Must Be Crazy: (Melissa and Jackson) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 2) (13 page)

My eyes feel like they’re lined with sandpaper.

I open them slowly, waiting for the stabbing pain that the light will cause. I cringe, trying not to whimper. Yep, that hurts. My stomach is hollow and raw, and my mouth tastes sour. I need water. Lots of water. And ibuprofen. Lots of that, too.

Jackson is sprawled out on the bed, face down, his back moving slowly with his breathing. I roll off the bed, careful not to wake him. After the night we had, I’m sure he needs more time to sleep it off.

It seems odd that I have clothes on, although my dress is hiked up around my waist. My thong is wedged uncomfortably—even for a thong—in my ass crack. I’m pretty sure Jackson and I fucked each other until we passed out after getting back from the club. It must have been intense, because I’m sore between the legs.

I head for the bathroom and stop. It isn’t there. I glance around the room. We aren’t in the master, where we’ve slept all week. We must have stumbled into this bedroom last night. I put a hand to my aching head and walk to the other side of the room, shutting the bathroom door.

My hair is a disaster. “Sex hair” doesn’t even begin to describe the mess atop my head. I don’t have any of my things in this bathroom, so I smooth it down with my hands. I use the toilet and clean myself up as best I can with a wet washcloth.

What a night. I haven’t partied that hard in years.

I tried to play hard-to-get when Jackson suggested buying more clothes, but the truth is, it sounded fun. And it was. I’ve never owned a sexier pair of shoes, and the dress made me feel amazing. Jackson’s reaction didn’t hurt, either.

I still can’t fathom why he looks at me the way he does. No matter how good I feel all dressed up, I’m still just … me. A small town teacher with a fisherman for a daddy. Jackson has a parade of women: rich women, models, women who live the way he does. I feel like I’ve been looking in on his world from the outside, skirting along the edges with his hand on my back, guiding me along. But I can’t come inside. Not really.

It was a rush to walk right up to the bouncer and get into the club. If looks could kill, those girls in line would have murdered me with their eyes, but it only made me laugh. People watch Jackson wherever we go, and nowhere was it more intense than at Parq.

He was completely in his element. Club staff at his beck and call, ready to do anything to make him happy. Women throwing themselves at him, oblivious to the fact that he was there with someone. Drinks flowing, music booming. He seemed a little distant, but we were pretty drunk.

And his claim that he could dance wasn’t bullshit. He’s almost as good on the dance floor as he is in bed—and that’s saying something.

I rinse out my mouth with water and dry off my hands. Jackson is still asleep, so I let him be. I head upstairs to our room, grabbing a bottled water from the kitchen along the way. If Nathan or any of the staff are around, they’re discreet enough to stay out of sight. I down some water, grab clean clothes, and head for the shower.

***

Jackson barely speaks over breakfast. He looks at his phone, swiping his thumb over the screen. I drink my coffee, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. He hasn’t said anything about leaving, but I notice one of the staff bringing our bags down and setting them by the front door. It feels odd that someone packed my things.

But none of it is really mine anyway.

Jackson avoids meeting my eyes, but still puts a gentle hand on my back as he leads me to the limo. I get in, and watch out the windows as we drive away. The clouds have parted and the sun is out; the water is sparkling. In no more than a minute, we leave the villa behind, the car gliding up the road toward the freeway.

Dread runs through me. I feel like I should say something, at least make small talk, but I can’t think of anything to say. Jackson drinks a glass of whiskey in the limo and offers one to me. I turn him down. After last night, even the thought of alcohol makes me queasy.

He doesn’t say much while we wait at the airport, just sips another drink in the executive lounge. Nor while we sit in our wide, first-class seats. He has a couple more whiskeys on the three-hour flight, and I start to wonder how he’s going to drive me home after we land.

My breath catches in my throat when I realize—he won’t drive me home. We’ll land in Seattle and he’ll already have a car waiting to take me the three hours to Jetty Beach. This will be it. The end to our week.

