23. Kelley
23
KELLEY
I don’t trust him. I’m not sure what we’re doing here or what he wants, but I know we’re not just here for the food.
Despite how much effort he’s put into the evening, I can’t help the suspicion coloring my every move, my every thought. No matter how you slice it, Jackson is my captor. My conflicting feelings toward him don’t matter right now.
“So tell me what drew you into wanting to become a reporter?”
His question hangs in the air between us. Why the sudden interest in my life? Why so many goddamn questions? Is it possible he wants to get to know me better?
Doubtful. Very doubtful.
I want to know what he wants. I want to know why he’s suddenly so interested in me.
“Why do you care?” I ask.
I pick up my glass of Merlot and take a sip while I wait patiently for him to answer. He smiles cheerfully in response.
“Can’t a man be interested in a beautiful woman’s career choice?”
My cheeks heat at his reply, but I think it’s a crock of shit.
“If that were true, that would be great,” I say. “But I want to know why you really care. Maybe it’s your…unorthodox friends?”
His smile never wavers, giving me absolutely no indication on whether or not I’ve hit the nail on the head.
"Oh, my friends aren't so unorthodox, Kelley. They're just some of the most brilliant minds in this city," says Jackson, his voice brimming with pride.
"But to answer your question, no, it has nothing to do with them. I've always had an interest in your journalism, you know. Following the news, digging up stories... But if it makes you feel any better, I did hear about your work from someone else before I met you." He leans forward slightly over the table, resting his elbows on his knees.
"I found your reporting very compelling. Your writing style is sharp and direct, yet there's also this underlying sense of curiosity that comes through in every piece you write." The candlelight flickers across his face as he studies me intently. "It's captivating."
I find myself both flattered and wary of his compliments. People don't usually describe my work as captivating; they call it confrontational or even pushy at times. But there's something about the way he says it that makes me believe him - there's sincerity in his voice that I can't quite place.
"So what about you?" I ask cautiously, knowing full well he'll dodge the question or give some vague answer that won't satisfy me. But maybe if I keep him talking long enough, I'll find out more about what he really wants.
He smirks and runs a hand through his hair before taking another sip of his drink.
"Oh, you know - the usual," he says casually as though we were old friends exchanging pleasantries at a cocktail party. “I really want to know about you.”
I debate for a solid minute on what to tell him. I really don’t see the harm in telling him a little bit about my past reporting experiences. Some of it wasn’t even in the country. I shrug.
"I've covered everything from political corruption to environmental disasters. I've been shot at in South America while trying to uncover human rights abuses, and I've had death threats for digging too deep into a local crime lord's business interests in Asia."
My voice is steady, but there's an undertone of weariness that belies my years.
He listens intently, nodding along, asking probing questions here and there that make me pause for thought but never breaking our connection. His interest is palpable; it's almost as if he's living these experiences through the stories as I tell them.
When I mention an especially harrowing encounter with a rebel leader deep within a jungle stronghold, he leans forward even further, his brow furrowed in concentration. I watch as droplets of condensation form on the rim of his glass before rolling down its surface like silent tears. I wonder what kind of man could find such fascination in such horrors but also finds myself oddly flattered by his attention.
As I speak about my recent expose on political corruption at home, exposing powerful figures who'd been hiding behind their titles for far too long, I see him visibly tense up slightly at one point - perhaps recognizing some aspect of himself within those whom I’d unmasked?
Or maybe it's just empathy for someone standing up against such immense power? It doesn't matter now; I see that he cares about more than just small talk or superficial chit chat.
The waiter arrives with our dinner, placing steaming plates in front of us. The aroma of roasted lamb fills the air, mingling with the scent of rosemary and garlic that permeates everything. Jackson picks up his fork but doesn't immediately start eating. Instead, he leans back in his chair, his elbows resting on the table, and studies me intently across the table.
His hands twitch occasionally, fingers tapping against the tablecloth in time with some inner rhythm only he can hear before stilling themselves again. It's almost as if he's channeling something - some hidden energy driving him forward on this night out under the stars. The candles flicker shadows across his face, casting them into stark relief as they dance across his cheekbones and jawline before dying down again into soft warmth.
I lean forward now, my own cup forgotten as I fixate on him entirely. I cut through the small talk pressing him for what's really going on here tonight; why did he invite her to dinner?
My impatience is evident but doesn't seem to bother him one bit - almost as if he enjoys pushing limits like this under cover of darkness and privacy.
"You have so many stories," I say finally breaking their intense staredown across the tabletop "what is it about all this that fascinates you?”
He evades the question, like I knew he would, picks up his napkin and dabs at his lips. Then, he stands and offers me a hand.
“Come, let’s go have some fun.”
As we drive off into the night, lights from other cars streak past us like shooting stars in our wake as if they were chasing after us rather than leading the way forward. The cityscape blurs together into one hazy mass of neon signs and street lights before giving way to darker roads lined with tall buildings illuminated only by their own reflections off wet pavement.
We arrive at an unassuming warehouse on the outskirts of town - Vault Club - where electronic music thumps loud enough to rattle windows echoes inside. The bouncer looks at him questioningly but nods after a brief exchange before letting us through the velvet ropes into another world entirely.
Dimly lit rooms filled with smoke machines, flashing lights, and sweaty bodies dancing in unison. All under pulsing beats from unknown DJs spinning vinyls behind raised platforms sprinkled throughout the space.
The floor shakes beneath our feet as if it too wants to join in on this primal rhythm that takes hold of everyone here tonight - including me.
Jackson orders us drinks before grabbing my hand once more. He spins me onto the floor before I can protest or even agree, pulling me into his embrace quickly but gently so as not to surprise me too much.
His touch sends shivers down my spine as we sway together under the strobes – his hands firm yet gentle on my waist as they guide me through this new sensation. The noise around us fades away into nothingness as we groove together in perfect sync; it feels as if there's no one else here but us two against this pulsing rhythm that drives us onward.
His scent fills my senses completely now: a mix of fresh sweat and cologne that somehow smells addictive rather than overwhelming. I can taste it on my tongue when I open my mouth to sing along with the lyrics blasting from speakers above our heads.
I close my eyes for a moment just to focus on feeling him next to me, and his movements become even more daring. He pulls me closer still so our bodies are almost flush against each other as he spins me around once more before setting me back down lightly again.
It sends shockwaves through me – both exhilarating and terrifying at once – but also thrilling beyond belief because there's something so natural about being held by him like this, moving together in time with no words spoken between us but everything understood entirely anyway.
I lose myself entirely to the music and to the feel of him until he leans down, close to my ear and says, “I want you to dance for me.”
His eyes go from mine to the stripper pole in the center of the room, where scantily dressed women are removing their bras as they grind on the shiny metal.
It’s then that I notice the filthy stares I’m receiving from countless women who are eyeing Jackson.
“Get fucked, Jackson,” I mumble.
His laughter rings out over the music and the blonde next to us turns her head to look at him. She wants him. I can tell. While I don’t understand what this night is about, I do know a whore when I see one.
I wrap my arms around him in a show of possessiveness. “You’re a piece of shit, Jackson, you know that?” I whisper into his ear.
His grip on my hips tighten. “You think if you insult me I’ll let you go, right? All you do is turn me on with that feisty spirit of yours.”
“Tell me what the fuck we’re doing here. Dinner and this stupid club,” I demand.
His response is to pull me closer, his lips hovering an inch above my own. I can feel how hard he is through his black dress pants.
My breath catches.
“Like I said, Kelley. You turn me on.” He pushes me away from him and takes a seat on one of the leather couches. “Now dance for me.”