Because damn me to hell, all Jackson wants is to punish me. I know that—I know it. And yet all he has to do is crook a finger to make me melt.
Just like Bob did all those years ago.
Fuck.
This was a mistake. Such a huge mistake. I should never have gotten in Jackson’s bed, and if that meant abandoning the resort, then I should have just walked away. Because I cannot be this woman. I can’t be the girl who surrenders. Who gives in. I have to hold on tight to control, because it is the only protection I have.
I hate that as well.
And so I drive, taking the curves wildly, trying desperately to lose myself in the thrill of danger, burying my fear under this rush of pure adrenal sensation and absolute concentration.
Except it doesn’t work. My head is too full, my thoughts too wild, and with one violent turn of the wheel, I whip the car into a turnaround and slam on the brakes. The Porsche jolts to a stop dangerously close to the drop-off, and for a moment I wonder what that would have been like, soaring out into space and then dropping down, down, down into nothingness.
I push the thought away. That is not me; not who I am at all. And it never has been.
Even as a teen, when I so desperately wanted it to end, I never wanted to end me. Instead I wanted to get lost inside myself, to find that safe place and to cling to talismans that would protect me from the nightmares.
My whole life, I’ve managed to keep a tight hold, with only two exceptions—Atlanta and right now.
And there’s Jackson Steele right in the middle, sending me battering about as if he is a storm and I am nothing more than a cork bobbing in violent waters.
I get out of the car and walk to the edge, then look down at the lights of the world. The houses where happy people sleep through dreamless nights.
I am jealous, I realize. And I am alone.
I close my eyes against a sudden, powerful longing for Jackson. To let him hold and soothe me.
You’re a fool, I think. A goddamn, messed up fool.
The purr of an engine pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to see a black sedan pull into the turnaround.
I frown. I’m not looking for company, and I’m not stupid. I’m a woman alone in the dark standing beside a pretty damn expensive car. All of which means that this is my cue to leave.
I get back into the Porsche, lock the doors, and back out.
The sedan is still there, its engine off, its interior dark.
But as I turn the wheel so that I can maneuver back onto the street, my headlights sweep over the sedan, and for a moment the interior is illuminated.
It’s Jackson.
Somehow, he followed me.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, expecting a wave of anger.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel a little less lost. A little bit safe.
And because of that, I feel a little bit scared.
I don’t go back to the hotel. Instead, I go home.
“There you are,” he says gently.
“I—” Since I have no idea what I intended to say, I stop talking. But I force myself to sit up and peer at him and convince myself that he’s not a figment of my imagination. “You came after me,” I say. “In the car. On the road.”
“Of course I did.” His voice is as gentle as a breeze.
“How?”
A tiny smile plays across his lips. “Ever heard of OnStar?”
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