Chapter 55 Jackson
Jackson
Rattled from his run-in with Nellie, Jackson notes his palms are slick against the knob of the side door.
He cracks it open, heads toward the guest bath.
As he’s about to enter, he sees the backside of Abigail, her white dress wrinkled like a wadded-up napkin, slipping out the French doors to the back courtyard.
Hmmm.
He approaches the bathroom, and as he does, he hears water splashing, a man whistling.
Alexander.
Seething, Jackson clenches his jaw.
He’s not waiting any longer, he’s going to pry Ethan away from the fray, tell him.
Alexander shuffles from the bathroom. “Yo!” he says to Jackson, clearly startled. Alexander’s face turns a shade of crimson. “Didn’t know you were out here!”
“Your friend,” Jackson says, simply because he has too much booze surfing through his veins, “just left.” He hitches his chin toward the patio door.
“I don’t know what, or who, you’re talking about. I just came in to take a leak—”
Maybe that’s true, Jackson thinks. Maybe Abigail came in and used the other guest bath underneath the staircase. Maybe I should shut my trap.
But then, he knows that’s not true. He’s positive, sure as he’s standing here, that Alexander and Abigail just had a quickie in the pantry, in the bathroom, up against the wall.
“Nothing,” he mutters to Alexander, pushing past him to enter the restroom.
Alexander claps him on the shoulder as he exits. “Good party, man, thank you.” Another clap, that says, Hey, we’re good; all is good between us, right?
Finally alone, Jackson shuts the door, studies his reflection. Even with the damp night, every hair is still in place. Thank you, hair mousse. He doesn’t find any mouthwash, but he gargles with water, splashes some on his face. Scrubs his hands with the vanilla-scented pump soap at the sink.
The party could go on all night, but Jackson can’t be sure of how much longer the Swifts will stay—they do have a baby at home—so it’s now or never.
He steps out the French doors. People are drunk enough that they’re now dancing to the band, the trumpet squeaking, the snare drum popping, hips swaying.
Ethan stands by the champagne fountain, chatting with Sherry Reeves, Nellie’s boyfriend’s mom.
Perfect. He’ll be happy to have Jackson rescue him from her clutches.
Jackson dips a glass under the stream of bubbly, then takes a long sip before approaching Ethan. Whose skin gleams in the fluorescent light of the fountain, who has grown even more handsome the drunker he gets. His smile is looser, wickeder, that magnificent body honey glazed with sweat.
Jackson sidles up next to him. “Hey! Can we chat a sec?”
Mrs. Reeves arches her eyebrows at the intrusion.
“Sorry to butt in, Sherry; it’s business!” Jackson bats his lashes at her, takes her hand, squeezes it.
She crumples under the attention. “Oh, no bother! I will catch this darling man later.” She winks at Ethan. Honest to God, everyone is under his spell.
They step a few feet away from the crowd.
“What’s up?” Ethan asks nonchalantly. Coolly, even.
Jackson’s chest tightens. “Well, first, heeey,” he says, going for the flirt.
This seems to snap Ethan back to reality, back to the fact that just one week ago, they were going at it on his dock.
“Heeey. Sorry we haven’t had the chance to hang out more tonight.
It’s just—” He lifts his hands, gestures to the crowd gesticulating on the makeshift dance floor.
“It’s been so great. Made lots of connections.
I think even the Andersens are actually gonna have me—”
“Yeah, about that,” Jackson says, stepping closer, lowering his voice. “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk. In private.”
They walk alongside each other, Jackson steering him away from the crowd, toward the woods.
He’s leading him to the far side of the property, to the very back—opposite the rear of the house—where a rust-colored creek meanders.
Far away from the front, where the valets are gathered, far away from the spot where Nellie staggered out, tear-soaked, and far away from the back, where the babble of the party is starting to fade in Jackson’s ears, the deeper they make it into the woods.
All around them, a choir of bullfrogs croaks, their throaty song encircling until it feels like they’re in hell and gone from civilization.
“This far enough?” Ethan pants, winded.
“Yes.”
Before he drops the bomb, Jackson would like a kiss. He leans in, slips his hand through Ethan’s. Tugs him toward him, his mouth on Ethan’s in an instant.
Ethan kisses him back, but it’s without the same fervor of the other night. His lips are almost still, his tongue timid.
“What’s wrong?” Jackson asks.
“Nothing, just—I don’t want us to get caught, okay? Like, I’ve met so many people here tonight, and well, we both know—”
Ethan’s preoccupation with making connections is starting to gross Jackson out. But he wants to play it smooth.
“No, I get it. You’re right, sorry,” he says, tongue stumbling in his mouth.
