22. Jackson
22
JACKSON
K elley’s in danger. If Benny decides to go after her, I’m not sure I can stop him. That thought lingers in my head for far too long.
I've never been one to fret over others, always maintaining a safe distance from attachments that could cloud my judgment. But Kelley—she breaks through all that, her laughter, bright and unguarded, has chipped away at barriers I spent years fortifying.
The thought of Benny, with his cold eyes and calculated moves, going after Kelley sends a chill down my spine. He’s unpredictable and dangerous—a lethal combination if there ever was one.
Determined to protect her and to understand her deeper motivations, I decide to invite Kelley to dinner under the guise of a casual evening out. Perhaps in a neutral setting, away from the shadows that Benny casts, I can get her to reveal more about herself—what drives her, what she’s truly after.
Is it just the thrill of exposing the club, or is there something more personal at stake for her?
When I pull up, I get out of my car, spotting her walking down the stairs, the front door held open by a staff member.
Kelley looks fucking incredible in a sleek, black number. Her makeup is simple, elegant, and perfectly her. She’s not dressed to kill. She’s dressed…like Kelley.
My breath hitches in my chest. She looks stunning and I’ve never wanted her more. As she nears the bottom of the stairs, she eyes me suspiciously.
I can tell by the way Kelley narrows her eyes that she senses something off. Trust has never come easily to her, and tonight, beneath the soft glow of the hallway light, her instincts are clearly on high alert. She pauses momentarily, surveying me with an astuteness that makes me feel as though she’s peering straight through me.
We head out into the crisp evening air, and I guide her towards my still running car. The city is alive around us, oblivious to the storm brewing in the shadows. As I open the passenger door for her, her hand brushes against mine—brief but electric.
The drive to the restaurant is quiet, filled with a tense kind of silence. Every so often, Kelley turns to look out of the window, lost in thought or maybe formulating her next move. I keep my eyes on the road ahead, trying to gather my thoughts.
The restaurant is nestled in an older part of town, its fa?ade modest but charming. The warm light spilling from its windows promises a sanctuary from our brewing storm. As we enter, we're greeted by the host who shows us to our table.
As we settle into our chairs, a waiter approaches with an air of discreet professionalism. He presents us with menus bound in soft leather and fills our glasses with chilled water, his movements smooth and practiced. I watch Kelley as she peruses the menu, her gaze lingering on the descriptions of dishes crafted from local produce and infused with exotic spices.
The waiter returns to take our order, recommending the chef's special—a delicate arrangement of seared scallops on a bed of saffron-infused risottos—promising that it's crafted to engage all senses. Kelley gives a slight nod, accepting his suggestion before turning her attention back to me. Her expression is unreadable, a mask of neutrality that hides her inner thoughts well.
"I hope this place is to your liking," I venture, attempting to pierce her veil of reservation. "It comes highly recommended."
Kelley nods slowly, her eyes locking with mine. "It looks wonderful,” she says dismissively.
Her gaze does not waver, and there’s an intensity to her scrutiny that feels like it’s trying to unravel the very fabric of my motives. “But why here, tonight?” she asks pointedly, her voice low and steady.
There’s an edge to her tone that suggests she’s not just asking about the choice of restaurant but probing deeper, into the layers underneath this entire evening.
The air between us thickens with unspoken words. Kelley's eyes narrow further, assessing my every expression as if trying to read between the lines of my carefully chosen words.
I lean back slightly, the leather of the chair creaking under my shift.
"Kelley," I start, my voice just loud enough to weave through the soft clatter of cutlery and murmured conversations around us. "Sometimes, the places we go aren't just about food or ambiance. They're about the stories they hold, the secrets they whisper."
I pause, watching her reaction closely. Her eyes remain fixed on mine, not missing a beat.
I lean in, with the intention of kissing her but she draws back.
“My makeup,” she says snottily. “You wouldn't want to mess it up after the big show you made of sending that crew of artists to my room, now would you?”
I smirk, loving the spice of her personality.
Her retort catches me off guard, and for a moment, the tension between us shifts into something lighter, almost playful. It's a reminder of the spark that exists amidst all the layers of complexity in our relationship.
"Why, Kelley," I respond with a grin, adopting a tone of mock offense, "I thought enhancing your already impeccable style would be appreciated. But perhaps you're right; it's best not to disrupt the masterpiece.”
She stands and heads towards the door, annoyed at my response. I slap her ass as she sails past me.
Kelley whirls around, her eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and a challenge.
"Is that the best you can do?" she snaps, the edge in her voice cutting through the background hum of the restaurant. There's a dangerous dance in her stance, one that beckons me to either step up or step back.
I rise to my feet, closing the distance between us with a few measured steps. The air seems to shift, accommodating the intensity that builds with each moment we stand locked in this confrontation. Patrons around us sneak glances, intrigued by the unfolding drama yet pretending to be absorbed in their own quiet dinners.
"Kelley," I say, my voice low and steady, but with a hint of a warning. ”Sit down. We still have so much left of the evening. We still have to eat."
I gesture towards the table with its white linen cloth gently fluttering from the evening breeze that sneaks in every time the front door opens.
Reluctantly, she returns to her seat, her movements graceful yet charged with a storm of emotions I can't quite decipher.
The waiter approaches cautiously, sensing the tension but professional enough not to comment. He sets down an amuse-bouche on our table—a small gastronomic gesture of peace—a spoonful of applewood-smoked trout topped with crème fraiche and dill.
"Please enjoy," he says with a nod, his voice a soothing balm over the rough edges of our earlier exchange.
As Kelley picks up the delicate spoon, I study her every movement, her focus on the amuse-bouche almost an escape from the intensity of our interaction. She tastes it and her eyes close momentarily, a sign of pleasure that belies the stern set of her jaw. It's these small glimpses into her unguarded self that draw me in, time and again.
I attempt, with every ounce of strength, to draw her into conversation. I need to get into her head. I want to know what she’s thinking. To know what her intentions are. I need to know for the club, but more so, for myself.
Her answers, however, are clipped and guarded. It provides me with absolutely none of the answers I seek.