One Crazy Week

by Claire Kingsley

  Dennis looks me up and down, a grin stealing over his face. “Finally, you give me something fun to do. Look at you. I wish you’d given me more of a heads up, Bennett, but at least I have something here to work with.”

  I want to wilt under his scrutiny. He isn’t the least bit shy, pulling my hair back and running his hands down my shoulders and arms. Jackson doesn’t seem to think there’s anything unusual about his assistant practically fondling me. His phone rings, and he walks a short distance away to answer it.

  “Your coloring is amazing,” Dennis says. He takes a few pictures of me with his phone. “I’ll bring a few choices, but I think I already know exactly what to put you in.”

  Dennis leaves. Jackson finishes his phone call and wanders into the kitchen. “Hungry? There’s probably something in here.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Does Dennis always show up like that when you come home?”

  “He gets an alert,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

  “Of course he does,” I say. “Did you ever figure out what this event is for?”

  His phone rings again and he smiles. “Perfect timing. I’ll find out.” He answers. “Hey Tammi. Yes, I’m home. Okay. No, that’s fine, they can wait until next week. I’ll tell them to fuck off. It isn’t my fault they ran their company into the ground. Look, there’s a reason they’re selling, and it isn’t because they’re the geniuses they think they are. All right, just keep me posted. What am I attending tonight? That was generous of me. No, I have a date.” He winks at me. “Are we all set for transportation? Perfect. See you Monday.”

  He puts his phone in his pocket. “Tonight we’re attending the annual Hope Gala, benefiting cancer research. Apparently I’m a gold-level sponsor.”

  “That’s generous of you,” I say. I sidle up to him and thread my arms around his waist. “Do you give a lot to charity?”

  “Tammi handles it,” he says. “But yeah. I mean, fuck, I don’t need all my money. I suppose it’s the least I can do.”

  Suddenly I’m overcome with curiosity. “Jackson, can I ask you a personal question?”

  He steps backward and arches an eyebrow at me. “Should I be worried?”

  “No, I’m just wondering. I’ve never asked you about your money, but… Is that a weird thing to ask about?”

  “It’s not weird.” He gets himself a glass of ice water from the fridge and takes a drink. “My dad expected me to follow in his footsteps and work with him at Bennett Enterprises. I wasn’t interested in his plans, so I struck out on my own. Some of it was down to luck, really. I hit the right industry at the right time. I started a software development company not long after I got out of college. Four years later, I sold it for one point five billion.”

  I almost choke. “Did you say a billion?”

  “Yeah,” he says. He’s so casual about it, like that figure means nothing. “The product took off and my competitor wanted the tech behind it. That didn’t all go to me, of course, but most of it did. So I started reinvesting. Now I buy up companies in trouble, turn them around, and sell them off. I keep a few. And once in a while I buy something that’s more of a hobby, like the art gallery in Jetty Beach. I don’t know what I need an art gallery for, but I’m glad as fuck I decided to buy it.”

  I laugh and lean into him. “What does your father think of all this? Since you decided not to follow his plans, I mean.”

  Jackson doesn’t answer right away, and I start regretting the question. He takes another drink.

  “I don’t know what he thinks,” he says.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” I say.

  He sets his water down and puts an arm around me. “It’s okay. My dad and I have never gotten along. He disapproves of my life pretty heavily.”

  “That seems crazy,” I say. “Look at this. What is there to disapprove of?”

  “I think he wanted me to fail so I’d have to come crawling back to Chicago.”

  “That’s shitty,” I say.

  “I try not to let it bother me. He has my brother to be the golden boy. Those two deserve each other. Besides, I’m pretty sure my net worth is higher than his, and that’s the best revenge.”

  Dennis returns, his arms overflowing with bags. “This way, sweetheart.”

  I start to follow Dennis, and Jackson smacks my ass. I glare at him.

