Say My Name Page 3

  "Even if saving it hurts you?"

  I force myself not to wince. "It won't."

  "Dammit, Syl, it already has. Do you think I don't get it? There is no one who knows you better than I do, and in case you've forgotten, I'm the one who inked your back when you got back to LA from Atlanta. I know how wrecked you were, and I swear to god, if you hadn't been pumped up about the job with Stark you would have just crumbled into dust and blown away."

  "Cass, don't--"

  "Don't what? Don't worry about you?"

  "It was five years ago. I put it behind me."

  "And now it's back in front of you."

  "No," I say, and then stop, because she is right. "Okay, maybe. Yes. Guilty as charged. I'm walking into the lion's den. Pouring the gasoline and striking the match. Jumping off the cliff. Pick your metaphor, because it doesn't matter. I have to do this."

  "Why?"

  "Are you really asking me that?"

  Her shoulders droop. "No. I get it. I've watched you work this project. I know how much it means to you. It's like me and the studio. I loved working for my dad, but it's better now that the place is totally mine. I feel, I don't know, grown up. Complete."

  "Yeah. It's like that."

  "It's just that he already said no, right? He told Stark, and then he refused to even take a meeting with you. So do you really believe you can change his mind?"

  "I have to believe it," I say. "Right now, unsupported optimism is all I've got going for me."

  "Oh, man. Don't say that."

  I lean forward to take her hand. "I can do this. And I'll be fine. Really. I'm not as fragile as I used to be. I can do this," I repeat, as much to convince myself as her.

  "Fuck yeah, you can," she says, though the words are belied by a weak smile.

  "Come on," I urge. "How can I fail when I look this hot?"

  That gets a laugh. "You've got a point," she admits. "I mean, right now you look good enough to eat. And, hell, I can remember when you schlepped around looking so ratty that not even a dog would want to give you a lick."

  "No kidding, right?" I'd spent my last years of high school trying very hard to be invisible. It was Cass who'd slapped some sense into me the summer before I started college at UCLA.

  It's a day I remember with crystal clarity. It was a Tuesday, and we'd decided to go check out the campus that would soon become my home. A couple of upperclassmen had given us both the onceover, and my immediate reaction had been to hunch my shoulders and cross my arms over my chest.

  "Are you a fucking moron?" she'd asked in that gentle Cassidy way that she has.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Oh, come on, Syl. You need to stop this. You're totally hot and you hide it under ugly sweatshirts and baggy jeans. And the hair--"

  "I am not growing out my hair."

  "Have ya considered maybe, I don't know, combing it?"

  I'd shoved my hands into the pockets of my baggy jeans and stared at the sidewalk.

  "Look," she'd said more gently. "I get it. I do. You wanna get all comfy on my shrink couch and I'll tell you exactly what is going on in that head of yours."

  "I didn't finally tell you about what happened so you could pick me apart," I'd snapped.

  "Guess what? I don't care. Because you are my best friend and I love you and you are handing that asshole power on a silver fucking platter."

  "I'm not handing him anything," I'd said. "He is gone. Long gone." And thank god for that.

  "The hell he is. He's the reason you walk around looking like you're trying to get typecast as Dumpy Female Neighbor. Maybe you haven't seen the prick since you turned fifteen, but he is with you every fucking day."

  I'd clenched my hands into fists as my temper rose. "Do not even think about going there," I'd said, lifting my head and taking a step toward her.

  "I'm already there." Cassidy is only about three inches taller than me, but she's always been larger than life, and I'd been overwhelmed by her shadow. And that had just made me angrier. I was hurting. I was lost. And even my best friend wasn't backing me.

  "Just. Fucking. Don't."

  "Don't what?" she'd asked. "Don't tell you the truth? Don't try to beat through that thick head of yours how absurd this is? Some pervert photographer preys on you because you were young and pretty, and so now you're still trying everything in your power to disappear? Fuck that shit. You were fourteen--fourteen. He was the asshole."

  I'd shaken my head slowly, my eyes burning even though no tears came. I'd wanted to run, but it was Cass I always ran to, which meant there was nowhere left to go. "I should never have told you."

  The truth is I hadn't told her all of it--not even close. But I'd told her enough.

