Rose
That face. The forearm tattoo.
The silver at his temples is new. The glasses are different. But the face is the same face, and it's looking at me, polite and expectant, a stranger's face, like he has never seen me before in his life.
My eyes dart between Jackson and his father.
His father. His…father. How could I have not…
Wesley is Jackson’s father.
My breath catches and won't come back.
Be a good girl and don't scream.
No.
No, no, no.
"Rose?" Jackson reaches for me. His fingers barely graze my arm, and it's a bomb going off in my nervous system.
"Don't touch me." It comes out as barely a whisper as I wrench my arm away so hard that I stumble into a lobby table behind me. A drink sloshes. A spoon clatters against marble. Somewhere, a baby starts crying.
I can't breathe. My eyes go everywhere at once; the doors, the security counter, the windows, the phones pointed at me, recording, recording, and suddenly the marble beneath my shoes feels wrong. Too hard. Too bright.
Hold still. You’ll enjoy it, I promise.
"Rosalie. Baby. Let me get you out of here. Give me your hand, baby.”
You bit my hand, you little bitch.
The lobby flashes back to me. It’s like I can’t stay in this reality.
I claw at my throat and beat a fist against my own chest like I can restart my lungs by force.
Air won't come. The lobby keeps slipping in and out around me; daylight through the glass, stale beer, security radios, whiskey on his breath, somebody asking if I'm okay, blinds drawn.
No.
God, the weight.
Jackson takes another step toward me, reaching again because he doesn't know; how could he know, and his hands are open and gentle, and they are his father's hands.
"Don't touch me!" It rips out of me at full volume this time. "Don't fucking touch me!"
You wanted this all along, didn’t you. All you little sluts running around here with your tight little skirts and your swaying fucking hips. Hmm fuckkkk. Ffinally I get in that tight little cunt. The fight was so worth it.
"Rose. Baby."
Jackson's arms come around me.
I can feel them. I know them. Some far-off piece of me knows exactly who he is, knows I am thirty-nine years old, knows I'm safe, knows Jackson has never once hurt me.
Goddamn Rosie. I think you’re my favorite one yet. Gripping me so hard. Shhh. Shhh. Don't cry, baby. Daddy’s going to take real good care of you from now on. Now that I know you’re such a good fucking girl.
I can feel Jackson’s heartbeat against my cheek, fast and scared, and I want to tell him I know it's him. I want to tell him not to let go. I can't make my mouth work.
"Is she alright?"
"Should we call an ambulance?"
Fucking hell. I hope you’re on some kind of birth control. I don’t normally come in my girls, but I can’t stop myself. Don't make me hold you down. Take my come like the little slut you are. Fuckkkk yes. Goddamn Rosie. Fuck.
"Someone get her some water and a cold towel."
Get a towel and clean yourself up. You've got blood on my Minotti sofa.
My legs give out. Jackson takes my weight and we sink together, the marble rushing up beneath us while the couch is still under my back and Wesley is still above me and Jackson is still saying my name.
Then everything goes dark.