  Dennis is already laying dresses out on the bed. “I think this one, but what do you think?” He holds up a knee length red gown with a plunging neckline.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Now that I look at it next to you, I’m not so sure,” he says. “What kind of bra do you have on?”

  “Um.” His question takes me aback, and I open my shirt to glance down. “It’s, I don’t know, black.”

  “Shirt off,” he says.

  I glance behind me, looking for Jackson. He leans against the door frame and gives me an encouraging nod.

  I peel off my shirt and Dennis turns me around in a circle.

  “This dress won’t work unless you want to go braless. Which is fine, you certainly have the boobs for it. But you know what, this isn’t the one anyway.”

  He tosses the dress onto the bed and picks up another one. It’s long and shimmering black, with a slit up one side. He holds it up in front of me.

  “Oh, yes,” Dennis says. “This might be the one.”

  He helps me into the dress and zips up the back. The straps are wide and the neckline dips low. It hugs my curves, but isn’t too tight, and the slit goes high up my right thigh.

  “What do you think?” Dennis asks.

  Jackson puts a hand to his chin, and his eyes rove up and down. “This might be too good. She’s supposed to stay dressed, and I’m not sure I can do that.”

  Dennis holds up a finger. “Wait until you see the shoes. Size seven, seven and a half?”

  I nod.

  “That’s what I thought.” He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag and opens it, producing a pair of black heels, each with a tiny silver bow on the back.

  Jackson groans. “Fuck, Dennis, I don’t think we’re going to make it to the venue.”

  Dennis flashes a grin. “I aim to please.”

  I slip the shoes on my feet. They’re taller than I’m used to, but surprisingly comfortable. I look down and run my hands down my waist to my hips, then look up at Jackson. “Yes?”

  “Oh, fuck yes,” Jackson says.

  “Don’t undress her yet,” Dennis says.

  I move into the bathroom and look at myself in the full length mirror. This dress is absolutely magnificent. It makes me feel like a million dollars.

  I grab my brush from the counter and run it through my hair, which looks so plain next to this incredible dress I’m wearing.

  “Here,” Dennis says, coming into the bathroom. “Bennett didn’t give me time to get someone in here to do this right, but I’ll put it up for you.”

  “We don’t have much time, Dennis,” Jackson says from the bedroom.

  “I know, I know,” he says.

  In no time at all, Dennis has my hair swept up in a classy up-do. I feel a little bit like Audrey Hepburn. I put on a little more makeup, doing my best with what I brought with me. I never wear much, so I feel like my face is a bit plain compared to the rest of my ensemble. But it will have to do.

  I emerge from the bathroom to find Jackson dressed in a sleek black tux with a bow tie. I look him up and down, licking my lips. I want to loosen that sexy tie and undo his buttons one by one.

  The corner of his mouth turns up in that devilish grin. “You look good enough to eat.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself, captain.”

  “None of that,” Dennis says. “I have to get you out the door or Tammi will have my ass.”

  Jackson adjusts his jacket and holds out an arm, leading me into the elevator and down to the waiting limo.

  “What time does this thing start?” I ask when we’re settled in the car. We�
�re dressed for evening, but it’s barely one o’clock.

  “I figure we’ll be there by six,” he says.

  “Six? Where are we going?”

  “L.A.”

  I stare at him. I have to stop doing that, but he keeps dropping bombshells on me. “As in, Los Angeles?”

  “Yeah.”

  I laugh. I shouldn’t be surprised.

  “Is that a problem?” he asks, putting a hand on my thigh.

  “No, I just assumed it was here.”

  “We have a private plane, so the trip will be more than comfortable. And we can stay as long as we’d like. I have a room booked, but if you’d rather, we can fly back tonight. I figure we can see how the evening goes. These things tend to be pretty dull, to be honest.”

  Dull is not how I would describe it.