And I’ll probably never see him again.

I bite the inside of my cheek and stare out the window. I don’t want to cry in front of him. I can sob my eyes out on the drive home, alone in some fucking limo—even though there’s no reason for me to be upset. This is what I agreed to. One week, no strings. Wasn’t I the one to say that first? No expectations, no worries about the future.

We both know we live in totally different worlds. He wanted to play with me for a while. Touch me and dress me up and fuck me with expensive shoes on. Tweet about his new mystery girl. I was a diversion, something for him to do to pass a few money-soaked days of his privileged life. He’ll go back to his expensive-ass car, his condo in the city, his parties. His women. And I’ll go back to my life. That’s the deal, and it should be fine.

I can’t understand why it hurts so much.

After we land, he leads me straight outside. I ask about baggage claim, but he says someone else will pick up our luggage. A limo waits at the curb, a driver in a crisp suit holding the door. I swallow hard. Is this it? Is this goodbye? Is he even going to say anything?

Jackson follows me into the limo, and I swipe the tears from my cheeks before he can see them. I can’t look at him. I wish he would have let me go at the airport, instead of dragging out the agony. I know we’re going to get his car, but I’m sure he’ll send me off on my own after that.

Plus, I’m not sure he should drive.

“Hey,” I say, gathering the nerve to speak. “Are you sure you should drive home right now?”

He looks up from his phone, his brow furrowed. “What?”

“I’m not trying to give you a hard time, but you’ve been drinking all day,” I say. “Are you okay to drive?”

He glances around the limo, as if to make sure he knows where he is. “I’m not driving.”

“I know, but I figured we’re going to pick up your car, and then you’ll have to drive it home.”

“Oh, no. My car’s already been taken back to my place.” He gestures toward the opaque glass separating us from the driver. “He’ll take me home.”

I nod and settle back into the seat, tucking my legs under me. I glance out the window and see the freeway sign. We turn south. Jackson lives north. Is he going to drive all the way out to Jetty Beach with me?

The thought of three hours in the limo with him, while he stares at his phone, ignoring me, is worse than being sent off from the airport by myself. I turn away, biting my lip harder.

“Hey,” he says, his tone suddenly soft and gentle. “Are you okay?”

I nod, refusing to look at him.

“Fuck, Melissa, I’m sorry,” he says. “Come here.”

Don’t do it, Melissa. He’s done with you. You’ll only make it worse.

His hands pull me to him and he wraps his arms around me. I lean into him, hearing the sound of his heartbeat. He kisses the top of my head and holds me tight. Tears burn my eyes, and my chest feels like it will burst.

After a while, I sit up and he lets his arms fall. We pass most of the drive in silence. That isn’t like Jackson. He doesn’t even look at his phone, just stares out the window, one hand resting on his chin. He doesn’t touch, or tease. He doesn’t try to have me one last time for the road. He just sits, watching the scenery go by.

I must fall asleep, because I open my eyes and see the gateway sign to Jetty Beach. The car turns onto the main road through town and a fresh wave of nausea rolls through my stomach. A few minutes later, the car pulls up in front of my house.

I haven’t thought much about what this moment will be like, how we’ll say goodbye. A week ago, I would have thought it would be a passionate kiss on the doorstep. Maybe an offer of one last fuck to finish the week off right. I would let out a contented sigh, happy with the memories of an insane little adventure, and go back to living my life.

What I didn’t count on was Jackson Bennett, staring at me with so much pain in his eyes.

He looks away, putting a hand over his mouth. The driver opens the door and Jackson casts one more glance at me, then gets out. I follow, shouldering my purse. He stops at my door and faces me, that same intense look in his blue eyes. I step up onto the porch, standing right in front of him.

He walks away.

