Part 10 (2/2)
No, what scares me is what I see in the image. What the entire world can see now.
Because the camera has captured a man who goes after what he wants, even if that means walking into battle. A man who will protect what is his. A man who will kill if necessary.
A man who, I think, has done just that.
And now I fear that the whole world knows it, too.
ten.
Phil, the bartender at the Gallery Bar, slid two gla.s.ses of scotch in front of Jackson and Damien. ”Anything else, Mr. Steele?”
”Thanks, no. We're good.”
The bartender hesitated, then nodded. ”Well, if you change your mind,” he offered, before moving on to take care of a couple sitting close together at the far end of the long, polished granite bar. Jackson hid a smile. He'd been served by Phil a few times now, and he understood that the young man's simple comment was more than just an offer of another drink. It was a sign of support as Jackson navigated the rough seas of the tabloid world.
”Friend of yours?”
”No, but he's good at his job, discreet, and seems to be a good judge of character. He likes me, after all.”
Damien laughed, then took a sip of his drink. They'd left the Tower together, then ignored the calls and questions from the flock of paparazzi that had taken to lingering on the grounds in front of the building.
Questions and camera clicks had followed them as they walked down the hill together. Jackson had felt his nerves twitchingall he wanted was to get out of that spotlightbut he had to admire the way his brother had blinders on, ignoring the shouted questions and demands for photos even as he continued to chat with Jackson as they walked. Damien had put up with this s.h.i.+t for a long time, and now that Jackson understood what it was like to dodge the press, his respect for the brother he was only just getting to know grew even more.
Their destination was the Millennium Biltmore hotel and this historic bar, which was one of its showpieces, not to mention Jackson's favorite bar in the city. Damien had headed automatically toward a table in the corner, but Jackson had demurred, then led them to the bar. He liked sitting there in the view of the carved wooden angels with the room behind him. He felt at home at the bar, whereas at a table, he felt like a guest subject to the whim of his host.
The thought of whims made him frown. ”Do you think she's right?”
”About the saboteur and the Alcatraz article? Probably.”
”f.u.c.k.” Jackson punctuated that articulate sentiment by tossing back a long swallow of eighteen-year-old Macallan. ”We need to know who's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with us. And,” he added, keeping his eyes off his brother as he set his gla.s.s back on the bar, ”I need to know who really killed Reed.”
He turned to find Damien's eyes on him. ”Honestly, I thought you did.”
Jackson hesitated, then covered the silence with another sip of his scotch. ”There's a lot of that going around. I need to know who else wanted that f.u.c.ker dead, and why. It plays to my defense. And, frankly, I'd like to shake that man's hand.”
Damien studied him, and Jackson was certain his brother was weighing the truth in Jackson's words. Was this for real? Or was Jackson manufacturing new pieces of the puzzle, so that if the police asked, Damien could honestly say that Jackson asked for help finding the real killer, so surely that killer wasn't him.
He was silent for so long, that Jackson began to fear his brother was going to tell him to f.u.c.k off. ”Arnold Pratt,” Damien finally said. ”He's a private investigator I keep on retainer. He works primarily for the companyRyan sends him all our background checks to handlebut he's done some work personally for me. A few matters that required both digging and finesse. If he has the time, he'll take the job. And if he doesn't have the time, my guess is that for the right fee, he'll make time. Syl has his number. Why didn't she just suggest him?”
”She probably would have. I told her I wanted to talk to you.”
”A little brotherly advice?” Damien asked, with a hint of irony.
”Brotherly? I don't know. But you trade in information. And when I need help, I search out the best.”
Damien lifted his gla.s.s as if in a toast. ”Touche.”
”Speaking of brotherly, have you asked Pratt to look into who leaked our relations.h.i.+p?”
”I haven't.”
”Any reason why not?” As far as Jackson was concerned, that question and the ident.i.ty of the saboteur were second only to the question of who killed Reed.
Damien tossed back the last of his scotch, then lifted his gla.s.s to signal Phil. ”Because I don't need Pratt to find the answer. I already know it. And so, I think, do you.”
”I've considered that it might be Jeremiah,” Jackson admitted. ”But it doesn't make a lot of sense.”
”On the contrary. It's the only answer that does make sense. I know I didn't leak it. You say that you didn't, and I'm inclined to believe you.”
”Thanks so much.”
Damien's mouth twitched, but he continued. ”We both know that neither Sylvia nor Nikki said anything.”
”There are others,” Jackson added. ”Ca.s.sidy knows, and so do Jamie and Ryan. But I can't imagine any of them telling.”
”The only other person who knows is your mother,” Damien said. ”And Penny's not in a position to talk to anyone at the moment.”
”You know about my mom?” Penelope Steele had developed early onset Alzheimer's ten years ago. She lived now in a facility in Queens, a relatively easy jaunt from Jackson's office in New York. He visited frequently. Most of the time, she had no idea who he was.
”As you said, I like information. You grew up knowing all about my family. I thought it was only fair I learn something about yours.”
”You could have just asked.” The idea that Damien had been poking around in Jackson's life p.i.s.sed him off. Not that this was a new sensation. He'd experienced the same sense of violation when Damien had found his pet.i.tion to establish parental rights, along with the evidentiary DNA test results confirming that Ronnie was his daughter.
”Now I would. Back when I looked, I didn't trust you. And, frankly, you didn't trust me. I could have asked, but you wouldn't have told.”
Jackson didn't answer; Damien was right. Instead, he finished his own drink, lifted his finger to signal to Phil that he should pour a fresh gla.s.s for him as well. As soon as the drink was in front of him, he took a long swallow, savoring it before speaking again. ”He chewed me up one side and down the other for coming to work for you. And then he got in my face about telling you the truth. Doesn't that cut against our a.s.sumption?”
”Do you think it does?”
Jackson sighed. ”No. I think that Jeremiah Stark has and always will have his own agenda, and trying to second-guess that man is like trying to predict the lottery.”
”Glad you get it,” Damien said, then he s.h.i.+fted on his stool so that he was facing Jackson more directly. ”I want to show you something.” He pulled out his phone, swiped the screen a few times, then handed the device to Jackson.
”G.o.ddammit.” The word burst out the moment he saw the image from last nightJackson, Syl, and Jeremiah on the deck, right about the time that Jackson was telling his father to get the f.u.c.k out off his boat. He didn't even bother to read the caption, just pa.s.sed the phone back to Damien. ”Those f.u.c.king p.r.i.c.ks.”
Honestly, it was just as well he hadn't seen this picture before he and Damien walked down the hill, because he sincerely doubted he could have kept his temper in check.
He fought a shudder as he remembered what had happened after Jeremiah had left. He'd almost taken Sylvia on deck. Demanded she strip for him. That she stand naked under the stars as he stroked her, touched her, f.u.c.ked her.
His stomach roiled at the thought that she'd come so close to having her privacy violated to the extreme, and he clenched his fists against his harsh and immediate reaction to move out. To stay at a hotel. To tuck tail and run because these lowlifes were messing with him.
f.u.c.k that.
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