Crush Me

by Black, Stasia

  “I can imagine what you’re thinking,” he says, “but don’t look at me like that.” His eyes narrow at me. “We’ve all got a sad story. Mine’s not any more tragic than most. I was too young to remember my parents when I lost them. Eventually I landed with good foster parents, the Kents, when I was eleven and the rest is history.” He settles back into his seat.

  I don’t miss two key points of that last sentence. Eventually and when he was eleven. What happened during all the in-between years?

  “I thought I read somewhere that you had trouble in school growing up?”

  He shrugs, looking slightly uncomfortable but trying to laugh it off. “You let something slip to a reporter one time,” he shakes his head with a smile.

  “Sorry,” I cringe. Now here I’m the one doing the prying.

  “No, it’s okay.” He waves a hand. “I’m not really embarrassed or ashamed about it. It’s always just a little weird when people know things about me already when I first meet them.”

  Double cringe time. “Yeah, sorry again. I googled you before I came to first pitch you.” I scrunch up my face and raise my eyebrows apologetically. “Won’t do it again, scouts honor.”

  He grins, dimple coming out in full force. “How about I choose to be flattered by your interest and we’ll call it all good?”

  I let out a relieved breath. Okay, he’s taking the non-douchey path at every turn here. Wow. I don’t quite know what to make of him. I’m still trying to think of something to say to cover up my faux pas when he continues.

  “Yes, I had trouble,” his eyes search the ceiling of the town car like he’s searching for the way to put it, “…focusing my attentions when I was younger. It’s like my mind was moving three times faster than my teachers were talking or anything else that was going on around me. I was slapped with an ADHD diagnosis and put on meds until I was placed with the Kents.” His gaze goes back to the window.

  “Did you actually have ADHD?” Well damn, there goes my curiosity again. Except, he’s the one opening up. I’m not forcing him and suddenly I’m hungry for every tidbit of information he’s willing to share.

  Oh,” he looks back at me, like he was just lost in memory for a moment there. “Dad didn’t like how meds were the go-to solution for troublesome kids in the system. He helped me wean off them. Others just saw me as a disruptive kid, but Dad saw something else.” His fingers thrum on the seat beside him.

  I like the way he talks about his dad. His voice softens and his usually hard features gentle. By that alone I can tell the man is really special to him.

  “He saw how I was always fiddling with things. He worked at Lockheed, so he taught me some basic coding. I really took to it.”

  I blink. “Oh.” Wow, it’s even more surprising then that Jackson didn’t just take a position at Lockheed or somewhere like it when he graduated but instead went out on his own. And built up such a remarkable company at such a young age.

  Jackson continues as if he didn’t just reveal something so impressive. “Dad made it fun and he just had a way of working with me to help me funnel my energy. So I’d be using my hands and my brain, you know?” Another one of those fond smiles crosses his face. “Robotics was always the perfect match for me.”

  “He was an inventor, too?” The patent that brought Jackson to the table in the first place. Gentry said it had belonged to Jackson’s father.

  Jackson’s jaw tenses slightly. He’s obviously recalling how I know this bit of information. He nods, a quick, tight jerk of his head. “He helped me build my first robot. We entered it in a battle-bot competition. Ours won.”

  “Naturally.” I smile.

  His dimple reappears as his eyes flash to mine. “Naturally.”

  He looks so young when his face softens like that. It strikes me then that he and Gentry must be around the same age. They were in college together after all. So that would make Jackson, what? Thirty-two? Thirty-three? Ten years older than me, but considering all that he’s accomplished, impossibly young.

  “I was hooked from then on,” he continues. “I built all kinds of things. For a while I was obsessed with making robots that were elaborate machines to do really simple things.”

  My smile turns into a grin. I know exactly what he’s talking about. I can’t believe he’s trying to play it off so casually. “Ridiculousrobots.com, right? That site is still epic!” I laugh. “My friends at Stanford were always trying to come up with ideas of things to submit to it.”

