Say My Name

by J. Kenner

  But that is no longer my right, and that reality is pounded home as I glance around and realize that every woman in the vicinity is looking at him, just as I am. I close my hand into a fist, feeling suddenly proprietary, even though I have no claim on this man anymore. I gave that up. Sacrificed him to save myself.

  A wave of melancholy crashes over me, and I tell myself to stop it, stop it, stop it.

  I did the right thing, I am certain of it. And it doesn't matter anyway. The past is over, goddammit. I need to just suck it up and move on, just like I've been doing for my whole screwed-up life.

  I take a deep breath, then another, as I force myself to get my shit together. I'm a businesswoman with a lucrative proposition. I'm not a starry-eyed girl getting weak-kneed around the ultra-sexy man of the hour.

  I can do this. I can approach him, greet him, tell him that I'm not going to accept a brush-off. That it's been five years, we're both grown-ups, and he's just going to have to listen to me.

  Straightforward. Direct. To the point.

  Right. I can manage. No problem at all.

  I take a step toward him, then another.

  I straighten my shoulders and put on the professional smile that I have honed over five years of working for the CEO of Stark International.

  I keep my eyes on Jackson as I move toward the staircase, taking a path designed to intercept him as he reaches the ballroom floor.

  He doesn't see me--he is completely focused on the man beside him. I cannot hear their conversation, but Jackson's hands move as he talks, and I know that they are discussing architecture. I smile with affection, remembering the way he would outline a skyscraper in the air and the way his fingers would dance as he considered facades and footprints, purpose and plan.

  His companion says something, and Jackson laughs, his wide, sensual mouth curving into a smile that freezes in place as he casually scans the crowd--and then finds me.

  A wild heat burns across his expression, but is banked so quickly that I almost think I imagined it. Now when I look, I see only a blank stoicism. And yet there remains an intensity to him, the illusion of motion even though he has stopped dead still on the staircase.

  His eyes are locked on mine, and I stand motionless as well, unable to move. Almost unable to breathe.

  "Jackson," I say, but I am not sure if I have spoken aloud or if his name has simply filled me, as essential as oxygen.

  We hold like that, time ticking by, the world around us frozen. Neither of us move, and yet I feel as though I am spinning through space and hurtling toward him. The illusion terrifies me, because right then I know two things--I want desperately to be in his arms again, and I am absolutely terrified of the collision.

  And then, suddenly, the world clicks back into motion. His eyes hold mine for a split second longer, and in those few brief moments before he turns away, I see the flash of cold, hard anger. But there's something else, too. Something that looks like regret thawing under the ice.

  I realize that my limbs will function again, and take a step toward him, knowing that this is my chance. For the project--and for something deeper that I do not want to think about because opening that door scares me too much.

  But it doesn't matter. Not my fear, not the project.

  Because Jackson doesn't look at me again.

  Instead, he strides right by me, never looking back, never even slowing. And I am left to watch him pass, as anonymous as all the other women who stand there and look after him with longing.

  three

  What the hell had I been thinking?

  The man had flatly declined a meeting with me. Had I really believed that once he saw me in person everything would change? That he would rush over, take my hands, and ask me how he could help?

  I didn't believe that, no. But damn me, I'd hoped it.

  It had seemed so simple in theory. Not easy--nothing about seeing Jackson again is going to be easy--but by the numbers. I could do it, especially because I had to do it.

  But I'd choked.

  Instead of taking the straightforward approach--find him, talk to him--I'd frozen. Instead of moving in, I'd let him pass me by.

  Shit.

  I'd miscalculated everything, and whatever slim confidence I've been clinging to has been thoroughly and dramatically shattered.

  I see Cass across the room laughing with a woman in a short, tight dress and sun-streaked blond hair. She glances my way, and I see her brows lift slightly in question. Need me?

  I shake my head and smile. Cass broke up with her longtime girlfriend five months ago, and has been pretty much off the market since. If she's connecting with this woman, no way am I going to mess up her rhythm.

