Chapter Thirteen
Jackson
April
"Look this way, Mr. Jackson. Myra! I need makeup."
So now I'm mid-photoshoot in the conference room while a woman named Myra dabs at my forehead, and after this, a reporter gets to shadow me for the rest of the day.
Bennet and Blaire have been giving me shit since eight a.m.
I made the mistake of walking to my office to drop my bag, dressed, I'll admit, to the nines, and immediately ran the gauntlet.
"Strut that stuff, Mr. President!" from Blaire, cupping her hands around her mouth like she's at a game, followed by "Sashay away!
" from my best friend, a grown man and CEO, in front of his own employees.
I've been whistled at twice, catcalled by name, and somewhere in the elevator crowd someone pinched my ass.
I'm about ninety percent sure it was Bennet.
The remaining ten percent is Blaire creating reasonable doubt on his behalf, because marriage has turned the two of them into a small crime syndicate.
"Chin down. Eyes to me. Think of something that makes you feel powerful."
The photographer keeps shouting direction like I'm a professional at this instead of a numbers guy who'd rather be anywhere else. I think of the look on Frank's face when I set my phone on his desk, and the flash pops.
"There it is. Perfect."
It's been nine months and six days since Rose left, and I've read her birthday card every night since it arrived like a fucking storybook before bed.
I've genuinely contemplated laminating it because the card stock is starting to soften at the folds, which is probably information I should keep between myself and God.
I'll be on my balcony doing yoga at 5 a.m.
I've been on mine at 4:55 every single morning since, doing sun salutations badly in the dark, and I couldn't tell you which is more embarrassing: that I do it, or how aggressively I'd defend the practice if anybody found out why.
I haven't even looked at another woman. Haven't let one touch me, haven't wanted it.
Nine months of nothing, and somehow it hasn't felt like discipline.
The thought of Rose with somebody else fills me with a turmoil that I'm not proud of, and I know I have no right to it.
She released me in writing, her own hand, and a man with any sense would take the exit she drew him.
I know Rose. She's a deeply sexual woman, and the realistic math says nine months is a long fucking time.
Maybe she's been with someone. I try not to think about it because there's absolutely nothing productive waiting for me at the end of that thought, and whatever she's done while she's been gone is hers.
She doesn't owe me fidelity to a relationship she explicitly released me from.
I'm holding out hope anyway, not because I've claimed anything she didn't give me, but because I made a promise on a jet once about who I belong to, and nobody has revoked it.
I can live my life while I wait. I can build this company and take stupid magazine photos and let Blaire drag me out to lunch three times a week.
Waiting for Rose doesn't mean sitting in a dark room until she comes back.
It just means I don't want anybody else in the chair beside me.
She told me not to wait.
She didn't say I couldn't still be here when she gets back.
Dad was sentenced last week. Life, for the culmination of all of it, every woman who came forward and every count they could make stick. The reporter shadowing me for the feature waited until the car ride to try it, casual, recorder already running.
"Any comment on your father's sentencing?"
"My father's name has had enough airtime," I said. "This piece is about the firm. If you want him, the prison schedules interviews."
She studied me for a second, then flipped to her next question, and I watched her mentally file away the quote she wasn't going to get.
That man spent a lifetime making himself the center of every room. He doesn't get to be the center of mine anymore, not in print, not on the record, not ever again.
***
Smack.
I shoot upright so fast I roll straight off the couch and hit the floor, blinking against the sunlight while one ass cheek burns.
"The fuck?"
"Rise and shine, sleepy boy."
Blaire's voice chimes from somewhere above me. I squint up at her and find her standing there in full CEO attire, looking disgustingly put together for whatever ungodly hour it is, with two coffees in hand. One in a mug, the other in a to-go thermos.
I rub a palm over my face and try to get my brain online. "Did you just smack me on the ass?"
"Yup. Couldn't help it. Sleeping naked was bad decision-making on your part. Your tushy was just hanging out in the open, waiting for me to smack it."
The way she growled the word smack is deeply concerning.
She sets the coffee down on the table. "Speaking of, you may want to cover your junk. I am a lady, after all. I may get... urges."
I look down.
Suit shirt.
No pants.
No underwear.
Well, this seems promising.
"What the hell happened last night?" I grab the blanket off the couch and drag it over my lap, suddenly far more awake than I was thirty seconds ago.
"Really? No response to my urges comment? That was top-tier shit, Jack-Jack."
I just look up at her.
"Ugh, fine." She takes a sip of coffee. "You showed up pounding on our door, drunk off your ass after a bender with the reporter from yesterday, going on about how you had to let her down easy because she wanted a ride on the Jackson Five."
I stare at her.
"The Jackson Five?"
"Yes, I'm glad you asked." She settles against the arm of the chair, delighted to have an audience again.
"Apparently the Jackson Five is your minimum orgasm gift to women, which you were adamant last night is a real thing.
You said, and I quote, Trust me, bro. Then Bennet gave you water and Tylenol and told me not to talk to you anymore. "
I close my eyes.
Nothing.
Not one helpful fucking memory.
"Where are my pants?"
"You threw them, and your underpants, at Bennet when he dared question your ability to perform said Jackson Five. You wanted to, and again I quote, set the motherfucking record straight on the type of equipment you're working with."
She takes another peaceful sip of coffee while I consider whether it's possible to resign from my own life.
"I found the whole thing hilarious. Bennet did not take kindly to you flashing your junk around his wife, so now he's Angry Bennet, and I love Angry Bennet. Thank you. Thank youuuuuu." She howls up at the ceiling.
"Blaire!" Bennet's voice rings out from somewhere deeper in the apartment, and my skull answers with a vicious throb. "Don't fucking talk to him. Jackson, get your ass out of my house, motherfucker. What is wrong with you?"
I find my pants on the other side of the coffee table and reach for them without sacrificing the blanket. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I don't know what I was doing last night."
"Don't be mean, Bennet. He's a sad boy. Be nice to your friends."
Bennet appears in the doorway looking every bit as pissed off as advertised.
"Blaire, I swear to fuck—"
Her entire face lights up. "Are you getting angry, baby?"
Jesus Christ.
I do not need to know where this goes.
"For fuck's sake, I'm leaving." I attempt to maneuver into my pants beneath the blanket with what little dignity remains available to me.
Bennet watches this operation with his arms crossed.
Blaire catches him looking.
"Why are you trying to peek at his junk?"
"I'm not trying to look at his fucking—"
Her laugh follows her toward the door. "It's been fun, boys. Have a good day."
She shoots Bennet a wink on her way out, and the expression that crosses his face tells me she has just made his morning significantly worse and probably her evening significantly better.
Then I'm alone with my fuming best friend.
I finally get my pants on and stand. "I meant no disrespect. You know I don't see Blaire that way."
His glare doesn't move.
I can't help myself.
"Now you, on the other hand..."
"Fuck right off, Jackson Five." He gives me the finger and goes back to whatever he was doing.
I reach for the coffee Blaire left behind.
"So we're keeping the name?"
"Get out of my fucking house."
Fair.