7. Blakely
SEVEN
Blakely
There’s a picture of Jackson and me on TMZ. Usually, a photo in the tabloids is the goal, after all, there’s no such thing as bad press, but the fact someone snapped a photo of this moment—where it felt like Jackson was dipping into the depths of my soul—makes nausea curdle in my stomach.
Blakely Donahue’s Mystery Man.
That’s what they’re calling him. Like he’s a puzzle for them to solve. Like he’s mine . The reality is he’s neither of those things, but people aren’t interested in facts. That’s not what sells.
Truth has no place in the spotlight.
They’ll want him, that’s for sure. You can’t look the way Jackson does and not have agents and slobbering fangirls banging down your door.
Anxiety tightens my insides, my foot tapping against the leg of the glass table. I’ve been sitting here for the past hour, hiding away in the alcove off the kitchen, trying to force myself into believing I don’t care about this headline.
But for the first time since I met him, I wish Jackson was just a little bit uglier. A little less perfect. A little less likable. Because if they get their hands on him, they’ll either change him into something unrecognizable or they’ll destroy any sense of reputation and honor he has. Either way, he gets eaten alive. There’s no way to come out whole once you’re in the jaws of Hollywood.
It was stupid as hell, letting myself get lost in the moment. A rookie mistake, one I’ll never let happen again. But it caught me off guard last night. I didn’t expect the air to become our foreplay, swirling in the space between us and sinking into my skin, teasing me with its tension. I didn’t know playing with Jackson’s fire would make it lick at my insides, making me desperate.
I don’t have much experience with men, and even less with sex, but I’ve never felt anything like what I felt last night. And now it’s staring me in the face from the home page of TMZ.
“I think it’s great.” Sierra’s voice filters through my thoughts as she plops down across from me.
Turning my head, I look at her, my brows rising. “What is?”
She nods toward my computer and my eyes follow. It’s not a great photo. It’s grainy, like someone snapped it on their shitty phone and sold it to the highest bidder. But there’s no denying the way our bodies are pressed so close you can’t see the space between us. No way to mask the look in his eyes or the smile on my face.
“He’s hot. They’re practically salivating trying to figure out who he is.”
I cringe, guilt weaving its way into my chest. I can’t imagine he’s the type of person who craves notoriety. And that’s what being seen with me will give him. A bad name and a bad reputation, whether he wants it or not.
“Use it to your advantage,” she continues. “Invite him to more things.” She pauses briefly, tapping her stiletto nails on the tabletop. “But not too many things. We want them curious, not confident. We still need plausible deniability.”
“Mmhmm.” I’m only half paying attention to what she says, choosing to scan the article instead, my stomach churning more with every word I read.
“What’s wrong?” Sierra asks.
“Hmm?” I glance up at her. Clearing my throat, I push my laptop to the side. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”
“You’re being weird. You don’t…” She tilts her head to the side. “You don’t like this guy, right?”
My stomach flutters at her question and I scoff, scrunching my nose. “Please, Sierra. He’s like thirty.”
“And your dad’s employee,” she says pointedly. “Maybe we should leak his profession. Blakely’s mystery mechanic has a nice ring to it, yeah?”
“He’s not a mechanic,” I snap.
She shrugs. “He’s close enough.” Her eyes narrow as she leans back, running a hand through her blond hair. “Shit. You like him, don’t you?”
I roll my eyes. “Get real, Sierra.”
“I’m always real, B. You’re the one who has to put on a show, not me. Let’s not forget that.”
Her words hit their mark, bruising the tender spots in my soul and dripping into my conscience.
She sighs. “It’s probably for the best if we don’t use him, then.”
My eyes widen. “You literally just said we should.”
“Well, that was before I knew you were getting attached.” She leans in, resting her palms on the table. My eyes flash to where her hands press into the glass, and I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. For some reason, having her talk about Jackson makes my lungs squeeze tight.
Closing my eyes, I try to stay calm and focus on the conversation.
Deep breath in. One. Two. Three. Deep breath out.
My heart rate starts to level, and I reassure myself that Sierra is wrong. I’m not attached; I just like the way he makes me feel. He doesn’t expect me to be anything—he just lets me simply be .
“I’m not getting attached. I just… He doesn’t treat me like everyone else.” I shake my head. “He doesn’t even like me. How pathetic is that? The realest person in my life, and he can’t stand the sight of me.”
Sierra tsks. “He seems to like the sight of you just fine if that picture’s any indication.”
My eyes glide back to the computer screen, my stomach jolting from the memory of what it felt like to be spinning in Jackson’s orbit, even for a moment.
“Look, B. Let’s keep it real. He’s good for the gossip but he’s not good for the brand. Not long-term. Cartier doesn’t want to dangle off the wrist of someone whose man can’t afford to put it there.”
My brows draw in. “Cartier isn’t even one of my sponsors.”
“And they never will be if you fall for this guy.”
“Ughhhh,” I groan, throwing my head back. “Will you shut the hell up? Nobody is falling for anyone. God, he was only there because my father told him to be.”
Sierra shrugs. “I’m just saying…let’s keep it that way. He’s hot, and he’s a great tool to keep your name in the headlines, but that’s all he is, you know? A tool. Product placement.”
Her words scrape against my ears, making me cringe at the harsh reality of my life. You either play the game or you don’t, that’s what she’s really saying.
Dance, monkey, dance.
In my world, consent is an illusion, an act put on for the masses. It’s all fake. And Jackson is just so damn real.
But I’m not.
And that’s why I know I’m going to agree even before my head starts to nod. Even though there’s a sour taste on the back of my tongue and a weight pushing down on my chest. Because I’ll do anything to rise to the top.
To be seen.