  Besides, it's time to bite the bullet. I came here to pitch a project, and I'm damned if I will leave without giving it a shot.

  Jazzed from my mental pep talk, I start off in the direction in which he'd disappeared, only to be waylaid by the announcement that the film will begin in fifteen minutes, and guests should start making their way toward the theater.

  The announcement pretty much destroys any chance of getting a spare moment with Jackson. For one thing, I'm certain he must have some sort of man-of-the-hour thing to do onstage before the film starts. For another, the crowd has become so thick that I have no choice but to be swept along with the throng.

  I allow myself to become part of the surge, making peace with the realization that I am going to have to either find Jackson right after the screening or wrangle my way into the after-party--a perk that my invitation doesn't include.

  Black-clad ushers who are probably USC film students direct us out of the multiplex and over to the original Chinese theater. It is one of my favorite places in Los Angeles. I used to escape here as a teenager, losing myself to another reality hidden in this exotic venue. It's been recently remodeled, but unlike the shining modernism of the ballroom we have just left, the lobby of the Chinese theater still has a bit of camp, with statues brought from Beijing and Shanghai, ornate ceiling tiles and fixtures, folding screens used as wall decorations, and lots of red walls and carpets.

  Once inside the theater, though, technology rules. The IMAX screen is huge and state of the art, and I can't deny the thrill of knowing that I'm about to see both Jackson and his work splashed larger than life in front of me.

  I grab an aisle seat in the very last row, figuring that I'll have the best chance of extricating myself from the crowd and finding Jackson if I can get out the door quickly once the film is over. The theater isn't completely full, and there are five or six seats between me and the next person over by the time the lights dim. I can't help but be relieved. I'm on edge and antsy, battered by memories that are butting up against me, pushing and prying and trying to break free. I'm tired of fighting them. After the film, I can be strong again. But for the next seventy minutes, I want to lose myself to the past, to Jackson, and to the soaring images of the world that he has made.

  A ripple of applause fills the room as a man I recognize as Jackson's companion from the stairs takes the stage and introduces himself as Michael Prado, the documentary's director.

  "As many of you may know, I serve on the board of the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project, and in that capacity it has been my privilege to observe the growth of many talented young architects. Some display raw talent. Some, a keen business sense. Still others have an innate ability to mesh form and function, location and purpose. Only once, however, have I seen all those attributes embodied in one man. And that man is here tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Jackson Steele."

  There is considerably more applause as Jackson takes the steps two at a time, then waves at the audience before shaking Prado's hand.

  "Thank you all for the warm welcome," he says as he takes the mike. "And thank you, Michael, for your incredibly generous words. As you might realize," he continues, turning so that he faces the audience without putting his back to the director, "a documentary of the nature that Michael
has put together is an extremely invasive beast. And I say that with the utmost respect and affection," he adds as the audience laughs.

  "He's trying to say that I got in his way," Michael jokes.

  "Or that I got in his," Jackson says, handling the audience with undeniable skill. "But seriously, I owe this man a great debt. This documentary was in the works even prior to the board of the Amsterdam Contemporary Art and Science Coalition choosing my design for their museum. And while I can't say that I was prepared to have my process so fully scrutinized, I can say that the experience has been both educational and rewarding. I've had the luxury of seeing my work through another's eyes. That is a rare gift and one that should not be squandered. It taught me to respect my vision, but also to open my eyes."

  I am riveted as I watch him, so personable, so comfortable in front of a crowd.

  He shifts on the stage so that he seems to look at everyone in the audience. "And now I am pleased to welcome you to the US premier of Stone and Steele, and to offer you this glimpse into another type of joint work. Michael Prado's interpretation of the trials, tribulations, and successes that surrounded the funding, building, dedication, and opening of the celebrated--some might say infamous--Amsterdam Art and Science Museum."

