Say My Name

by J. Kenner

  "But that's my point," I press. "It's a red carpet event. This guy has celebrity sparkle all the way. We need him on our team. And the article also says that he's looking to open a satellite office in Los Angeles, which suggests that he's trying to move more into the West Coast market."

  "Jackson Steele isn't the only name in the pot," Damien says.

  "No," I agree. "But right now he's the only one with a serious spotlight on him. More than that, I've already looked into the few others who might appeal to the investors, and none have current availability. Steele does. I didn't present Steele as a possible architect in the original development plan because he was committed for the next six months to a project in Dubai." At the time, I'd been grateful that Jackson was unavailable because I didn't want to be in exactly this position. Now, however, things have changed.

  "The Dubai project fell through," I continue. "Political and financial issues, I guess. It's all outlined in the article. I did some quick research, and I don't believe Steele has another green-lit project, but it won't stay that way for long. Jackson Steele can save the Cortez resort. Please trust me when I tell you that I wouldn't suggest him if I didn't absolutely believe that."

  And wasn't that the god's honest truth?

  "I believe it, too," Damien says. "And I agree with your assessment of the situation. If we don't get Jackson Steele on board right away, we'll lose our investors. The only other way to keep the project alive is if I fully fund the project, either using corporate assets or my personal funds." He draws in a breath. "Sylvia," he says gently, "that's not the way I do business."

  "I know. Of course I know that. That's why I'm suggesting we approach Jackson. I mean Steele," I correct, biting back a wince at my unintentional familiarity. "This is a high profile project--exactly the kind of thing that he's focusing on these days. He'll sign on. Everything about it is what he's looking for."

  Once again, Damien and Nikki share a look, and worry snakes through me.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "But is there something I don't know?"

  "Jackson Steele has no interest in working for Stark International," Nikki says, after a brief hesitation.

  "He--what?" It takes a moment for the words to sink in. "How do you know?"

  "We met him when we were in the Bahamas," Nikki explains. "Damien offered to bring him in on the ground floor for the Bahamas project, pulling him in even before Stark International acquired property. Full access to every detail of the project. But he made it very clear that he doesn't want to work for Damien or any of Damien's companies. He says that Damien casts a long shadow, and he's not interested in being caught under it."

  "In other words, we won't be landing Steele for this project," Damien says. He glances at his watch, then at Nikki. "I need to get back," he says, then returns his attention to me. "Call the investors personally. This isn't the kind of thing I can sit on. I'm truly sorry, Syl," Damien adds, and it's the nickname that drives home how real this is. The project is dead. My project is dead.

  I tell myself I should be relieved not to risk the memories. That I've been a fool to think that I have the strength to tempt my nightmares. That I should just let this project go rather than walk right back into everything I once ran from.

  No.

  No. I've worked too hard, and this project means too much. I can't just let it go. Not like that. Not without a fight.

  And, yes, perhaps there is a part of me that wants to see Jackson Steele again. To prove to myself that I can do this. That I can see him, talk to him, work so goddamn intimately with him--and somehow manage to not shatter under the weight of it all.

  "Please," I say to Damien, as I squeeze my hands into fists and tell myself that the staccato beat of my heart and the clamminess of my skin stem from fear of losing the project and not the thought of seeing Jackson again. "Let me talk to him. We need to at least try."

  "There will be other projects, Ms. Brooks." His voice is gentle, but firm. "This isn't your last opportunity."

  "I believe you," I say. "But I've never known you to walk away from a floundering deal if there was any chance of saving it."

  "Based on what I know of Mr. Steele, there isn't a chance."

  "I think there is. Please, let me try. I'm just asking for the weekend," I rush to add. "Just enough time for me to meet with Mr. Steele and pitch the project to him."

  For a moment, Damien says nothing. Then he nods. "I can't keep this from the investors," he finally says. "But it's already Friday, and we can make that work for us. Call them. Let them know we need to update them about the project, and schedule a conference call for Monday morning."

  I nod, quick and businesslike. But inside, I am jumping with glee.

