Chapter Six
Jackson
Rose leaves Frank's office, shutting the door behind her, and I raise a hand before he can so much as open his mouth.
"No. I didn't go home last night, Frank. Drop it."
He shuts his mouth, but levels me with a look that could kill if I weren't the stronger of the two of us.
"She got into trouble last night," he says. "When you don't go home, she acts out."
"Then control your kid. I'm doing this for my father, and I'm holding up every inch of my end of the deal. But I'm not a babysitter. She's twenty-eight years old. She needs to grow the fuck up, or get some actual help."
Frank actually looks contemplative at that, but I'm not interested in hanging around long enough to find out whether I've finally managed to get something through his thick fucking skull.
I've already given him more of my morning than I wanted to, so I leave before he can drag me into another round.
I head for Bennet's office since that's where Rose was aimed, but stop short when I reach Claudia's desk and realize we're both staring down the hallway at the same thing.
Bennet is carrying a very angry Rose toward his office.
And carrying may be too generous a description for what's happening here.
"Put me down!" she yells.
"Absolutely not."
"I am your attorney!"
"You're also sixty pounds soaking wet. Put your legs down—" She's kicking her legs so hard, she looks like she's pedaling a bike, while he hauls her along with one arm banded around her waist with the rest of her tucked against his side. Like a football.
Claudia and I exchange a glance, and I can tell from her face that she's having about as much luck making sense of this as I am.
I have no idea what happened between the conference room and here, but whatever Rose is pissed about has clearly reached the point where Bennet decided physically carrying her was the most efficient available solution.
"She has a lot of nerve walking into this building after what she did to you," Rose is still going, still airborne. "I have things to say—"
"Uh. Is everything all right, Mr. Sullivan?" Claudia asks, taking the question right out of my mouth. I'm rooted in place, no idea what the hell I'm watching, genuinely unsure whether to be concerned or entertained.
"Everything's fine." Bennet waves a hand as he passes. "Perfectly fine."
Then his office door shuts.
And locks.
I stare at it for a second, waiting to see if either one of them comes back out. Nothing happens, although knowing those two, whatever conversation is taking place on the other side probably requires protective equipment.
"What the hell?"
Claudia hunches her shoulders. "Fuck if I know."
My mouth drops, and her hand flies up over hers. "Oh — I'm so sorry, Mr. Jackson. Forgive my language."
I laugh out loud and clap her once on the shoulder. "He brings out the best in all of us, Claudia." I'm still laughing as I head for my office to wait on whatever fuckery is coming next.
***
Rose has effectively avoided me since we woke up together yesterday.
My texts get read and left sitting there, every call goes unanswered, and she slipped out of the office right after whatever the hell happened between her and Bennet.
We fly to New York this morning, and I haven't slept worth a damn, too busy worrying about her, worrying about us, which is a fucking joke because there is no us.
No matter how completely I belong to her, there's no us to worry about.
Last night didn't exactly help. I got home to the usual hellfire that is Elyse, except Frank had gone straight to his daughter and repeated what I'd said about her needing to grow up and get some actual help, so she was in particularly ripe form by the time I walked through the door.
I'd barely cleared it when a glass tumbler came flying at my head and shattered against the wall an inch to my left.
"The fuck—" I slam the door behind me, and that's when the rest of the scene rolls into view.
Broken glass everywhere. Clothes shredded across the floor, mine naturally, because God forbid she take a pair of scissors to her own shit.
Paint poured into my shoes. More of it flung across the furniture and curtains like a toddler had discovered abstract expressionism during a psychotic break.
"What the actual fuck is wrong with you?"
"I'm craaazy, remember?" She spreads her arms wide. "Isn't that what you told Daddy? That I need to grow up? Get myself a shrink?"
I just stare at her.
I genuinely didn't think Elyse had any surprises left in her, but we've still got unexplored territory. Holy fucking shit.
I pinch the bridge of my nose because I do not have the reserves for this tonight. Not after Rose, Bennet, the article, Frank, and everything else this week has decided to drag behind it.
I don't answer. I start past her toward the bedroom, and her palm cracks across my face hard enough to turn my head.