  “Ah,” he sighs with a pretend cringe. “The legacy of my seventeen-year-old self. Fifteen years later, and that one’s still the thing I’m most famous for. More than my actual life’s work.”

  I’m laughing full out now. “Aw, come on,” I slap his knee playfully. “It’s a great legacy. My favorite was your ten-foot robot/Rube Goldberg machine that sings Mary Had A Little Lamb, all just to flush the toilet. The grad students at Stanford totally built one like it and installed it for a semester in the lab bathroom. It was awesome,” I shake my head, “though we all wanted to torch Mary by the time finals rolled around.”

  The dimple looks like a permanent fixture in Jackson’s cheek at this point. He laughs too. “I disabled the music box after a week and a half. I can’t believe you guys lasted a whole semester.”

  “Oh my God, no way! They’ll die if I ever run into them again and tell them! The only reason they kept it was because they were so damned dogged about authenticity.” But then the smile fades from my face. I was never great friends with any of the people in the computer and robotics lab—I was too wrapped up in David for that. Then, when I had the baby, even the acquaintances I’d had petered off faster than you can say ‘diaper change.’ I pull my thoughts back to the present. Jackson’s being so relaxed and easy with me. I don’t want to lose any part of the moment.

  “Are you two still close?” I ask. “You and your dad?”

  A pained look crosses Jackson’s face. “He passed while I was in college. Heart attack.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Almost involuntarily, my hand seeks his.

  He pulls away before I can make contact. My heart pinches and I’m not sure if it’s because he pulled away or because I saw the flash of pain in his eyes about his dad’s loss.

  “We’re here.” He straightens in his seat and I see that we’re pulling up to a well-lit hotel with a line of limos and expensive towncars waiting at the curb.

  I want to ask more about his father, but by his posture and the look on his face, I can tell that the subject’s closed. Yet he opened up to me so much—me, an almost perfect stranger. Why? And at the same time, all I want is to know more. What happened after things turned around with his new foster family? Did everything change after that? Did he start to fit in at school? What about college? I still never learned about his father’s patent and how Gentry came to have it. And obviously it hit Jackson hard when his foster father died—

  “Shall we?” Jackson’s eyes find mine, and he holds out a hand to me as the door opens. Immediately the noise of excited voices and activity breaks into the sanctuary of the quiet car. I take a deep breath as a sweeping lightheadedness hits at the thought of stepping out into all of that.

  In the busyness of getting ready and the overwhelming nature of Jackson’s presence in the car, I haven’t thought about this moment. Being here. Actually here, in the dress, at Jackson’s side. Shit, am I going to be expected to dance? Or use the right fork at dinner? That’s not even to mention what I’m really supposed to be doing here. I’ve let myself get all sentimental about Jackson and his dad when I ought to be cutthroat, using whatever emotional ground I’ve gained to get to the deal. I have to get this done. And not make an absolute fool of myself in the meantime.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit, sh—

  “Breathe,” Jackson whispers into my ear. As if his hot breath on my ear is supposed to freaking help anything. I shiver from the sensual feel of it as he steps out of the car. Then his hand grabs mine and ready or not, he pulls
me out after him.

  It’s not a graceful exit, let’s just say that. I end up tripping on some of my dress’s fabric and I fall into Jackson’s chest.

  “Shit.” I grab his lapels in a death grip and my cheeks burn hot with embarrassment.

  “I’ve got you,” he says, eyes locking with mine as his hands go to my waist, steadying me.

  Wow. His eyes are really blue. Like, really, really blue. They must be catching some light from how lit up they’ve got the red carpet, because they’re almost iridescent right now. I’ve never seen any color like that in my life and—

  “I’ve got you,” he repeats in a whisper.

  “If you just come this way,” breaks in a loud-voiced man with a clipboard, alternately speaking to us and then into an earpiece. “Yes, yes, I’m getting the car cleared right now.”

  The slick-haired man who I guess is a concierge or event-organizer smiles impatiently at us. “If you’d like to enter the venue, then we can get the next car moved up.” He gestures toward the red carpet behind us.

