy I’ve been mean. He’ll give me a bonus on my next check for not falling at your feet like your vapid friends and empty followers.”
My gut twists, his accusations ringing in my ears. “My father doesn’t take the time to learn what it is I actually do and instead decides to believe what he sees.” I take in a breath, batting away the hurt that tries to leach from my bones. “But at the end of the day, he’s still my father, and if he feels like I’m being treated unfairly, he won’t stand for it.
“And, Jackson.” I step back into him, close enough where I can see the faint outline of a necklace underneath his shirt. “I’m still looking for a daddy . Know anyone up for the challenge?”
Jackson’s nostrils flare, his fists clenching at his sides, and like a hit of nicotine, my head buzzes with satisfaction. He’s right, after all. He doesn’t treat me the way everyone else does, and in a world of perfect photos and staged happiness, there’s something intensely gratifying about the realness of his irritation. The rawness of his anger.
I like knowing I’m the one who draws out the passion that hides beneath his laid-back charm.
The truth is, I’m addicted to Jackson’s hatred.