51. Jackson
FIFTY-ONE
Jackson
My phone is hidden inside at the reception desk. I didn’t want to put it away, but I had to, to stop myself from obsessively checking if there was anything from Blakely.
I don’t know how to feel after last night.
When I woke up, it was to a pit festering in the middle of my stomach, worried that I ruined everything by being a complete dumbass. Only finding the courage to confront her issues on the same night she’s had her life blow up in her face. It was bad timing, but I don’t regret the things I said.
Still, there’s a lot I don’t know, and the more I think on what happened, the more I realize there’s no way to help her. Not until she wants to help herself. And where does that leave us? Because as long as I stick around, pretending that everything’s okay, walking on eggshells to keep from sending her into a spiral, I’ll be enabling.
And that in itself is detrimental to her well-being.
But the thought of not being with her—of not seeing her—is a hundred serrated knives drawing their jagged blades through my chest. If something happens, and I’m not there when she needs me, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
Flashbacks of my father’s death and me not being by his side roll through my head, and I drop the wrench from my hand, struggling to breathe through the sudden pain.
I can’t leave her.
We’ll go public and then I’ll do whatever it takes to keep opening her up to the idea of help. We’ll do it together, as a unit. The way we’re meant to be.
I work for another hour before giving in to the incessant prodding of my mind, needing to check and see if there’s anything from her. I walk inside and grab my phone from the corner, smiling at the young temp who replaced Blakely.
My chest squeezes when I unlock my phone and see there’s still nothing.
Turning to head back to the garage, I pause when I hear Blakely’s name on the TV as it drones quietly in the corner.
My heart stutters in my chest. I turn around, gazing up at the screen.
And there she is.
Beautiful as ever, prim and proper, not a hair out of place. Looking absolutely perfect, the way everyone expects her to. There’s a smile spread wide across her face, sunglasses covering her eyes, and she looks…like she’s perfectly fine.
My chest squeezes, knowing that I’m wearing our fight on my skin and she’s somehow been able to hide it beneath the surface.
She’s so good at acting that I almost believe she isn’t affected at all. That it didn’t even happen.
And then, blood freezes in my veins, my stomach pinching so tight that acid rises up my throat, because walking out of the restaurant next to her is that douchebag DJ. The one I almost throttled when he played grab-ass onstage. I didn’t even realize they talked.
What the fuck is she doing with him?
An ache spreads through my ribs, my heart pummeling against the walls of my chest. Everything in me is screaming to turn away, but I ignore it, enraptured by the sight of her.
“Wow, I didn’t know they were dating,” the receptionist says.
I glance at her, my hand reaching up to tangle in my necklace. “What makes you think they are?”
She nods toward the TV. “Says it right there.”
My eyes fly back to the screen, scanning the words on the bottom that, until now, I paid no attention to.
Blakely Donahue and DJ Andelo an item? CONFIRMED.
Like a hammer to my gut, my breath whooshes out of me, my mind trying to catch up to what my heart already knows, trying to make sense out of something that just makes no fucking sense .
She wouldn’t…
Like a train veering off track, I continue to watch, the vision of them together striking against my heart.
“Blakely! Blakely! Do you have anything to say about you and DJ Andelo?”
She smiles, her hand looping through his arm, leaning in close like she’s meant to be there. Like it’s him that she fits perfectly with, when I know that it’s really me.
“Just that we’re happy and finally ready to go public. Tell the world,” she replies, a beaming grin on her lying face.
Douchebag smirks down at her, and I want to reach through the screen and cut off his oxygen until I feel the life leave his pathetic body. My heart thrashes under my skin, disbelief pouring through me.
Something’s not right.
“What do you have to say about the recent pictures of you and Jackson Rhoades?”
My heart stalls like a stuck clutch, my breath sticking in my throat as I wait to see what she says. They know who I am. They have pictures.
I look closely, searching for a sign, some signal that she’s struggling. That it’s a performance. That she’ll call me later with an explanation. I’m desperate to see something that explains why she’s choosing someone else over me on national television.
But there’s nothing. Not a single flinch or counted breath.
“Jackson Rhoades is a family friend,” she says.
I scoff, nausea curdling in my stomach.
“Someone doing my father a favor while he was too busy to watch out for me himself. While I enjoyed his company, there’s nothing else to tell.” She shrugs.