  “Of course,” Jackson says. Unlike me, he isn’t watching the concierge. He’s still looking at me. Nervous, I slide away from him, carefully pulling my dress out from underneath my shoe and stepping toward the gauntlet that is the red carpet.

  This is just a charity function, but I suppose in California, everything gets the Hollywood treatment. There aren’t paparazzi per se, but just like Breanna warned, there are lots of camera flashes taking shots for the society pages. Even a few local news crews are out as the Bay Area’s wealthy parade in their finest for charity.

  Jackson joins me, arm proffered for me to take. Then we start down the red carpet.

  It’s not very long, but still, it’s red and there are cameras flashing. I’m on the arm of a gorgeous man, wearing an incredible dress. This is the most surreal moment of my life. It’s hard to keep my eyes open with all the flashes of light in my face, but I do my damnedest.

  Jackson Vale is a somebody, and there are often pictures of him on the society page. He was being absurd in the car when he said he was most famous for ridiculousrobots.com. Gentry Tech is more one of those names you’ve only heard of if you’re in the robotics world or if you studied it like I did, but CubeThink hobby drones are all but a household name. Yeah, they make the professional models that Hollywood uses for filming, but they also make more affordable units, like the toy parents were fighting each over for last Black Friday.

  So yeah, I don’t want to be the idiot beside him wincing away from camera flashes with her eyes shut. I blink quickly when my eyes start to water and make sure to keep them open.

  I paste on the biggest smile I can manage. But shit, does that make me look too beauty queen? I dial it down a notch to what I hope comes across as demure. That’s what a companion to the Jackson Vale should look like. Right?

  Before I can overanalyze it too much, we’re at the end of the carpet by the awning for the entrance to the hotel where the gala is being held. Another organizer tells us to pose against the Red Cross logo backdrop for more photos. Oh great, even more nerve-racking. I don’t have much time to think about my smile before there are even more flashbulbs going off in our faces.

  Christ, give a girl a little warning. I’ve barely just managed to arrange my features into something I think looks like a pleasant expression, and the next second we’re being ushered off the carpet and into the hotel.

  “Damn, I wish I could have like, practiced that,” I whisper to Jackson as we head to the doors. “I swear I’ve never had such a hard time walking and smiling at the same time before.”

  He coughs out a startled laugh as we pass the threshold into the ornately decorated hotel lobby. He looks down at me. Both sides of his mouth are actually tilted up at the same time. “You were brilliant.”

  There’s not much time for the praise to sink in before we’re led through to what I can only call a ballroom. I know this must just be an event center on any regular day, but it’s been absolutely transformed.

  White fairy lights hang from the ceiling and everything else is done in whites and golds. Crisp white tablecloths. Gold napkins. Golden swan centerpieces with vases of white tulips. It all looks like something out of a fairytale, and that’s not even taking into consideration the gorgeously-dressed people who’ve begun filling up the space. Beyond the tables is an open area for mingling or maybe dancing later.

  Few people are sitting at the tables though. They’re mingling in the open area beyond the seating, on the ballroom floor where servers thread through the crowd with champagne and appetizers held aloft on trays. That’s where Jackson guides me with the slightest of pressures on the small of my back. I’d rather he held out his arm for me to take. I could use the stability of his arm. But the touch of his hand to the skin of my back where the dress dips feels… a little too intimate.

  The surreal feeling is back. Like this is one of those dreams where I’ve gotten myself on a reality show. You know, the kind where they set you up on an elaborate prank and then Ashton Kutcher jumps out at you—except that show was for celebrities and aired forever ago and yeah. Besides, with my luck, it’s more like the dream would turn into a nightmare where everyone starts laughing at me and there are clowns and it all goes downhill from there—

  “Jackson,” an older man with silver hair and a southern accent booms out. He grabs Jackson’s hand in what looks like a crushing grasp. “So glad to see you here, my boy.”

  “Trevor,” Jackson says, his voice and face back to that untouchable mask like it was when I first met him, so that I have no idea his thoughts about this Trevor guy. I think it’s just Jackson’s go-to, though, not a commentary on this man. But Jackson’s cracked that hard façade with me. Many times. What does that mean?

