Chapter 83 Jackson
Jackson
“I’m such a fool, Charleigh,” Jackson says, his belly and veins swimming with the frozen drinks.
“What are you talking about?” She tilts her head to one side, reaches out, places a palm on his forearm.
“Ethan. I fell for him. Big time.”
“Oh, honey! You’re not a fool! I get it! he’s such a looker. Hey, it’s okay to have a crush, ya know?”
“Oh, no! This went way beyond the crush stage.”
The server reappears, splits the rest of the pitcher between their glasses. “Y’all want another?”
“You bet,” Charleigh answers, not breaking eye contact with Jackson. “What are you talking about—”
Fuck it. Here goes.
“A few weeks ago, hell, maybe it’s been a month, I ran into him at Sullivan’s, you know that little bar—”
“That little shithole, yes, go on—”
“And we hit it off. Like, really hit it off. I don’t know how to describe it other than that. But we had this instant connection. I’m a designer, he’s a custom woodworker, and there was chemistry.”
Charleigh narrows her eyes; she’s almost squinting, like she’s trying to puzzle something out. After a minute, she finally replies, “And you never thought to tell me about it?”
“Well, you hated them from the jump, so…and I didn’t know if anything was gonna happen between us. Like, really develop. So yeah, I’m sorry, but I kept it to myself.”
A knife tip of anger burns in Jackson’s chest. He knew she’d be pissed about this, about being kept in the dark, but my God, why does she always have to make every single thing about her?
She stirs her drink, pouts. Sucks the ’rita through the straw, her cheeks puckering from the force with which they’re pulling. “Well, what did happen?”
“We hooked up!” Jackson says with a flare of pride in his voice over his conquest. Even though he despises Ethan Swift, or whatever the hell his real name is, he still feels the friction of attraction, still remembers how it felt being with Ethan.
Not that he’d ever want to be with him again, even if Ethan came begging. As if.
“You did? Like, when? Where? How? And seriously, how the fuck did you keep this all from me?”
“It happened gradually. Remember that day you dragged me out to their land for that vagina revival? He came on to me then. But I’m such an idiot; he was never really into me.
I know that now. He was using me,” Jackson says, then lifts his glass, rakes a clump of slush into his mouth, “to get to people like you.”
“I don’t understand—”
“What I found out in Dallas is that’s part of the scam. He hooks up with people like me, lonely gay men, and uses them to gain connections to rich people. Makes them furniture, yes, but also steals from them. Jewelry and whatnot.”
“Shit, he was in the bathroom for a long time the other day at the house. I better check my stuff—”
“Yes, you’d better. But I’m a mess. I’ve been a wreck, and it’s been killing me not being able to tell you about it.
The one night we had together, out on his land, was unreal.
Like, the man was on fire. But it felt more than just physical with him.
Charleigh, I thought he was gonna leave his wife for me—” Jackson pauses, embarrassed, his throat tightening with emotion.
He can’t help it; tears bloom and roll down his cheeks. He was in love and got played, got his heart ripped out. He blots his eyes with his napkin, looks up at Charleigh. He’s expecting tenderness, compassion, but when he gazes into her eyes, he sees fury smoldering in them.
What a selfish fuck she can be. He’s just poured his heart out to his best friend, and she’s pissed that he kept this a secret from her.
He waits for her to rearrange her face into something normal, something human, but she keeps on glowering.
“Well, I don’t even know what to say. First, you sleep with the enemy, behind my back, and then you keep it all from me.”
Indignation rises in the back of Jackson’s throat. He fights the urge to reach across the table, throttle her, chuck her in the lake.
But he knows his best friend is a drama queen, and he also knows he hasn’t delivered the worst of it yet. So he takes in a steadying breath, then calmly says, “Well, I’m telling you now.”
She rolls her eyes, lets out a dramatic sigh. “That whole time I was ragging on them to you? And you still hooked up with him? Kept it from me? I don’t know, I feel betrayed.”
Oh, sugar, you don’t know how betrayed you’ve truly been.
Jackson takes all her punches in stride, struggles to remain unperturbed.
But it’s hard. She’s being such a cold, unfeeling bitch.
He was getting ready to tell her the worst of it, that Ethan laid hands on him, threatened to kill him if he said a word about them, but he suddenly feels oddly protective over himself, senses his walls coming up.
What if Charleigh isn’t sensitive about that?
He’ll never be able to stay friends with her.
“Why Dallas? Why’d you go there?”
“Because,” he says, then takes another frosty sip.