“What about the pictures?” another reporter yells out.
I hear a gasp to the side of me, the receptionist staring at me with wide eyes. “Isn’t your name Jackson Rhoades?”
My jaw clenches, but I ignore her and keep my eyes locked on the screen, a hole burning through my stomach like battery acid.
Blakely laughs and my chest pulls tight. “This is embarrassing, but it’s just a case of a few too many drinks and bad decisions. A mistake on both our parts, and one that I’ve already apologized for to the people who matter.” She caresses DJ Andelo’s arm, and he grabs her hand, bringing it up to kiss.
Rage shoots through me like an arrow, ripping open my chest and flaying my skin.
“The truth is,” she continues. “He’s twenty-eight and a glorified mechanic. There’s nothing there that interests me. And now that my father’s back, you won’t be seeing any more of Jackson Rhoades.”
I can’t see her eyes through the dark sunglasses, but I imagine them anyway as she faces the camera directly, staring through the lens and setting my soul on fire, disintegrating it to ash. “ That I can promise you.”
The reporters seem to be satisfied, moving on to ask other questions, like what she just said didn’t shift the earth under my feet.
“Are you okay?” The receptionist’s hand grazes my elbow.
Her touch shocks me back to life and I clear my throat, pasting on a smirk. “I’m great. Hey, I’m leaving for the day, okay? Let Karen know.”
She gives a thumbs-up, her eyes wary, and I race out of the front door, my heart thumping faster than my feet can carry me, determined to find her and figure out what the hell is going on.
It’s been three hours of me calling and Blakely hasn’t answered a single time.
I try again, my head falling into my hands, this time an operator coming on the line and telling me that her line has been disconnected.
“Fuck!” Throwing my phone on the coffee table, I stand up, pacing. Frustration reaches up and clobbers my chest with its fists.
How could she do this?
I grab my keys from the counter, deciding to drive to her house and refuse to leave until she lets me in. Maybe that means I’m unhinged, but since my world has imploded anyway, what’s the worst that can happen?
Buzzing the intercom once I’m at the gate, anxiety lines the base of my stomach like fire ants, the sting shooting from my gut to my throat.
My fingers press the button again and again, but nobody answers, and I slam my fists against my steering wheel, defeat clawing through my chest and pulling my muscles tight.
How am I supposed to figure out what the hell is going on if I can’t get to her?
My phone rings and I jump to answer, an unknown number flashing on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Rhoades, this is Blakely Donahue’s manager, Sierra.”
My teeth grit. “Sierra, is Blakely with you?”
She sighs. “That’s none of your concern, I’m afraid. But she did ask me to make this courtesy call to let you know that your presence is no longer necessary.”
Her words go off like a gunshot, blasting holes through my middle, blood seeping out onto the floor. “Bullshit. This is bullshit , Sierra.” My palm smacks the steering wheel. “Let me talk to Blakely.”
“I’m afraid that’s just not possible. And if you don’t stop harassing her, I’ll contact the police and put a restraining order in place. I’d hate to have that tarnish your stellar reputation. Have a good day, Jackson.”
Click .
My breaths are deep as I stare at my phone, my brain zooming through every encounter I’ve ever had with Blakely, wondering what I missed or where the fuck things went so wrong.
Why is she doing this?
I can only come up with one possible conclusion.
She’s a coward, and if I ever needed to know whether she would choose me or her career if it came down to it, now that answer is crystal clear.
I’m second choice. Again .
I thought I knew heartbreak when I left Sugarlake, but that was just a graze—a scrape—compared to the severed limb of Blakely giving up on us. Of the realization that maybe I never meant much to her at all.
That maybe I was always just a safe place for her to land.
A visceral pain shoots through the width of my chest, my heart squeezing until it bursts, the glued-together pieces ripping apart until my love is no longer recognizable.
Now, it’s just shredded paper.
“Jax.”
My head snaps up. I’m not sure how long I’ve been idling outside of her estate, but clearly, it’s been long enough for someone to notice I was here.
I come face-to-face with my boss, Mr. Donahue. He looks disappointed, his eyes narrowed and his lips turned down. I’m not surprised. If our pictures are all over the internet, then I’m sure he knows the truth.
