8. Jackson
EIGHT
Jackson
I woke up this morning after tossing and turning all night, worried like hell about how Lee was handling things back home. Wondering if she misses me, even just a little. If she’s surrounded with a good support system or if she’s breaking apart from holding the weight of her alcoholic father and her estranged brother on her back.
Moving away was the right choice, though. I’ve lived the past decade watching her give someone else the beats of her heart, leaving me alone with its echo. Staying would have only been hurting myself, and even though I’ve loved Lee through my pain, I’m not a masochist.
It’s hard enough coming to terms with the fact it’s her first love and my ex-best friend, Chase, who’s drying up all her tears. I don’t need to stay around to see it. I can’t. But not speaking to her like I’m used to leaves an ache behind that not even the strongest liquor has been able to numb.
But last night, something finally did.
Blakely .
She’s always been simply my boss’s brat daughter, with a silver spoon up her ass and a knack for never leaving me the hell alone. A minor inconvenience because of the way she gets under my skin, but one I would have done anything to distance myself from.
Now, things feel different. I’m confused. Twisted up in ways I didn’t know had any slack left to tangle, and I’m not sure what to do with the realization that the one thing screaming disaster is also the one thing that dulls the pain.
Last night, for the first time in years, my mind wasn’t stuck on Lee. My heart wasn’t wading through the muddy waters of unrequited love.
It wasn’t until later that I realized it had been hours since Lee was even a passing thought. But the guilt quickly washed away any relief that was there, heartbreak pumping through my body and whooshing in my ears until the only sound left was the hollow ring of longing.
Maybe that’s why when I see Blakely’s driver pull her S-Class Maybach up to the curb, I drop what I’m doing and go inside to meet her. Because she’s the perfect distraction, a reprieve from the constant feeling of being second best. Besides, I can’t really watch over her the way her dad wants if she doesn’t think we’re friends.
By the time I make it through the doors from the garage, Blakely’s already seated behind the front desk, her face barely visible over the high top that doubles as a counter.
I peer down at her. “Hey, princess.”
“Jackson.” She stares at me, chewing on her bottom lip.
“What?” I ask, my brows rising.
“Nothing, you’re just”—she waves her hand around—“chipper.”
I point to myself. “I’m always chipper.”
She snorts. “Not with me.”
A stab of guilt pricks me in the chest. I’ve never taken joy in being seen as an asshole, but I don’t know how else to handle her without letting her get too close.
Humming, I flip through the Donahue Motors pamphlets sitting in the display case to my right. “So, what’s on the agenda for tonight?”
She scrunches her nose. “Why? You want to play babysitter again?”
I smirk. “Let’s not pretend you don’t like it.”
She cocks her head. “You’re not mad at me?”
“Should I be?” Dropping the pamphlets, I lock my gaze with hers, the yellow center of her eyes spearing me right in the fucking chest.
“Noooo.” She draws out the syllables, like even she doesn’t believe the word as it leaves her lips. “You haven’t…” Blakely hesitates, running her hand through her shiny hair. “You’re not online much, huh. No Facebook or anything?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“How come?”
“My friends—” The thought of Lee and Chase makes me pause, and I clear my throat to cover the break in my voice. “I learned a long time ago that nothing good comes from people being in your business. Some things should stay private.”
She sucks on her teeth, nodding slowly.
My stomach clenches, something settling over my body—a warning, maybe. “Why?”
Cringing, she toys with the cord of the phone’s headset, twirling it between her fingers. “There may or may not be a photo of us from last night.”
“A photo…” I repeat her words, thinking about what that means. I don’t really want my picture anywhere, but I’m not an idiot. I knew it was a possibility when we went out, especially once I realized she was more well-known than I gave her credit for.
I sigh, resting my chin in my hand, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably before I finally smile. “Was it a good one?”
Her eyes widen, a grin creeping over her face and what seems like relief settling over her features.
My stomach jumps.
“Duh.” She flips her hair behind her shoulder, her eyes peeking at me from under her lashes. “I thought you’d be more… upset?”
“Upset because…?”
Picking up her phone, she stands, leaning over the desk and showing me the headline on TMZ.
I take in the photo of us, my breath stuttering as my heart kicks against my ribs.
“This is why. I wasn’t sure how you’d take being plastered all over…how you’d like being seen with me. The princess you love to hate.”
My lips curl up, but my eyes stay glued on the picture, the memory of that moment diving straight into my chest and squeezing. I was so close to feeling her under my hands. To sucking the brat off her tongue and bending her body until it broke me of my grief.
Sliding my gaze away from the screen, I lean in close, her mouth a slight twitch away from touching mine. “I don’t hate you, Blake.”
Blakely sucks in a gasp, drawing my eyes to the way her cleavage rises with her breath. “You don’t?”
I shake my head slowly, careful not to let my lips graze hers with the motion.
“What do you feel, then?” she whispers.
“I—”
Laughter from the hallway cuts me off and I jump back, the sound dousing me in icy water. I run my hands through my hair, glancing down the hallway, seeing Karen meander toward the reception area.
Fuck.
I back up, pointing toward the photo still pulled up on her phone. “I’m not mad, but it doesn’t mean I like it.”
She scoffs. “Like I do? Please…”
“Then we should be more careful.”
“Fine.” She crosses her arms.
“Fine.” Amusement at her attitude warms my chest, and I copy her stance, stifling my smile.
Her eyes narrow. “I’m having a photo shoot at my house tonight. Do your babysitting duties extend to in-home activities?”
“They probably should.”
The truth is, I have no idea if Mr. Donahue’s request extends past her public appearances, but at this point, it doesn’t matter.
When I’m at home, I have time to think. Time to feel .
Blakely mutes the pain, and I’ll take that over the hurt any day.