  "That gives you the weekend," Damien continues. "Monday morning we'll either announce that we have Jackson Steele on board, or that the project is in trouble."

  "We'll have him on board," I say, with a confidence born more of hope than reality.

  Damien's head tilts ever so slightly to the left, as if considering my words. "What makes you think so?"

  I lick my lips. "I--I met him. About five years ago in Atlanta. Right before I came to work for you, actually. I don't know if he'll agree, but I think he'll hear me out." At least, I thought he would before I learned that he'd already turned down a Stark project.

  Now, the entire playing field has changed. Before, I'd thought I was bringing him a kick-ass project on a silver platter. Me, doing a favor for Jackson. Me, in control.

  Now I know the opposite is true.

  He can walk away. He can say no. He can lift his middle finger and tell me to stay the hell out of his life.

  I think about the last conversation we had--a conversation that had ripped me apart.

  I need you to do something for me, I'd said.

  Anything.

  No questions, no arguments. It's important.

  Whatever you need, baby, I promise. You only have to ask.

  He had kept his word then. He'd done as I asked, even though it had just about destroyed us both.

  Now there is something else I need.

  And I desperately hope that once again I only have to ask.

  two

  "Whatever time he has available today," I say, holding my phone tight to my left ear and my hand tight over my right. Even so, it's hard to hear Jackson's New York-based secretary over the noise of the helicopter powering down.

  "I'm sorry, Ms. Brooks. Mr. Steele's documentary is screening in Los Angeles this evening, so I'm afraid every minute is booked."

  I'm on the roof of Stark Tower downtown, and despite the sensation of literally being on top of the world, I do not feel composed or in control. I want to pull open the door to enter the elevator alcove, but I know from experience that I run the risk of losing my cell signal, and I have a feeling that if I let this woman get off the phone I won't ever get her back.

  So I stand in the wind with the sun burning down on me and the asphalt all around me, feeling decidedly at the mercy of not only the elements, but of Jackson Steele, his secretary, and even the damned cellular provider.

  "How about tomorrow?" I ask. "I realize that's Saturday, but if he's not going right back to New York--"

  "Mr. Steele will be staying in Los Angeles for at least a week."

  "Perfect," I say, going limp with relief. "When would be convenient?"

  "Just a moment, please. I'll see if I can reach him on his cell."

  I stand there, feeling a little foolish, as the peppy hold music plays. When the phone clicks, signaling that the woman has returned to the line, I straighten my back and shoulders as if springing to attention, then roll my eyes at my own ridiculous behavior.

  "I'm afraid there is no convenient time, Ms. Brooks."

  "Oh, no, really. I'm happy to make myself available anytime. And if it's more convenient I'll go to his hotel or he can come to my office. Whatever works."

  I hear her sigh, long and deep, and I bite my lower lip as she says, "No, Ms. Brooks, you misund
erstand. Mr. Steele has asked that I decline your request for a meeting. And to express his regrets, of course."

  "His regrets?"

  "He said that you would understand. He said that you two discussed this already. In Atlanta."

  "He--what?"

  "I'm terribly sorry, Ms. Brooks. But I can assure you that Mr. Steele's refusal is final."

  My mouth has gone completely dry. Not that it matters. I may want to argue, but it is too late. The line has gone dead.

  I stare at my phone for a moment, not quite believing what I've just heard.

  Jackson said no.

  "Shit." I run my fingers through my hair, then look up at Clark, who has secured the helicopter and is heading my direction.

  "Trouble?" he asks, his brow furrowed as he peers at my face.

  "Not if I have anything to say about it," I reply. Because there is no way I'm calling Damien and telling him that I blew it so badly I couldn't even get a meeting. Which means that I very badly need a Plan B. Another starchitect. A magic potion. A goddamn freaking miracle.

  I start to follow Clark into the alcove, then stop short, remembering. "Have a good weekend," I say to him. "I need to make one more call."

  And then I scroll through my contacts, find Wyatt's number, and call the photographer to see if he can wrangle that miracle.