“He suddenly broke it off with me in a nasty way. And I needed to find out if Ethan was really gay or if I was just a one-off for him. I did not expect to learn that the man’s a scam artist. So, obviously, he won’t be going over to your house again. ”
“Obviously.”
She sighs again, shakes her head. Her icy eyes flit over him as if he’s been a bad boy and she’s trying to decide what the best punishment for him will be.
And that’s when the flip switches. He’s had enough alcohol, and his friend is acting atrociously, so he blurts it out before he loses steam. “That’s not the very worst of all this.”
“What could be worse than this?”
“That whole family is rotten. To the core.” He reaches across the table and now puts his hand on her forearm. “I can’t believe I have to be the one to tell you this, but Alexander is fucking Abigail.”
Charleigh jerks her arm away from Jackson like she’s been bitten by a snake. She recoils in her chair, eyes flaming now. “Jackson Lee Ford, what in the Sam hell are you talking about? Alexander would never. And he would never lower himself to touch that woman.”
But Jackson detects the uncertainty behind her steely gaze, can practically see the gears turning in her mind.
“Answer me!” she nearly shouts, slamming her hands down on the table, causing the glasses to convulse.
The server, nearly to their table, pauses. Jackson nods for her to come on over with the nachos. He needs as many barriers between himself and Charleigh as possible.
“I am so sorry, but I saw them with my own two eyes.”
Charleigh shrinks in front of him, her features folding into bewilderment.
A minute later, she mutters, “When. Where.” As if her voice is disembodied.
“I told you that I hooked up with him on his land, right? We got it on one night in his pasture, up at their pond, behind the house. On the dock. And I went back out there one night looking for him, wanting a repeat, and that’s when I saw them.”
“Tell me exactly what you saw.”
Jackson’s throat burns. He doesn’t want to get too graphic; he wants to spare Charleigh.
Even though she’s been awful to him tonight, she is his best friend, and he loves her, cares for her.
He picks his words carefully. “It was hard to make them out at first—I assumed it was Abigail and Ethan there on the dock—so I got as close as I could. And that’s when I saw it was Alexander. ”
Charleigh’s hand flies to her throat; Jackson thinks she’s gonna be sick right here.
Night has descended, and they are the only table left. All around them, bullfrogs croak their nightly song, sounding like deranged foghorns.
He wants to circle the table, hug her, but she looks so fragile, like she might shatter into pieces at the slightest touch.
Gently, he says, “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t believe it when I saw him. We both know Alexander isn’t like this. And I’ve been struggling with how to tell you, because, what if it was just a one-time slipup? But I felt like you needed to know the truth—”
“It’s so fucked up,” Charleigh says, shaking her head. Tsk-tsking.
“It really is.”
“I don’t mean what Alexander did. Yes, that’s giantly fucked up. But what’s really fucked up is you sitting here telling me about it.”
Jackson’s mouth goes dry. The words dry up themselves, too. He never expected this reaction from her.
The fury is back in her eyes, molten, simmering. “You didn’t want to sit here with this, with your own pain, so you couldn’t wait to drag me down with you. You were hurt, and you wanted me to be hurt, too.”
Is she for real?
“That’s not fair—that’s not why I’m telling you! I’m telling you because it was killing me not telling you. Keeping it from you. I told you because I love you!” He’s nearly yelling, he’s so wound up.
She spears her drink with her straw, consumes the last of it. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “We could’ve gone the rest of our lives and been fine. And now we’ll never be fine again. Why did you have to tell me?” she shrieks.
She’s acting like fucking Nellie. Throwing a tantrum. Shooting the messenger. Unbelievable.
Adrenaline pounds through Jackson’s system; he’s quaking. He’s just about had his fill of her toxic bullshit. He can’t just sit here and take her abuse anymore. He gets that she’s demolished, but to take it out on him?
“Charleigh, I know you’re—”
She cuts him off, her words a steel blade. “You could’ve protected me from this!”
He can’t take it anymore.
He stands, the metal chair skittering behind him.
If he stays here one second longer, their friendship will disintegrate; this time, it won’t recover.
He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sweep this one under the rug.
“Call me when you’ve calmed the fuck down,” he says over his shoulder.
“When you’ve remembered who truly loves you. ”
“Fuck you, Jackson.”
He turns away, marches across the deck, seething.
There is so much more he could, and should, say to her, but he just can’t.
His face burning, and now with enough distance, he shout-whispers through clenched teeth: “Fuck you forever, Charleigh Andersen, you enormously entitled bitch. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you for life.”