Or at least some twisted version of it.
He sighs, jerking his head toward the house. “Come in, let’s have a chat.”
I drive my car through the gates, parking in the circle driveway, hoping this goes quickly so I can lick my wounds in peace. I thought things were finally slotting into place when, really, they were dangling on the edge of a cliff, waiting to tumble and smash on the concrete.
Being here hurts. Everything from the gold-framed pictures on the walls to the expensive chandelier hanging from the ceiling reminds me that Blakely’s no longer mine.
I’m not sure if she ever was.
Mr. Donahue gestures for me to follow him inside, and we walk down the hallway to his office in the back.
Everything is a dark cherry, bookcases lining the walls from floor to ceiling, and on the back wall, a gigantic glass case filled to the brim with awards.
It’s a fitting office for a king.
He sits in his chair, lighting up a cigar and watching me through the smoke. I stand straighter, refusing to cower under his gaze.
“You fucked my daughter.” His words are crass and they make my muscles tense.
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
“No?” His brows lift.
Snapping the hair band on my wrist, I walk forward, sitting down in one of the wingback chairs. “Well, yes, technically .”
His jaw tenses but he stays quiet, rolling the stogie between his lips.
“I fell in love with your daughter. And I’m sorry I did it behind your back. Believe me, I tried like hell to stop it, but there was nothing I could do. She’s…everything.”
Was.
My stomach churns, emotion swelling in the center of my chest. I push it down. I’ll have time to break later, when I’m alone.
He grunts. “My plan was to fire you. Kick your ass out of my shop and make sure your name never made it onto any credit. The bigger part of me still wants to.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I nod. I’ve been prepared for this moment. Countless hours have been spent weighing the pros and cons, figuring out what I’d do if I ended up blacklisted from Hollywood, unable to see my dad’s dream come to fruition. Sure, there’ve been some of my cars in movies. But none that took the spotlight. Not like the upcoming feature film showcasing dozens of beauties, all handcrafted by me.
For Blakely, I would have given it all up. Gone back to flipping my own cars and finding peace in the fact that my dad would want me to be happy more than he’d want me to be alone and miserable, creating fake shells for prop cars.
And as much as I love my father, I can’t keep living for a ghost.
“But,” Mr. Donahue continues, “you’re the best. And if you promise to stay away from my daughter, then I’ll let you stay on.” He smiles, like he’s giving me a gift.
Irritation at the audacity of everyone in Hollywood—everyone in this vapid, senseless town—drizzles through me, igniting the rage that’s been percolating underneath the remnants of my heart, waiting for its chance.
I shake my head. “Thank you, sir, but I think I’m good.”
His smile drops and he leans forward in his chair. “Excuse me?”
“I said, I think I’m good.”
He laughs, placing his cigar in the crystal ashtray to his right. “Son, I don’t know if you understand what it is you’re doing, but you’re ruining the chance of a lifetime.”
I shrug.
“This is all for some girl?” His fingers push against his head. “Think about this, kid.”
Some girl .
Giving him a thin grin, I stand up, brushing the wrinkles out of my clothes. “With all due respect, Mr. Donahue, your daughter is far from some girl . Maybe you should realize that before it’s too late.” My heart pumps cyanide, poisoning my bloodstream. “And just for the record, I would have given up everything for her.”
His face screws up.
“Thank you, truly, for the opportunity. But I quit.”
He’s silent, a mask of discontent across his face. Shaking my head, I turn to go. It’s not until my hand touches the doorknob that he speaks.
“Wait.” His voice is strained.
I pause.
“Tell me…” He swallows. “Tell me what to do to help her. I want—” He closes his eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”
Emotion clogs my throat, but I bite it down, realizing that after this moment, Blakely Donahue is no longer my problem.
“She needs help. Help that neither of us can give her.”
“Jax, please , give me more than that. I just… She won’t talk to me. She’ll never let me in.”
The venom of heartbreak in my veins wars with the love that still flows freely. I blow out a breath. “She has panic attacks. Bad ones. And she struggles with food.”
He closes his eyes, a look of defeat dragging down his face. “Thank you,” he whispers.
Choking back the tears, my tongue runs over my teeth as I nod.
And then I’m out the door, and I know exactly where I’m headed.
Home .