“I mean, we can certainly get together soon, though, like…” Ethan brushes Jackson’s lips with his thumb, sending lust surging through his bloodstream. “Like we did the other night. Out at my place—”
“Yeah,” Jackson says breathily. “I’d like that. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Whaddya mean?” Ethan asks, his breath on Jackson’s neck, a hungry thing.
“Well, the other day, when I was out at your place with Charleigh, and you said you wanted to see me again, and soon, so I tried calling. But got your wife. And—” He’s not sure now if he wants to continue.
“And what?”
“Well, later that night, I came on out. Thought I might catch you at the pond. Saw your truck, but—”
“But what?”
“Well, I hiked up to the pond. And at first, I thought I’d walked up on you and your wife, well, y-you know—” Jackson stammers, his words on the spin cycle now. “I saw her, on top of someone. On the dock. I thought, at first, like I said, that it was you, but—”
Ethan winces, his delectable features darkening.
He knows damn well he wasn’t on the dock having sex with his wife, is obviously waiting for the gut punch.
“And I walked a little closer, and that’s when I saw it wasn’t you.”
Ethan drags a hand through his silken hair, clutches at the ends. “What the hell are you saying, man?” His tone is as angry as a startled red hornet.
Jackson’s stomach sours. He was so not expecting this reaction. He takes in a breath, recovers. Continues. “She was on top of—and having sex with—another man. Alexander Andersen, to be exact.”
“That son of a bitch!” Ethan nearly yells, his amber eyes savage, searching. He bites the back of his hand, apparently deep in thought. “You certain about this? Like a hundred percent sure?”
Jackson gulps. Takes the gun off safety, goes in for the kill. “Yes. Absolutely, no doubt.”
As Ethan reels, so does Jackson. The man had all but told him that his marriage is a husk, a shell.
Loveless. And Jackson remembers how frantic Ethan was the other night with him, shedding clothes, lips all over each other.
So he’s slightly dumbfounded by the way Ethan is acting, like he gives a shit about his marriage.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.
” The words trickle out of him because he can’t stand this silence, pregnant with fury, for one second longer.
“But I thought, ya know,” he says, grinning.
He doesn’t mean to, but it just happens as he slips into his daydream of their future together.
“I thought this might mean—” He gropes for Ethan, who slaps his hand away.
Jackson flinches. Inside and out. He feels like his heart has been speared. What the fuck is going on?
“Hey,” he says, calmly as possible, “I thought—”
“You thought what?” Ethan spits at him. “That I wanted my marriage to end? That what happened between us was anything other than being fuck buddies?”
Tears prick Jackson’s eyes. But he shakes his head, whisking them away. “Yeah, well, I thought you really liked me. I thought your marriage was, like, on ice. I thought we could be together, like really—”
“Well, you thought wrong.” Ethan’s eyes surf with rage now. Blind, visceral rage.
But Jackson still can’t accept this. He knows how it felt being with Ethan. How in sync they were, how hungry their bodies were for each other. Not to mention how much they have in common with their paths, their interests. No, Ethan is just being a coward.
“Look, I get it. It’s scary to be out. I was scared even in a big city like Dallas, and I’m not even saying—or suggesting—that we be out, but I know you have feelings for me, Ethan. I know what I feel with you is real. And you can’t deny it.”
The moon sifts through the trees, spangling Ethan’s face with strained light. His jaw muscles tense, untense, as if he’s working over a problem in his brain. Well, of course he is.
Jackson’s breath is suspended in his throat as he awaits Ethan’s response. He still has the urge to lean into him, to kiss him again. But he suppresses it. Waits.
When he finally speaks, Ethan’s voice is like a circular saw in Jackson’s ear. Loud. Erratic. Biting through wood. “If you ever tell anybody, and I mean anyone, what happened between us, I will kill you.” Spit dangles from Ethan’s lips, and his index finger shakes as he waves it in Jackson’s face.
Jackson feels like Ethan just sawed him open. Disemboweled his guts. Ripped out his heart. “But—”
Just uttering that one word prompts Ethan to put both his palms up, to shove Jackson with such force that he falls backward into the creek.
“What the fuck, man? You didn’t have to—” His lower back seizes with pain, but other than that, he’s fine. Except for his mangled feelings, that is. Oh, and he’s now soaking wet.
“You tell a soul,” Ethan warns, now swaying over him, “and you’re dead meat.”
Later
I can’t take my eyes off the body. And yet I can’t turn away.
But I have to.
I have to figure this out, clean this mess up.
If it doesn’t sink, if I can’t get it to sink, then as soon as the sun comes up, someone will see it.
I need help.
Like right fucking now.
I stagger through the gravel parking lot, almost twisting my ankle in the process. I’m limping a bit, heading through the gravel to go find the only person I can trust to help me get out of this nightmare.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.