31. Blakely
THIRTY-ONE
Blakely
I watch him as he walks away, my heart feeling like a pulled muscle, straining to chase after him. But I don’t, because now more than ever, I want to keep him far away from the shadows of celebrity.
A whisper of a thought trickles down my spine, wondering why I’m so focused on attaining something that I’d do anything to save someone else from.
But that revelation is something I don’t have time for, so I push it down and bury it underneath the goals I’ve had for years, moving along like it was never there to begin with.
I make it through the rest of the afternoon, filming video content for the new platform and enough branded shoots for the next two weeks. But my heart isn’t in it. It’s stuck to the tiled pavers where I smacked Jackson’s hand and walked away.
My stomach clenches at the memory.
He’ll understand. Even as I think it, images of him ruminating over why he was wasting his time on me sends anxiety drizzling through my insides, my brain a muddled mess of what-if scenarios.
It makes me jittery and that combined with the pregnancy rumor has me aching for solitude. For a treadmill or a set of weights. Something that will let the heavy twinge of angst seep from my pores and purge from my system until I can’t feel the weight bearing down.
My lungs squeeze tighter with every minute and there’re tiny cuts in my palms from where I’ve been relentlessly clenching my fists, but I survive the next few hours until, finally, everyone leaves.
I don’t waste a single second, flying up the stairs and grabbing my workout gear, desperation acting like sails to my ship, steering me toward salvation. Glancing quickly at my phone, I ignore the way my heart pinches at the blank screen.
No new messages .
Three hours and a shower later, I expect to feel refreshed, but instead I feel the same. I can’t remember a time when working out didn’t alleviate the bruising grip on my insides, and the fact that it’s still there causes panic to spread through my chest.
My eyes bounce from my reflection in the mirror to the pink measuring tape I grabbed off the bathroom shelf.
Over and over again I look, my fingers tightening around the edge of the counter until they ache.
Pregnant. They think I’m fucking pregnant.
Logically, I know they’re grasping at straws. Spinning lies into a web of drama, anchoring it on the edges of small truths to make it believable. It’s the entire reason Sierra wanted Jackson around in the first place. Not too close, but close enough to garner interest. I guess she didn’t expect it to spiral out of our control—have them run a story we weren’t expecting. Worse, one we didn’t help craft.
I should be used to it by now. This isn’t the first or the last time that my name will be caught up in “bad” publicity. I learned quickly to put up a shield—to not even glance at comments in articles.
I’ve told myself it doesn’t matter what they say. After all, they’ll never be as good as I am at tearing me down.
But the truth is their hate hurts like a thousand needles slowly bloodletting my body, draining my life source and replacing it with their toxic words.
Sometimes, I think it slices deeper when a stranger throws the barbs.
And when you have a vulnerability, even something rooted in falsity hits the mark. It dives deep and suctions itself to your insecurities, dragging them to the surface until they’re all you can see.
You have been looking a little puffy lately.
The fist that’s been clamping my chest grips tighter and I spiral down until I can’t see the truth from the lie. The logic from the crippling self-doubt.
Bile teases the back of my throat, nausea churning in my gut as my fingers wrap around the measuring tape, the cloth biting into my fingers as I squeeze it tight.
Panic fills my lungs until I’m gasping for air, the thought of seeing numbers I don’t like making me wish I could crawl inside myself and wither away until I’m nothing.
Pathetic.
Suddenly, even though I’ve just finished an extensive three-hour workout, the need to burn more fat gushes through my veins. My entire body collapses in on itself with the urge to atone for my mistakes. To work harder so I can prove to everyone that they’re wrong.
So they never see anything other than what I want them to again.
Stupid, Blakely.
I must be a masochist because there’s no other logical explanation for why I grab my phone from the counter and search my name. I know it’s a stupid mistake, but like everything else in my life, once I start the spiral, there’s no coming back.
Clicking on the first headline I see, I scroll straight to the comments, a burning anticipation swelling in my middle.
Always knew she was a slut.
That bitch ain’t pregnant. She’s just F-A-T.
Photoshop does her ALL the favors.
Faintly, I hear a muffled voice from somewhere in the house, but I’m too lost in the depth of my self-loathing for it to register.
“Blake?”
F-A-T.
My phone clatters to the heated marble floor and I sink down beside it, the measuring tape still wrapped around my hand. My brain slams against the edges of my memory, trying to remember every single calorie that’s passed my lips. Every hour of cardio and weights that I’ve endured, trying to figure out where I started letting things slip.
There must be something I forgot to write down, something that isn’t marked in my daily intake list. Something that would cause me to look so… puffy .
My eyes lock on to the glass door of the shower.
“Blake?”
I hear the voice again, but my gaze is stuck, picking out every single imperfection through the distorted reflection.
“Blakely, I…” The voice trails off, footsteps barreling toward me until suddenly, a spicy scent rushes through my nostrils, making my head snap to the side.
Jackson.
My chest compresses until an explosion of grief swells through my throat, stinging my eyelids and burning a path down my face.
“Oh, baby, what’s wrong?” His big palms cradle my jaw and I sink into his embrace, my hands clawing at his shirt, suddenly desperate for his comfort.
Like now that he’s here, I can finally let go.
My stomach clenches tight as he drags me into his lap, my head resting on his chest while his arms wrap around me. My body trembles with the sobs that wrack through me, tears staining his white shirt.