  We fly in a jet that makes his limo look plain by comparison. Another car is waiting to whisk us to the Ritz Carlton, where it looks like a scene from a movie premier. There’s a fucking red carpet. The car pulls up, the driver opens the door, and a million flashes of light blind me. Jackson warned me there would be cameras, but I’m not prepared for the assault. I keep a death grip on his hand while we walk through the crowd, petrified I’ll stumble. We stop for more photos in front of a backdrop with the gala logo. Jackson keeps a hand on the small of my back, turning occasionally as photographers call his name. I smile, hoping terror doesn’t show in my face.

  The rest of the dinner is a whirlwind. Our table is front and center in the huge ballroom and it’s all I can do not to gape. I recognize at least half the other guests—they are real fucking celebrities. Actors, media personalities, people I see on TV all the time. Surreal isn’t even the word. I thought spending a week in a mansion on the beach was insane. This is downright ridiculous.

  I keep waiting for someone to gently tap me on the shoulder and ask me to leave. I’m not just a fish out of water, I’m a fish in the soul-sucking vacuum of space. But the entire time, Jackson is there, his hand on my skin, keeping me steady.

  After dinner, and a droning speech by someone I don’t recognize, Jackson leans over and asks if I’m ready to leave. I’m so grateful, I almost collapse. He says his goodbyes to the others at our table, and leads me out to the waiting car.

  I slump into the seat and close my eyes. “Oh my god, that was exhausting.”

  Jackson laughs. “Drink?”

  “Make it plural.”

  He pulls out a bottle—I don’t even care what it is—and pours. I slam the whole thing in one swallow and hold out the glass for a refill.

  “What do you think?” he asks, pouring me another. “Back to Seattle, or drinks in L.A.? It’s still early.”

  I think about it for a moment. I am tired, but now that we’re out of the banquet, I feel a lot better. “Dennis did go to all this trouble. I’d hate to let this dress go to waste.”

  Jackson smiles. “So would I.”

  He directs the driver to an elegant cocktail bar somewhere downtown. The lights are low, and a buzz of conversation surrounds us. I order a martini—it feels like a martini kind of place—and Jackson sips a glass of Irish Whiskey. He runs a hand up the slit of my dress, caressing my thigh as we talk. People move around us, but they fall from my notice in the presence of those dazzling blue eyes and his strong hands.

  His eyes keep flicking to the side, as if he’s looking behind me.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  “Asshole over there keeps trying to take a picture of you,” he says. “Don’t look. Keep facing me. We’ll go.”

  I stand, grabbing my little clutch purse. Jackson moves so he’s standing between me and the photographer and wraps a protective arm around my shoulders.

  A waiter comes near and speaks quiet words to Jackson, then walks away.

  “Fuck,” he says. He takes off his coat and helps me slide my arms through. “There’s more outside. They must have followed us from the hotel. We’ll wait until the car is out front.”

  “Are you serious?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “They’re like fucking rats. One shows up and starts attracting more. They all want to see what the story is, and be the one to get the winning shot.” His phone lights up and he puts a hand on my back. “The car’s here. Walk to the car, and get inside. You don’t have to look at them or answer their questions.”

  My heart quickens, and nervousness runs through my belly. This is so bizarre.

  We walk through the lobby and the host opens the door for us. Flashes go off and a press of people surge forward.

  “Jackson, is this your mystery woman?”

  “Jackson, is this your new girlfriend?”

  “Can we get a shot of you with sassy girl?”

  “Sassy girl, what’s your name?”

  “Who is she?”

  Jackson keeps his arm tight around me. The few feet from the door to the edge of the sidewalk feel like a mile. The driver helps me in and I scoot across the seat. Jackson follows and the door shuts, cameras still flashing outside the car.

  “Fuck,” Jackson says. He puts a hand over his mouth and looks out the window, his brow furrowed.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer—just stares out the window. The car pulls away and I shift in my seat, hugging his coat around me.

  “Does that happen to you often?” I ask.