  He pauses as the audience applauds once more, and it strikes me how much he reminds me of Damien Stark. Not only in appearance--they both share a dark, masculine beauty--but in his ability to handle the spotlight and draw people in. If he were ending with a sales pitch, I'm entirely certain that he would rake in a million tonight.

  But there is no sales pitch. Tonight is a celebration, and after a few more words about the history of the project, Jackson invites the audience to settle in and enjoy the show.

  The lights dim, the curtain parts, and I lean back in my seat as the music swells and the screen fills with motion and light. The camera rises in a magnificent shot that starts at the ground, then climbs faster and faster, rising up the now-iconic smooth edge of the museum to ultimately flare out as blue sky and sun fill the frame.

  The screen turns a blinding white that dissolves into a title sequence and then a close-up of Jackson, his hair ruffling in the wind and his jeans tight on well-muscled thighs as he leans over a table littered with blueprints. He is deep in conversation with another man, but their words are muffled beneath the precise, careful voice of the narrator.

  I watch, mesmerized by the man on the screen. By the passion and precision of his movements. He is absorbed by his work, compelled by it. There is power in what he does. Majesty, even magic.

  And the depth of emotion I see on his face makes my skin heat and my heart pound in my chest.

  I have seen that same fire, that same determination. I have seen joy and rapture. I have held him close and felt his heat, and I have been burned by the intensity of this man.

  My chest aches and my hands begin to hurt. I realize that I am clutching the armrests too tightly. More, I have been holding my breath.

  Air, I think as I start to stand. I just need to get to the lobby. Maybe hit the ladies' room and splash some cold water on my face.

  But as I start to lever myself out of the seat, someone slips into the chair beside me.

  Jackson.

  I haven't seen him--don't even turn to face him--and yet I have no doubt. How could I when my skin already tingles simply from his proximity? When the scent of his cologne surrounds me, all spice and musk and smoke?

  I close my eyes and hold myself half in and half out of the chair, suddenly unsure of where I am going and why.

  "Stay."

  One simple word, and yet it compels me. I draw another breath, nod, and then settle back into the upholstered theater chair. I turn toward him and find him focused on me. Shadows dance upon his face, and I swear that I could tumble into the brilliant blue of his eyes.

  I start to speak, though I'm not at all sure what I'm going to say. Then he leans toward me and places his palm on my leg, so that the heel of his hand rests on the thin material of my dress, but the tips of his fingers graze my bare skin. Every nerve ending in my body seems clustered in that one area, sparkling and sizzling.

  I'm desperately, painfully aware of the contact, and I have to fight the urge to draw in a breath, to stiffen as my pulse pounds and a wild heat bursts through me. I don't want to react to him; I don't want to give anything away. And I damn sure can't let go of the tight grip I have on control.

  But he is leaning closer, the pressure increasing upon my thigh as his lips come within a whisper of my ear. "What the hell do you think you're doing here?"

  I consider playing it coy, but there is no profit in that. Not to mention the fact that I'm not at all sure I could pull it off. Not now, when he's touching me. When he's thrown me so off kilter. "I need to talk to you," I say simply.

  "Do you?" he asks, his voice as smooth and tempting as chocolate. "I'm fairly certain you don't have an appointment."

  His finger moves slowly on my skin, back and forth, the motion so idle that he might be unaware of it. Except I know that's bullshit. He knows exactly what he's doing.

  "Do I need an appointment to chat at a party?"

  "Is that what we're doing?" he asks as his finger strokes and teases. "Chatting?"

  I feel my chest tighten and a thin panic rise. "Please, Jackson."

  "Please what?"

  "Outside." I hope that he cannot hear the way my voice shakes. "Can we just go talk for a minute in the lobby?"

  I try to rise, but he holds me down with a gentle but firm pressure on my leg. In the process, he manages to slide my hem up, revealing just a sliver more of bare skin. It is enough, however, to make me feel even more exposed. Even more vulnerable.