  There’s no more time to ponder it, though, because Trevor turns his eyes on me. “And who is this lovely creature on your arm tonight?”

  “Miss Calliope Cruise, may I introduce Mr. Trevor Henderson.” Again, nothing is given away by Jackson’s voice. “Trevor, this is my associate, Miss Cruise. She’s kindly deigned to spend the evening with me.”

  “I’m with Lockheed Martin,” Trevor holds out his hand to me. “Don’t tell me Jackson roped you into playing with his toys when there are so many dynamic companies hiring in the valley?”

  As we shake—a grip that’s several touches past too firm from his side, if I do say so. I have to all but stop from wringing out my hands afterwards. And Trevor keeps up the smile. It’s a salesman’s grin. “What’s your specialty? Engineering? Advanced mathematics? What university did you graduate from?”

  “How about you turn it off for one night, Trevor?” Jackson’s face is impassive, almost bored.

  “Come on, Jackson, you know how the game is played,” the other man continues, still looking at me with that too large smile on his face. “Never lose an opportunity to network. So what university is it?”

  “Um, Stanford,” I offer, “though I haven’t finished my degree yet.”

  “She’s working at Gentry Tech while she’s finishing up her last semester,” Jackson inserts.

  Trevor’s eyebrow goes up at this. “Gentry Tech, huh?” He looks back and forth between Jackson and me several times. “And she’s here as your guest tonight? How interesting.”

  “Careful, Trevor. In a moment, you’re going to sound as much the gossip as the beautiful Mrs. Henderson.”

  “Did I hear my name? My ears are burning,” An elegant older woman walks up to our small group and puts her hand on Mr. Henderson’s shoulder. She plants a small kiss on his cheek. “I do hope it’s a juicy rumor someone’s started about me, at least.”

  At this, Jackson gives a genuine smile. “Is there any other kind when it comes to you, Lucy?”

  Mrs. Henderson laughs and then pats down her glossy brown hair. She seems like she might be in her mid-fifties like Mr. Henderson, but I suspect she’s had some work done on her face. It’s not horribly conspicuous though. Her skin is smooth an
d her hair a glossy brown. She’s beautiful and elegant and when Jackson smiles at her, I’m surprised at the small kick of jealousy that hits me. She has to be at least twenty years his senior, if not more.

  “Oh how you do spoil me, Jackson.” She pulls away from her husband to plant a kiss on Jackson’s cheek, lingering a little longer than is strictly necessary.

  When she pulls back, her eyes are flushed with excitement. “I don’t suppose my husband is any more successful in his attempt tonight to sway you to come work for Lockheed?”

  “Alas,” Mr. Henderson says, “tonight I was trying to tempt his fair companion, Ms. Cruise.”

  For the first time, Mrs. Henderson seems to take me in. I’m not sure exactly what all is encompassed in the flash of her eyes as she looks me up and down. “Oh? And what is Ms. Cruise’s specialty?”

  Mr. Henderson casually puts a hand around his wife’s waist and his stare comes back to me. “We were just getting to that.”

  I feel my cheeks heat. The words at the tip of my tongue are to mumble that I’m a nobody, just a personal assistant. Far less than that if I’m being honest, since half the reason I was hired had to do with my chest size.

  But no. Fuck that.

  I force myself to stand up straighter and meet Mr. Henderson’s gaze straight on. I can’t hang all of my hopes on Gentry’s paper-thin promises of a future at his research labs. I might only be a pawn to Gentry and perhaps a curiosity to Jackson, but if I can leverage my time among these stratospherically powerful men to a higher position in the world once they’re done with me, then all of this won’t be for nothing. Mr. Henderson said it himself. Never lose an opportunity to network and Lockheed is one of the Gods in advanced machinery, constantly pushing the state-of-the-art in their field.

  * * *

  “I’m interested in specialized algorithmic design in applied machine learning situations, especially robotics.”