His hold is a vise grip around my waist, plastering me to him as he rocks us back and forth.
And that’s where we stay. For minutes.
For hours.
My limbs grow lighter and eventually the tears turn to sniffles and then to an occasional hiccup of breath—the last sign that my body isn’t under my control.
The purge of emotion is what I needed, the claw that’s been cutting into my lungs finally releasing its grasp. The panic has disappeared in the calm of Jackson’s arms, but there’s still an echo of sadness that reverberates off my insides.
Jackson’s hand brushes down my hair. “Is this about the headline?”
My fingers tangle in the chain around his neck as he cradles me, and I start to shake my head but stop before I do. Saying no is a lie. And I don’t want to lie to him. “I just…I work so hard and it’s never enough, you know?”
He hums, the vibration of his voice like a blanket coasting across my skin.
I look at him, craning my neck to swipe a kiss across his jaw, gratitude filling me from the inside out. “Thank you. I don’t know why you’re back, but… thank you. ”
He stays silent, the soothing touch of his hand in my hair urging me to curl deeper into his embrace.
“Come on,” he whispers, dragging my body up with him to a standing position.
Twisting our fingers together, he leads us into my bedroom. I follow, my eyes stuck on where our palms connect, my heart accelerating in my chest.
He walks us over to my silver floor-length mirror, pulling me until I’m standing in front of him, his hands resting on the curve of my waist.
I cringe as I stare at my reflection, my stomach twisting at how ridiculous I look, dressed in my pink silk camisole and shorts, bloodshot and swollen eyes, my hair tangled from my earlier panic.
My gaze shoots to Jackson’s and my heart skips. The difference in our facial expressions is extreme. I’m disgusted and he’s drinking me in like I’m water in the middle of a desert.
Tension mixes into the air.
“What are you doing?” My voice cuts through the quiet, sending a tremor down my spine.
His eyes stay locked on mine, his mouth dipping down to the shell of my ear. “Do you know what I love about you?”
I suck in a breath. “I don’t?—”
“No?” he interrupts. “Let me show you.”
His hands drift up my sides, goose bumps leaving a trail behind them. His palm reaches my face and he cups my jaw.
“I love your mouth.” His thumb brushes over my lips, his touch lingering until I’m sure he can feel the heat of my skin blooming underneath his fingers. “Every time you speak, the world quiets so I can listen.”
My stomach tightens.
His hand moves down, tracing along my neck, his touch branding me with every pass.
Emotion swells in my chest and I squeeze my eyes closed. His hand wraps lightly around my throat and my gaze springs open, a flare of desire curling through my insides at the dominance in his position.
“I love your eyes,” he continues. “The way they show me all your truths. No one has ever consumed me with a single look, but you…” He blows out a breath. “You fucking wreck me.”
I swallow and his grip tightens, making heat pulse between my legs.
What is happening?
His hand slides slowly from my throat, tracing along the edges of my collarbone. My core contracts.
He continues his trek down my arms until his fingers reach mine, twining them together and wrapping them around the front of my waist.
“I love your hands. The way they fit so goddamn perfectly in mine.” His fingers weave back and forth between mine, tingles racing up my arms.
My knees grow weak from his perusal, and I press farther into him until the back of my head rests against his chest.
He brings up my right hand and I watch our reflection, drunk off the sight of him as he kisses the inside of my wrist, his breath hot against my skin.
My heart pounds against my ribs, anticipation careening off my insides as his palms leave mine, gliding back up until they reach my shoulders.
He squeezes slightly, sending shock waves of pleasure rolling through me. “I love your shoulders. The way they hold the world but don’t buckle from the weight.”
I scoff, my vision blurring. “All I do is buckle.”
His head shakes. “Falling down doesn’t mean you break, Blake.”
My throat swells at his words, tears escaping the corner of my eyes.
“Your strength is when you rise back up,” he continues.
Jackson’s fingers play along the spaghetti straps of my camisole. My nipples pebble underneath the fabric, heat spiking through my middle and pooling deep in my core. It’s surprising how fast it hits considering the seriousness of the moment, but there’s a power in his touch that makes me feel more desired—more beautiful—than I ever have in my life.
It’s heady.
Alluring.
And I find myself wanting to bathe in the temporary confidence he’s dripping onto my skin.
His hand ghosts down until it rests on my chest, the edges of his fingertips teasing the neckline of my top. My stomach tenses, my heart pounding under his palm.
His lips ghost along my ear, his free hand gripping my hip and pulling me tighter against him.
“I love your heart,” he whispers. “I would spend the rest of my life worshiping at your feet so long as I got to experience every beat.”
My body coils tighter and I wait with bated breath to see what he’ll say next. How he’ll take the years of bloody wounds and replace them with his words, one scar at a time.
His eyes meet mine.
My breath whooshes out of me, my heart surging into my throat at the intensity that’s swirling in his gaze.
His hand presses harder against my chest. “Your worth has nothing to do with how you look, Blake. It has to do with who you are. That’s what makes you beautiful.”
Tears drip off my chin and suddenly, the words of strangers don’t seem to matter as much. Maybe they will again tomorrow, when the high of Jackson’s touch has slipped off my skin.
But right now, the only thing that matters is this .
Right here, with him.
A single word tumbles through my brain, pushing its way into the middle of my chest and slipping into the fissures of my heart.
Love.