by C. L. Stacey
“Oh, yea? What’s that?” I pretend not to remember. I’m not too proud of how I handled things, even if I believe that I made perfect sense when telling him off.
“People make mistakes.”
A smile breaks out over my face, any form of regret I had having vanished completely. It feels so good to know that my words had some influence over his decision that night.
“Yes, they do,” I agree.
He nods. “For a very smart man, Caleb Carlisle has moments where he comes up short. In this case, he allowed one of his employees to make a very careless mistake, one that could have resulted in you getting seriously hurt.”
I don’t argue that anymore, because yes, the situation could have been much worse. I see that now. But even still, these freak accidents happen, and he can’t continue to sever ties with every single person he deems responsible.
“I see your side, and I won’t tell you that you were wrong anymore, because your intentions—when I think of it now—were not all bad. But you can’t go around assuming power over everyone, Jackson.”
He nods his head in understanding, then he says, “Maybe not everyone, but I can with Runway—when I feel it’s necessary to intervene.”
I frown. “How’s that?”
His expression changes following my question, and he regards me silently with a hint of a smile only his eyes reflect. He sets his carton down and leans back against the couch. “Let me ask you something, Lexi…”
“Okay.”
“What exactly do you think I do for a living?”
My frown deepens. “Sorry?”
He shrugs. “Simple question, it’s not a test or anything.”
“I only really know what you told me. You invest in companies you find promising.”
He nods. “Which ones?”
I cringe at the question. “This feels an awful lot like a test to me.”
Jackson laughs an honest laugh, and I’m embarrassed, but I can’t fight the face-splitting grin on my face. “I can’t believe you’re laughing at me; that’s super mean.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you,” he insists. “It’s just your face… it was hard not to laugh, I’m sorry,” he apologizes a second time.
“So I don’t know much about you,” I admit guiltily. “I guess that’s obvious now.”
“You know shockingly little. I’m a little offended.”
My chicken goes down the wrong way when I laugh, and Jackson hurriedly reaches for my water and hands it to me. “I’m sorry,” I apologize as I cough through my fist, still laughing. “Educate me on what exactly it is you do. I promise to hang on your every word.”
I know Jackson was just teasing, but it is sort of baffling that I know so little about him. After spending so much one-on-one time with him, you’d think I know more. But he shares very little, if at all, and he isn’t exactly a social butterfly, so the option of asking anyone about him is out.
When you meet someone like Jackson, someone who spends most of their time in seclusion, getting to know them can be quite a challenge.
I’m not one to judge, though. I understand the value of privacy.
“My company, Anderson Enterprises,” Jackson starts, “includes about a dozen different umbrella companies in several different sectors. Anderson Entertainment, Anderson Construction, Anderson Technologies, Anderson Medical, to name a few.”
Sharing information about how his company operates is more than I’ve ever gotten, so I pay close attention and do as I promised; I hang on to his every word.
“The Runway Company and Anderson Entertainment are a team, a working partnership.”
Oh.
I revert back to the not-so-nice conversation I had with Caleb about Jackson, filling in some of the missing blanks with the new information I just received. Their partnership is the relationship Caleb was referring to back then. He was still very upset with Jackson for trying to tell him how to manage his own company, I remember.
It all makes more sense now. I’m able to see Caleb’s side a little better, but I still believe his anger and resentment are a little misplaced.
Neither went about things the right way, but you know… men.
Then I come to realize something else. Jackson stated earlier that I got this job on my own. But did I? He could be lying to me, and I’ll never know until he fesses up to it.
I know nothing about him. I know nothing of the man who seemingly knows everything.
My mouth is moving before I have the chance to think up an actual question. “Did you have anything to do with me landing an interview with Stephanie at Runway Styles?” I ask. Sounds good enough. “Don’t lie. Friends don’t lie, or at least, they’re not supposed to.”
“I swear, I didn’t,” Jackson claims. “I admit that helping you was my intention when I offered you my card, but you gave it back. I was taken completely by surprise when you showed up at my penthouse.”
It sounds honest enough, so I decide to let it go.
Something in Jackson’s eyes shift when they lose their light, the tension creating a small crease between his brows. He’s struggling with whatever it is he’s keeping bottled up inside.
Of course I’d like to ask him about the looks that come and go from his handsome face, but then I talk myself out of it and come up with excuses to keep from prying.
That was then. When I didn’t care if he was sad. But now we’re friends, and I hate it when my friends are miserable.
I almost ask, the question resting at the tip of my tongue, but my moment of courage dies just as quickly as it comes when he says, “I wasn’t expecting you, trust me.”
How appropriate.
I wasn’t expecting you, either.
The end credits roll, but my eyes aren’t on the screen anymore.
Lexi fell asleep on her side of the couch about thirty minutes ago, and my attention has taken turns wandering from her to the movie.
She’s lying on her side, facing me, and I notice her lashes for the first time. I notice how long and thick they are, and how they rest against the top of her cheeks while she sleeps.
The fact that she’s beautiful is no surprise, I’ve noticed that, too, plenty of times. I just never had the chance to stop and really look at her, to see her. And I see everything. I see the highlights in her hair, honey-gold strands against the soft brown. I see how smooth the surface of her skin is, free of blemishes or scars. I also see what I always fight so hard not to stare at—her lips.
Guys are mostly simple, or at least I thought I was. Whenever I meet an attractive woman, I think, ‘She’s pretty,’ or ‘She’s pretty hot,’ or the occasional, ‘Meh, not my style.’ I used to look at a woman and notice only the things I liked, and that was it. It used to just be: nice face, nice tits, or nice ass.