  "Dammit, Syl," she'd said, and there'd been tears streaming down her face. "Don't you get it? Some fucked up a-hole took your virginity. He took sex. But he didn't take you. You're smart and you're beautiful, and he can't touch that shit. You need to own it. Because every time you hide behind some bullshit like this," she'd said, plucking at my ugly gray sweatshirt, "you're letting him win. You want your life back, you take it back. And you look damn hot doing it."

  Now, as I sit in my sexy red cocktail dress in the back of the limo, I can still feel the way my stomach twisted when she'd talked about what Bob did to me during those months when I was fourteen. More than that, though, I remember how warm and safe I'd felt just knowing that I'd had a friend who really cared.

  "Thanks," I say softly.

  She tilts her head, obviously not following my train of thought. "For what?"

  "For this," I say, plucking at the dress. "If you hadn't bitched me out all those years ago, I'd probably be wearing sweatpants tonight."

  "Not if you were going with me," she retorts, and we both laugh.

  "Look, Syl," she says after a moment, "I just don't want you getting all twisted up again. You never really told me what happened with Steele, but I know you well enough to know you're kinda screwed up where guys and relationships are concerned."

  "Understatement of the century," I agree. I don't need a shrink to know I still have issues.

  "Have you even slept with a guy since Atlanta?"

  I tense. "I've been focusing on work," I say, my words crisper than I intend. "It's not like my job is nine-to-five."

  She holds up her hands in surrender. "Hey, I get it. I do. And it's not like I'm saying you should go back to the way you were before Steele, either."

  I cringe, because the truth is I'd fucked a lot of guys in college. Not because I wanted them, or even because I wanted to get off. No, I was using sex as therapy, proving over and over that despite everything I knew about myself, I could keep my feelings and reactions and emotions in a nice, tight little box. That I could win over the memories and fight the nightmares. That I could keep control.

  Cass knows more about that time in my life than anybody. And she also knows that it isn't a time I want to talk about. "Don't do this, Cass. Don't fuck with my head tonight. Please."

  "I'm sorry. I am. But tonight's the whole point. You're still raw."

  I shake my head automatically, wanting to deny even though she's right. "I haven't had a nightmare since I moved back to LA."

  "And that's great. That's my point. And I don't want you to get hurt now. Again. You've already gone through too much."

  "I won't," I say, though the promise is hollow. "I love you, you know."

  Humor flashes in her green eyes as her mouth quirks into a halfsmile. "Yeah, but will you get naked with me?"

  "After all the time I took to get dressed?" I quip. Considering I really am screwed up where guys and relationships are concerned, I sometimes wish I could go there. But that's not me. And though we've had our awkward moments, for the most part, the crush she's never bothered to hide is just one more dynamic between us.

  She grins wickedly, then glances at her watch. "We've still got a couple of minutes before we get to the theater. We could drop the privacy screen. Give Edward a little show." She purses
her lips, then manages a boob-shaking shimmy.

  I laugh out loud. "That is wrong on so many levels."

  "Honestly, what's the point of going to a Hollywood shindig if sex and alcohol aren't part of the mix?"

  "We have alcohol," I remind her, as I refill her wineglass. "As for the sex, I'm sure there will be plenty of prospects."

  "From the C-list," she reminds me.

  I consider a moment. "Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if Graham Elliott shows up." Elliott is Hollywood's latest mega-star. "Apparently he's gunning to play Steele in a feature film that's in the works, and he's A-list all the way."

  "Not exactly my type, but that means Kirstie Ellen Todd is probably coming, too, right?"

  "I doubt it. I saw online that they broke up."

  Cass makes a face, then sighs. "Well, at least I've got a shot at her again."

  "One, I'm pretty sure she's straight. And two, there's the small problem that you'll never in a million years meet her."

  "Minor inconveniences, all."

  I shake my head, amused. "Confidence, thy name is Cassidy."

  "Damn straight. Oh, wow, check it out." She slams back her wine, then uses the empty glass as a pointer. "Spotlights."