  "You do know how awesome this is, right?" Cass asks as she climbs into the limo and takes a seat opposite me.

  She looks amazing, as usual, in a slinky black dress slit so far up her thigh it's a wonder she didn't flash the neighborhood. The dress is held up by a single, simple bow over her left shoulder, and she fills it out with the kind of curves I can only dream about. Her hair is red this week, and she is wearing it up so as to accentuate the dress. Other than a small diamond stud in her nose, she wears no jewelry, which makes the tattoo of an exotic bird on her shoulder, its tail feathers trailing down her arm in an explosion of color, all the more stunning.

  As soon as she's settled, Edward shuts the door and returns to the driver's seat. We don't see him, as we are snug behind the privacy screen, but I feel the motion as the limo pulls away from the curb in front of Cass's tiny house in Venice Beach.

  "Seriously, Syl. Your job perks rock."

  "Definitely on the upside of awesome," I agree as I pass her a glass of wine. The limo is one of the Stark International fleet, and Edward is Damien's personal driver, on loan to me for this evening. With any luck, I'll make this worth Edward's overtime.

  "I think we both need a moment of deep contemplation," Cass says. "You, in appreciation of the serious perks of your job. And me, in gratitude that you are so antisocial that there's no one else you wanted to invite tonight."

  "Bitch," I say, but I'm laughing as she closes her eyes and tilts her head back.

  "Ommm," she says, as if she's in a yoga class and not in the back of a stretch limo on her way to a Hollywood release party.

  I'd debated whether or not to bring her, but in the end had decided that not only would Cass get a kick out of a red carpet premiere, but she'd also make a damn fine human security blanket.

  Cass has been my best friend since I marched into her dad's tattoo parlor at the ripe old age of fifteen. He'd sent me packing, telling me in no uncertain terms that he wasn't about to lose his license so some Brentwood brat could get a tat in order to piss off Mommy and Daddy.

  I hadn't cried--I haven't cried since I was fourteen--but I had felt my face go hot as my temper and frustration rose. I'd called him a bastard, yelled that he didn't know a thing about my parents and he sure as hell didn't know anything about me. I don't actually remember calling him a fucking prick, but Cass assures me that I did.

  What I do remember is storming out, then running blindly until I reached the beach. I'd rushed across the bike path, almost knocking over a toddler, and then tripped in the sand. I'd fallen facedown and just laid there like an idiot, my forehead on my arm and my eyes squeezed together because I wanted to cry--so help me, I wanted the tears to flow--but they didn't. They couldn't.

  I don't know how long I laid there, breathing shallow so I wouldn't suck up the sand. All I know is that she was there when I looked up, all long legs and tanned skin and short black hair slicked into dozens of spikes. She crouched on her haunches, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hand as she stared at me. Just rocked back and forth and stared.

  "Go away," I'd said.

  "It's not his fault. My mom bailed, and he's gotta take care of me, so it's not his fault. I mean, if they yank his license, they'll close his shop and then they'll repossess the house and we'll end up living in the back of his Buick, and I'll have to turn tricks in Hollywood just to keep us in Snickers and Diet Coke."

  My gut clenched at her words, and for a second I thought I would be sick. "Don't," I said. "That's not even funny."

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied me, then she stood up, as gangly as a colt. She held out her hand to help me up. "He can't do it, but I can."

  "Can what?"

  "You want a tat, I can give you a tat." She shrugged, as if tattooing someone was the kind of thing every teenage girl knew how to do.

  "Bullshit."

  "Suit yourself." She started to walk away.

  I pushed myself up so that I was kneeling in the sand and watched her leave, never once looking back to see if I'd changed my mind.

  I had. "Wait!"

  She stopped. A moment passed, then another, then she turned. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

  "How old are you?" I asked.

  "Sixteen. How old are you?"

  "I just turned fifteen. You can really do it?"

  She came toward me, then stuck her leg out so that there was no missing the black rose on her ankle. "I can do it."

  "Will it hurt?"

  She snorted. "Duh, yeah. But not any more than it would if he did it."

