“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. Fight back. You have nightmares? Don’t run from them. Battle them. You’re strong, Sylvia. Strong enough not to be defeated by your own head.”
“It’s not my head,” I say. “It’s my history.”
“And what is history but a memory, and usually a false one at that? What’s that saying? That history is written by the victor? Write your own history, Sylvia. And when you do, make yourself the hero.”
I don’t answer, because I’m not sure I want to talk about it, much less think about it.
Instead, I deflect by reaching up to trace my finger across the scar that runs from his brow to his hairline. I’d noticed it at the premiere, and had yet to ask him about it. Now that he’s mentioned his fights, I can’t help but wonder what flash of anger translated into this injury.
“When?” I say nothing more. I know he will understand my question.
“About twelve hours after you told me to walk away.”
I only nod, not trusting myself to speak as my fingers drift down to gently touch his cheek. “This one is new.”
“After I met your friend Louis,” he says, confirming what I already suspected.
“Does the other guy look worse?”
“I assure you, he does.”
I meet his eyes. “Maybe you need help, too. You can’t just go on beating people up.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I promise you I’m not accosting random tourists on the street. I belong to a gym. There’s a boxing club. And no, I’m not talking about the kind of gym that has a smoothie bar and twenty-eight elliptical machines. Heavy bags, speed bags, free weights.”
He strokes my cheek. “I’m doing just fine.”
I picture the kind of dirty, grimy gym you see in so many movies, where guys are getting their faces smashed in. It’s not a picture I like. I lift my hand to cover his so that I feel the warmth of his skin on my face. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Oh, baby. They can’t hurt me. Don’t you know that you’re the only one who’s ever managed to tear me to shreds?”
fifteen
I wake with a jolt, my heart pounding in defense against the lingering clutch of fear.
I reach out, groping for Jackson, and as I do, I realize that it is not the cold fingers of a nightmare that cling to me, but the fear that Jackson has left.
“Now there’s a lovely picture,” he says, and his voice sends unexpected waves of relief coursing through me.
He hasn’t left—and I didn’t have a nightmare.
Thank god, thank god, thank god.
I realize that I’ve been lying stretched across the bed, my hip and thigh uncovered. I sit up, pulling the sheet over my breasts for modesty, which is ridiculous considering how thoroughly he explored every inch of me. I lean against the headboard and sigh in pleasure as I watch him move toward me, barefoot and shirtless in only his jeans, the top button open to reveal just a hint of the hair that arrows down toward a very enticing bulge.
I’m enjoying the view so much that a full second passes before I realize that he’s holding out a cup of coffee. I take it gratefully, then smile when I realize there’s already cream in it. “You remembered.”
“I remember a lot of things.” He gestures for me to slide over, then gets in beside me when I do. “For one thing, I remember that we’re supposed to be at your boss’s house in two hours, and it’s a half-hour drive with no traffic. Which means that it’s always an hour drive.”
“We didn’t get much sleep.”
“And yet I feel surprisingly energized,” he says, then brushes his hand over my hair.
I sigh and lean against him, amazed at how quickly things have shifted between us. This feels like it did in Atlanta. It feels like we fit. And even though I’m still scared, this time I don’t want to run. Instead, I want to cling tighter.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” he says.
“You came after me last night. When I took off for Mulholland, I mean. But you didn’t come after me in Atlanta.”
“That was different. You told me to leave, you didn’t run out. And you made me promise.”
“Yes,” I say. “I did.”
“Did you want me to break my word?”
“No—I couldn’t have handled it.”
“But?”
I shake my head, both amazed and a little irritated at how easily he reads me.
“But you wish that I had anyway, just so that you would have known that I cared?” His words hang soft and fragile between us.