  She's right. Twin searchlights are doing the crisscross-in-the-sky routine right in front of the old Grauman's Chinese Theatre, which is now the TCL Chinese Theatre. When I was growing up, it was Mann's Chinese Theatre, and so mostly I just think of it as the Chinese theater in Hollywood with the hand-and footprints of so many movie and television stars.

  Edward slides the limo into line, and we creep forward slowly until the rear door is even with the red carpet. The limo stops, the door opens, and Cass and I emerge to the flash and buzz of reporters. It slows down as soon as they realize that we aren't celebrities, though I think that Cass's killer legs probably kept them snapping a bit longer than they otherwise might.

  In front of us, red velvet ropes separate the theater and its forecourt from the spectators who have gathered along this section of Hollywood Boulevard.

  Cass squeezes my hand as we start to walk the red carpet toward the iconic pagoda-style entrance to the famous theater. "This is completely iced."

  I really can't argue, and as we follow the path, I feel a bit like a celebrity myself. That fantasy is only accentuated as I glance around at the tuxedoed men and well-coiffed women who mingle in this open area, chatting with the press and giving tourists and celebrity watchers a chance to snap dozens and dozens of photos.

  Wyatt waits at the end, and as Cass and I approach, he grins. I expect to pass by and join the mingling guests, but he ushers me in front of a banner advertising the studio that financed the documentary, and proceeds to do the full-on Red Carpet Photo Moment.

  "Thanks for wrangling the extra tickets for me," I say. "I owe you big."

  "No problem," Wyatt says as he aims his camera at Cass. "Just another manifestation of my subversive, artistic personality. I'm all wacky that way," he adds, making me laugh.

  Cass and I link arms and follow the well-dressed crowd. We go first toward Grauman's Ballroom in the adjacent multiplex where the VIP reception is being held prior to the screening in the original theater. I lean toward Cass. "Definitely iced," I say, repeating her word. And I mean it. Right then, I feel pumped up, confident, and ready to conquer the world. Or, at least, to conquer Jackson Steele.

  Uniformed staff stands at the door, offering us flutes of champagne as we enter the ballroom. "Wow," Cass says, and I silently echo the sentiment.

  The room is stunning. Huge, but not overwhelming. Golden light fills the space, but is broken up by a pattern of geometric blue images projected onto the floor and ceiling. A few corners of the balcony are highlighted in red, giving the room a festive, nightclub atmosphere. Two massive columns seem to stand guard over the space, and between them, a crowd gathers around a circular bar, the stacked wineglasses twinkling like colored stars in the clever lighting.

  Behind the bar, a screen displays a montage of photographs--soaring skyscrapers, angular office buildings, innovative housing complexes. I recognize each as a Jackson Steele project, and those images are interspersed with sketches, blueprints, and construction shots of the Amsterdam museum that is as much the focus of the documentary as the man himself.

  Cass drains her flute of champagne and makes a beeline for the bar. "I need a refill and you need liquid courage," she says.

  "I do not," I lie, but she orders a glass of cabernet for both of us anyway.

  I take it, ignoring the voice of reason that tells me that I shouldn't be even slightly tipsy around Jackson Steele. That if I am going to get through this, I need to be clearheaded, professional, and ice, ice cold. Smart words, and I shoot them all to hell when I lift my glass and down a long, slow sip.

  "To kicking butt and taking names," Cass says as she holds her glass out in a toast. I clink mine against hers, then take another smaller sip. What had she said? Liquid courage? Yeah, maybe that was a good thing, after all.

  I glance around, scoping out the area and searching the faces. The room is comfortably elegant, with linen-covered tables mixed in with plush couches and designer chairs. Most are empty, as the guests are standing to mingle and work the room. I recognize a few of them. A reality TV star in the corner, an agent I met once at a party. I don't see Jackson, though, and I'm starting to get antsy. He must be here somewhere, and I'm afraid that if I don't find him before the screening, he'll be whisked away to some after-party before I have the chance to talk with him.

  "What's he look like?"

  "You don't know?"

  She shrugs. "You didn't tell me until today that your Atlanta fling grew up to be a hot-shit celebrity architect. Hot shit and just plain hot, right?"

  "That's about the sum of it." I stumble for a moment--because how do you describe perfection--and then I stop, because he is right in front of me. Not the man, but his image, projected on the screen behind the bar for all the world to see.