  To make me remember the way his hands felt when he was touching me without anger or pretense.

  I swallow as a wave of longing and regret breaks over me. "Jackson--"

  "You're so determined to talk, then talk here." His voice hasn't lost the velvet, but there is steel under it now.

  "We'll bother everyone around us," I whisper, determined to regain my equilibrium.

  His brows rise, and I see amusement dance at the corner of his mouth. "Will we?" His hand eases higher, pushing my skirt up with the motion. "I didn't think our ... conversation ... would be quite that loud."

  "Stop." I close my hand hard over his, preventing him from gaining even another millimeter.

  "Why?"

  "Because I said so, dammit."

  "I meant, why do you need to talk to me," he clarifies. "But the same applies." He eases his hand higher, pushing my skirt up inch by excruciating inch. "Tell me why you say I should stop. Because you don't want me to touch you? Because you don't want me to slide my hand just a little bit higher? Because you don't want my fingertips to stroke your panties and find you wet and hot?"

  My mouth is dry, my body burning. And--damn me all to hell--he is right. I am desperately wet, my thighs hot and my sex throbbing.

  "Or maybe it's because you do want me to keep going? Because you can imagine--can remember--the way my finger feels inside you, teasing you, stroking your clit. Are you wet now, princess?" he asks, his voice as gentle as the finger that still skims along my thigh. "Are you hot and needy and silently begging me to touch you, to slide my finger over your slick, wet heat? Is that what you want? Come on, sweetheart, you can tell me. Don't you want me to take you there? To take you higher and higher until you tremble in my hand as the orgasm rocks you? Because I think you do. I think you want it so bad you can taste it."

  I close my eyes, determined not to let him see the truth of his words on my face. "Stop it," I repeat. "You can't--"

  "The hell I can't." The soft sensuality in his tone has vanished, replaced by harsh accusation. "Do you think I haven't watched you tonight? Do you think I didn't see the way you've looked at me? We both know you still want me, and we both know that pisses you off. So tell me, Sylvia. I want to hear it. I want you to say it out loud."

  But there is no way in hel
l that I am conceding. Because while it may be true--God help me, I do want him, and that does piss me off--I don't want what comes after. The panic and wariness. The tightness and fear. That horrible sense that everything around me is spinning out of control, and that no matter how hard I try to hold it together, I'll inevitably get ripped apart.

  "Tell me," he repeats, his words heavy with five years' worth of hurt and anger. "And then I'll listen to what you have to say."

  I wince as something like guilt crashes over me. But I push it aside even as I shove his hand away and bolt up out of the chair. "Fuck you," I snap, ignoring the low-pitched "sssshhhh" from down the row.

  I stumble up the aisle, then practically slam myself against the door, not even taking a breath until I am safely in the lobby.

  I lean against the wall and tell myself to get my shit together. I haven't quite managed that task when the door opens and Jackson strides out and heads straight toward me. I think I must flinch, because I see his jaw tighten, and he comes no closer.

  "Not exactly the sweet words I was looking for," he says wryly. "But good enough."

  "Just leave me the hell alone," I say.

  "I can do that." His tone is now all business. "Or you can tell me why you want to talk to me."

  I blink, a little whiplashed by his sudden change in tone. "A job," I manage to say, even as my shoulders sag with both relief and, though I hate to admit it, a touch of disappointment. I push the latter firmly away--there is no room for anything but business between Jackson and me, and even imagining there might be more is a recipe for heartache.

  His eyes stay fixed on mine, then he nods briskly. "All right. I'm listening."

  I stand straighter, sliding into business-mode and relishing the sense of being back in control. "It's for Stark International," I say. "And before you tell me that you already turned down the Bahamas resort, I'd like you to hear me out."

  I take his silence as acquiescence and continue, giving him the full rundown of the project from inception to the horrific news that Glau has not only melted down, but pulled out.

  "Miss America got slammed on Facebook, and now the runner-up has the crown?"