Not a word. No awkward embrace of two people unsure of what to say. No kiss. No hands on my ass, nothing whispered in my ear. Just his hands in his pockets and his back to me as he walks down the path to the street. He gets back into the car, the driver closes the door, and just like that, he’s gone.

By the time the driver pulls up to my building, I’m drunk as shit.

I started drinking again as soon as the limo pulled away from Melissa’s house, and haven’t really stopped on the three-hour drive to my place. I can’t deal with this emptiness. It fucking sucks. I haven’t felt this way since I was a kid. I don’t
let
myself feel this way.

I’m Jackson motherfucking Bennett. I have so much money, I don’t even know how much I’m worth; I pay other people to know. When I set out to do something, I do it. I’m driven, focused, and successful beyond even my wildest dreams.

But I still drove away from her.

Fuck. I’m so mad at myself, I can’t think. The elevator opens and I stumbled inside. I manage to press the buttons and get out at the right place. My condo takes up the two top floors of an old restored building on Queen Anne Hill. I own the whole thing, but one of my property management companies takes care of the other units. The lower floor is a wide-open living space, with a big kitchen that only caterers have ever used, a bar, and lots of seating. A balcony stretches along one entire side, with a pool, and an incredible view of the city skyline. I don’t really live here; I use it for entertaining. My personal space is upstairs, and very few people ever see those rooms.

My phone controls everything in the house, including the locks. I swipe a button and the door to the stairway swishes open. I trudge up the stairs, and emerge into a wide living room. I have a huge TV mounted on the wall, a large sectional sofa, and art that someone else chose for me. Floor-to-ceiling windows flank a glass accordion door that takes up almost the entire wall. It leads to a balcony, but I only have a couple of lounge chairs. It’s rare that I have people up here with me. As much as I hate being alone, I like my private space.

I toss my jacket on a chair and head for my bedroom. A few taps of my phone and the blinds close, and the flat screen facing my bed turns on. I flop down on the bed, my head still spinning.

“Bennett.”

Dennis stands in my doorway, dressed as usual in an impeccable gray suit, his hair styled in a retro pompadour. Dennis is my Alfred, only younger and a hell of a lot gayer—and I don’t have a Batcave. He lives in one of my condos downstairs, and is Tammi’s counterpart. Where Tammi handles my business and travel needs, Dennis takes care of my condo, tends to my wardrobe, and knows how to throw an absolutely killer party, even on a moment’s notice. I pay him a shit-ton of money to be available whenever I need him, and the arrangement suits us both.

Occasionally, some dumbass asks if it makes me uncomfortable to have a personal assistant with access to my house who is gay. It always makes me laugh. I’m man enough not to be threatened by a guy who might look at my ass. Besides, when Dennis tells me my ass looks good in Armani, I know I can trust his judgment.

I mumble something incoherent at him.

Dennis takes a step forward and sniffs. “Water, Tylenol, and probably dinner, yes? Or would you like to continue with … what are you drinking today, Scotch?”

“Water,” I say. More Scotch is the last thing I need—it doesn’t even sound good anymore. Dennis nods and leaves quietly.

My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen. It’s my father. I was wrong. A conversation with my father is the last thing I need.

Against my better judgment, I answer. “Dad.”

“Jackson, have you heard from your mother lately?” he asks.

“I’m doing fine, how are you?” I ask, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm in my voice.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jack, answer the question.”

I hate it when he calls me Jack. “She’s in Costa Rica, taking surfing lessons.”

Or fucking the surfing instructor. I really don’t care. My parents are legally married, and my dad still bankrolls her life, but they haven’t lived together for more than a few weeks at a time in years. They kept up appearances when I was a kid—although, looking back, I have no idea why. I had two nannies, and when I was old enough they sent me to boarding school. I was raised by teachers. It wouldn’t have mattered, at least not to their kids, if they got a divorce. We weren’t ever home with them anyway.

“Oh for the love of … Costa Rica.” He mumbles something else and hangs up. I shake my head and drop the phone on the bed again.