  "Whoa," Cass says as she follows my gaze. "Shit, fuck. Seriously? That guy is positively gorgeous."

  I nod, my eyes glued to the screen, my throat thick. I'd thought that the magazine cover did him justice, but I was wrong. On the cover, he is brushed and polished, his rough edges smoothed away by the magic of Photoshop. But this--this is raw and grainy. It's candid and stunning and awe-inspiring.

  It's Jackson, standing astride two parallel iron girders at least thirty stories above a city I don't recognize. He's wearing jeans, a long-sleeve white T-shirt, and a white hard hat. He is holding on to a giant hook suspended in front of him, and seems unaware of the camera that I can only assume is taking this shot through a long lens from a safe distance.

  The shadow of beard stubble is as unmistakable as the brilliant blue of his eyes, which seem to burn in the white light of the sun. His free hand rests against his forehead like a visor, blocking the sun as he surveys the structure rising all around him. Behind and beneath him, the city spreads out, but it is Jackson who is the focal point. And from this single image, there is no question that Jackson is a man with the power to grab hold of the earth and remake it as he wants it. And in that moment, I can only hope that what I can offer is something that he wants to claim.

  I hug myself, then step back as the image fades and is replaced by another building site. I turn and find Cass staring at me. She sighs, then shakes her head slowly. "Christ, Syl. I can see it on your face."

  I look away, but she grabs my arm.

  "This job isn't worth it. He's going to rip you to pieces all over again. He half has already."

  "No." I take a deep breath. "No, he won't--he hasn't. And he didn't rip me to pieces in the first place. I did that all by myself. All he did was--"

  "Leave?"

  "All he did was what I asked him to." And with any luck, he would do exactly that again.

  "Fine. Okay. But are you sure you don't want a wingman? At the very least I can hang with you until you find him."

 
; "No. I'm good. Go mingle. Who knows. Maybe Kirstie Ellen Todd really is here."

  She hesitates, then nods. "I'll tell her you said hi." She gives me a quick hug, then slides up to the bar again for another glass of wine. I do the opposite and set my half-full glass on a passing waiter's tray. Definitely better to be clearheaded.

  After fifteen minutes, though, I'm regretting my forced sobriety. I've circled the room twice and seen dozens of almost famous actors and well over a hundred other faces that aren't familiar at all. I've seen Cass chatting up pretty much everybody, a waitress I recognize from my favorite restaurant who tells me she's moonlighting, and Wyatt circulating through it all with his camera and flash.

  But I haven't seen Jackson.

  He must be here, though, so I decide that the best approach is to go up to the second level, park myself along the balcony, and scan the guests from above. I'm heading that direction, my head slightly down as I'm taking a second to check my office email and messages on my phone, when I catch a glimpse of something familiar in my peripheral vision.

  I look up, ignoring the sudden tightness in my chest, and search the surrounding faces for him. Except he's not there, and now my chest tightens even more, this time with disappointment.

  I take another step as I slide my phone back into my tiny red purse.

  And that's when I see him.

  He's descending the stairs, his attention focused on the distinguished-looking man beside him. He is clean-shaven and elegant in a collarless black jacket over a white cotton pullover. I had expected a tux, but can't deny that this is a much better choice. He looks dark and sexy and unpredictable. More, he looks important. The kind of man who can say "fuck you" to convention, and have everyone scrambling to keep up with him.

  This is the man who lives in my memories. Those crystalline blue eyes. That wide, gorgeous mouth. The thick brows and sculpted features.

  He descends two more steps, then turns slightly away from his companion. As he does, I realize that he isn't entirely as I remember him. Now there is a scar that intersects his left eyebrow, then arcs across his forehead to his hairline. It wasn't there in Atlanta, but it's well-healed, and must be several years old.

  The scar does nothing to mar the sensuality of this man who so undeniably commands the room. Instead, that single flaw adds to his mystique, giving him a dangerous and mysterious edge. Even so, I know that there must be pain beneath it, and my fingers itch to touch it, to trace the path of it. To hold and soothe and comfort against whatever evil had the gumption to scar that incredible face.