"Don't you fucking ignore me, Marcus!"
She winds up for another, but this time I catch her wrist before it lands.
"Don't push me, Elyse."
I keep my voice low and my grip loose, just enough to stop her and nothing more. She can throw glasses, destroy every shirt I own and paint the fucking dog if we ever get one, but the one thing I will never become is a man who hits her back.
"Here's the deal." I hold her stare so she understands that whatever tolerance I walked into this house with is officially gone.
"You're going to see a therapist of my choosing, starting tomorrow.
I'll be in New York for a few days, thank fuck for that, and you won't see a single red goddamn penny until you've completed six sessions.
Six. Run to Daddy all you want; I'm not moving on this one. "
I release her wrist.
"Now clean up this mess and stay the fuck out of my face."
For once, she does.
She makes herself scarce for the rest of the evening and has cleaners in within the hour to deal with the wreckage.
I shower and get into bed before seven, completely fucking exhausted, where I proceed to accomplish absolutely no sleeping whatsoever.
Instead, I toss, turn, check my phone, call Rose, text Rose, stare at the ceiling, check my phone again and repeat the whole pathetic cycle until morning.
By the time I board the Sullivan jet, I've had enough coffee to qualify as medically interesting.
Rose is already seated.
She glances up when I step aboard, sees me and gives me absolutely nothing.
Just that blank, unreadable face she keeps in reserve for courtrooms, hostile negotiations and, as of today, me.
Rose isn't naturally difficult for me to read.
Quite the opposite. So, when I can't read her, it's because she's making damn sure I can't.
She's shutting me out.
Fine.
I refuse the retreat and take the seat directly across from her.
She doesn't look up again. Just keeps typing like whatever is on her screen has suddenly become the most fascinating document ever produced by mankind.
The attendant comes down the aisle with a carafe and two mugs. "Coffee before we take off, sir?" she asks, handing the first mug to Rose.
"Thank you, Jessica." Rose nods, takes it and sips.
"That would be lovely, thank you."
Jessica pours mine and moves on, and I settle back with the mug in my hand, still watching Rose over the rim.
Something isn't adding up.
Her face is locked down, sure, but Rose has never figured out how to make the rest of herself nearly as convincing, and I've spent too many years watching her to suddenly develop manners now.
It's an early flight, so I dressed for comfort: black Henley, backwards hat, shorts and sandals.
The New York meeting isn't until this afternoon, and I'm not spending five hours trapped in a suit just to prove I own one.
Rose has noticed the wardrobe choice too, because her eyes drop from her laptop, land somewhere below the table and snap back up so quickly I almost miss it.
Almost.
A minute later, she does it again, and this time I follow the line of her gaze straight to my thighs.
Huh.
I shift slightly in the seat, mostly because now I'm curious, and her fingers pause over the keyboard for half a second before she starts typing again.
That's when I really start paying attention.
There's a faint flush working its way across her chest above the camisole, and every so often she presses her thighs together beneath the table.
I've watched her do it three times now, all while maintaining that perfectly blank expression above the neck.
Then her eyes drop again, lingering just long enough to remove any remaining doubt about what she's looking at, and I have to take a sip of coffee to give my mouth something to do besides grin like a fucking idiot.
Holy shit. She's turned on.
And suddenly the last twenty-four hours start rearranging themselves in my head.
Is that why she's been avoiding me? Maybe this isn't regret over the shower or embarrassment about waking up in my arms. Maybe she's been running because she wants me and doesn't know what the fuck to do with that any more than I do.
I look at her over the rim of my mug as she presses her thighs together again.
Whatever argument she's currently having with herself, it doesn't appear to be going particularly well.
This new development has my cock hardening against the seam of my shorts, so I grab my laptop and pull the tray table down over my lap before it becomes a whole thing.
You know what? On second thought.
I lift the laptop back off and return the table to its upright position. If she's going to spend this entire flight pretending she isn't looking, the least I can do is give her something worth the effort. This is going to be an interesting trip after all.
"Aren't you going to tell me good morning, Rosalie?"