  “It’s been a while since they were interested enough to follow me around,” he says. He pauses again for a long moment, the lines of his jaw tight. “Fuck. It’s because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “Because of me tweeting about you,” he says. “I’m sorry, Melissa, I should have been prepared for that. I would have brought security if I’d known. We’ll fly back tonight. Seattle won’t be as bad.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  He looks away and gets on his phone. I hear things like security, privacy, and keep the fuckers off my property.

  I’m just glad it’s over.

  20

  Melissa

  We arrive back at Jackson’s condo in the early hours of the morning. No photographers are waiting outside, so either they aren’t following him in Seattle, or his angry phone calls did the trick and someone chased them off. A man in a dark suit stands in the lobby. I don’t remember seeing security in Jackson’s building before, but the man’s presence makes me feel better. We crash out in the king-sized bed and enjoy a leisurely morning, sipping coffee on his balcony and enjoying the view.

  I stay another night—there doesn’t seem to be any reason to leave. In the morning, I wake to his voice through the closed bedroom door. He sounds angry.

  Dressed in one of Jackson’s t-shirts, I creep out of the bedroom and go to the kitchen to make coffee. He’s pacing up and down the balcony, his movements controlled, but he’s clearly agitated. His voice rises again and he hangs up, pocketing his phone.

  “Everything okay?” I ask when he comes inside.

  “Not really,” he says. “I have to fly to fucking St. Louis.”

  “When?”

  “In a couple hours,” he says.

  My heart sinks. “How long will you be there?”

  “A few days, probably. I have to go bust some heads before things get worse.” He runs his hands up and down my arms. “I can have my driver take you home. Or you can stay here if you want.”

  I glance around. I don’t feel comfortable staying at Jackson’s place without him. “Thanks, but I think I’ll go home.”

  “Yeah, of course,” he says.

  Does he look disappointed?

  He steps in, leans his head down to my hair, and takes a deep breath. His hands slide around my waist and he presses my body close.

  “I don’t want to go,” he says into my ear.

  His hand runs down my back and slips beneath my panties, grabbing my ass.

  “How long do we have?” I ask, grabbing his cock through his pants.

  He groans. “Long enough.”


  His driver takes me home that afternoon. I call Nicole on the way and tell her about the craziness of the paparazzi. She can’t believe it, and quite honestly, neither can I. It feels like something I read about happening to another person. They can’t have been trying to take pictures of me.

  As we drive into town, the familiarity of Jetty Beach is an enormous relief. It’s a place where things don’t change very much, and I need my hometown’s solid ground beneath my feet.

  My stomach drops when we turn onto my street. Cars are parked outside my house, lining the street on both sides. People get out as soon as the driver pulls up. They’re all holding up cameras.

  The glass partition lowers and the driver turns around. “I’ll get you inside your house, okay?”

  I swallow hard and nod. I send a quick text to Jackson, although I know there’s nothing he can do. He’s probably in the air, on his way to St. Louis.

  Paparazzi outside my house. WTF.

  The driver opens my door. I slip a pair of sunglasses on my face and grab my bag. He puts an arm around my shoulders and guides me toward my front door, amid at least a dozen people with cameras trying to get close.

  “Melissa, are you Jackson Bennett’s infamous sassy girl?”

  “Melissa, look at me!”

  “Melissa, how does it feel to be Jackson Bennett’s flavor of the month?”

  “Melissa, how does a small town girl nab the most eligible bachelor in the country?”

  “Melissa!”

  I bite my lip to keep from yelling obscenities at them. The driver stands close behind me while I fumble with my keys. He nudges me inside and closes the door. I turn to find him gone, already making his way back to the car. No one followed up to my porch, but they all linger outside on the path from the sidewalk. I quickly shut the curtains and retreat to my bedroom.

  My phone rings. Jackson.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Don’t go in,” he says, his voice urgent. “I’ll get you a hotel.”

  “I already did,” I say. “Your driver was really nice. He helped me to my front door.”

  “Fuck,” he says. “How many are there?”