  I assume she was right about that, but I'll never know for sure. Because Cass is the only one who has ever given me a tattoo, and she's given me several. That first day we'd hung out on the beach until her dad had locked the shop. Then we'd snuck back in, and she'd adorned my pubic bone with a beautiful golden lock, sealed tight and bound with chains.

  She asked me why I wanted that design, and I hadn't told her. Not then. And even later, I didn't tell her everything. Just the surface, but not the deep-down truth. And even though she's my best friend, I don't think I ever will.

  That tat--and the ones that followed--are for me alone. They are secrets and triumphs, weaknesses and strengths. They are a map, and they are memories.

  Most of all, they are mine.

  "So who's going to be there?" Cass asks after a while. "There's a red carpet, right?"

  "That's what I hear. But don't get too excited. It's a documentary, not a blockbuster. I'm guessing a few studio execs, some agents, maybe a few C-listers."

  "Doesn't change the fact that we're gonna walk down a red fucking carpet. I guess I can knock that one off my bucket list."

  "I guess you can. The dress rocks, by the way. Where did you get it?"

  "That Goodwill near Beverly Hills. It's my favorite hunting ground." Cass owns Totally Tattoo now and makes a good living, but it wasn't always that way, and I don't think I've ever once seen her buy retail.

  "Usually I only score a ten-dollar pair of 7 For All Mankind jeans and some kick-ass tees," she continues. "But this time there was an entire rack of evening clothes. I swear, I don't get those women. Wear it once and then donate it." She shrugs philosophically. "But whatever. I'm happy to take advantage of their economic idiocy."

  "And look incredibly hot in your frugality."

  "Damn skippy. You look pretty amazing yourself," she adds.

  "I should. I spent two hours getting a trim and having my makeup done." I've worn my hair short since I was fifteen. That's when I cut off my long, loose waves in favor of a cut that's a cross between a pixie and a bob. At the time, all I'd wanted was a change, and as dramatic a one as I
thought I could get away with. Since shaving my head was a bit too radical even for my mood, I'd dialed it back.

  Now, though, I genuinely like the cut. According to Kelly, the girl who does my hair, it suits my oval-shaped face and highlights my cheekbones. Honestly, I don't care about the reason. I just want to like what I see in the mirror.

  "The red tips are especially awesome," Cass says.

  "I know, right? Isn't it fun?" My hair is dark brown with natural golden highlights. Frankly, I like it that way, so I've never been tempted to follow Cass's lead and dye my hair temporarily pink or purple or even just plain red.

  Tonight, however, I thought I'd have a little fun, and I'd asked Kelly to see about giving me some colored highlights. She went a step further, focusing on the tips of a few chunks of hair in a way that seems not only fun but elegant.

  "It's awesome, yes, but what I meant was that the color matches your dress. Which is fabulous, by the way."

  "It should be. It cost a freaking fortune."

  I may not spend my life trolling consignment stores like Cass, but I rarely spend as much on a dress as I did on this one. It's fire-engine red, and though I decided to go with cocktail length, I think it's as elegant and sexy as Cass's floor-skimming evening gown. And, yes, as I did a turn in front of the dressing room mirror, I'd tried to see myself through Jackson's eyes. Not because I wanted to look hot--or, not entirely--but because I wanted to look successful. Competent.

  Powerful.

  "It works?" I ask Cass. "Not too slutty? Or worse, too corporate?"

  "It's perfect. You look like a confident, professional businesswoman. And clearly you took my advice and invested in a padded push-up bra, because you even have cleavage."

  "Bitch," I say, but with the utmost affection. I've got an athletic build, slim and lean. Which is great when it comes to finding clothes, but not so great when I'm trying to fill out a dress.

  I expect her to shoot me a snarky comeback, but instead there is only silence. "What?" I demand, when I can't take it any longer.

  "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  It is the gentleness in her voice that cuts through me. Cass is loud and boisterous, and I am used to that. Softness from her can break me.

  I nod. "I've put my heart and soul into this project. I'm not going to let it die if I can save it."