I never break it all down like I’m doing now.
I never considered myself a lip-guy, so I didn’t ever care to study them at all. But now, as I’m sitting here and staring at Lexi’s, I’m thinking about all the different kinds of lips out there. You have ones that are really thin, or thin at the top and plumper on the bottom, or plumper at the top and thin at the bottom, or the super pouty. Lexi’s is perfectly proportioned, top and bottom; pink, plump, kissable lips.
Why do I care?
She drives me crazy with that mouth, and not necessarily the good kind of crazy. There are moments where I could just strangle someone whenever the insults come rolling, but then I’ll find myself staring at them, and the rest just sort of gets a little fuzzy after that.
My gaze still lingers there a while; too long.
Okay, I need to go.
I place a hand gently over Lexi’s shoulder, giving her a small shake to wake her. “Lexi,” I whisper. “Lexi, wake up, the movie’s over.”
She makes a sound of protest and rolls onto her back.
“Lexi, you shouldn’t sleep out here. Wake up,” I try again.
Nothing.
I called Daniel ten minutes ag
o to come pick me up. He’ll be here soon, but I can’t leave her out here. She’ll get cold, and her back will end up paying for it in the morning.
“Lexi,” I say her name again, more firmly this time.
“Leave me alone,” she whines softly, still drunk with sleep.
“I’m going to carry you to your room if you don’t get up,” I warn.
Nothing.
I stand. “I warned you. Don’t hit me or I’ll drop you,” I tell her, even though she can’t hear me.
I’m not so confident when I’m staring down at her from up here. She looks so peaceful. I’d hate to wake her. What do I do? Do I actually pick her up and take her to her room?
My phone goes off in my pocket, and I answer it quickly before the ringing wakes her up. “Yea?”
“Sir, I’m calling to let you know that I’m parked downstairs.”
“Wait there, I’ll be right down.” I hang up and shove the phone back into my pocket.
I don’t have the time to ponder the decision anymore. I bend at the knees and scoop her up into my arms.
Thankfully, she doesn’t wake, but she snuggles into my chest when I hold her close.
“Goddamn, how much do you weigh?” I joke on my way to her room.
“Shut up, Eli,” she mumbles, the words muffled by my shirt.
My feet stop their movement, and my gaze drops to her face. Her eyes are still closed, her chest moving in and out with each breath she takes. She’s so out of it right now that she has no idea what she just called me. As far as she knows, Eli is carrying her to her room.
Pain shoots to my brain when I bite down against my jaw, and I continue to head down the hall in search for her room.
There are three different doors, each of them slightly ajar. I peek into two of them, passing them by when I notice that neither are the room I’m looking for, then I head to the last one at the end.
I quietly nudge the door open with the tip of my shoe and step inside, walking her to her king-sized bed at the opposite end of the room. I lay her down gently and pull the duvet over her body until she’s completely swallowed underneath, then I take a few steps back to take in the rest.
Artwork adorns the walls, and I notice that they all have one thing in common. Butterflies. Then my gaze falls to the picture frames on her nightstand, and I bend slightly at the knees to get a better look at one in particular.
The photo is of her and the same guy from the others out in her living room, but they are older in this one. High school, I’m guessing.
The smile on her face was natural, wide, like she was in mid-laugh. The guy she was with had his lips pressed firmly up against her cheek, timing it perfectly with whoever had snapped the photo.
Then I realize my mistake. My calculations were off before…
This guy isn’t Kellan; I don’t know why I was so quick to assume that it was. Kellan’s a newer friend, one she made as an adult. How’d I miss that?
The boy in the photos that sit in her living room, the boy in the photos she keeps close to her while she sleeps every night, the boy she’s still so clearly in love with… is Eli.
Of course it’s Eli.
As I’ve gotten to know Lexi better, I kept him tucked away, far back in my mind. I did everything I can to keep him away from us, so he wouldn’t get in the way of our progressing friendship.
Guilt consumes me, expanding in my chest until there’s nowhere left for it to go but straight to my head. Pain takes mere seconds to build, and I take another step back, blowing out a hard breath to relieve myself of some of the pressure.
Seeing his picture on her nightstand serves as a reminder for me—a wakeup call. It helps me see how wrong this all is.
What the fuck am I doing? I should never have come here. I shouldn’t have taken things this far.
What the fuck was I thinking? I wasn’t, that’s the problem.
Why couldn’t I have just continued to let her hate me? Because I couldn’t stand it anymore.
Just when we were getting to a good place…
Now I have to bail on her, and she’ll have no idea why.
The thought of her hating me again is enough to crush me, but I have to find a way to accept it, because this was never supposed to happen in the first place.
Leave. Just leave her alone and never come back, I command myself. But my feet refuse to budge.
She’s the reason I’m finally smiling again, laughing again. Because of her, I’m just starting to feel like a person again…
I suppose this is what happens when you take what you don’t deserve. I’ve behaved like a selfish bastard all this time.
Snap the hell out of it, and walk the fuck out of here.
I don’t know how I manage it, but I do just that.
It’s been about a month since the night Jackson and I had dinner together. I haven’t seen him since.
I sent a text the next morning to thank him again for the dinner, and to apologize for falling asleep before I could walk him out.
Things seemed normal when he texted me back, telling me not to worry about it. Soon after that is when I noticed the change.
When he stopped booking appointments, I got worried and wanted to check in with him, so I sent texts regarding his well-being. I only received one-word responses. I didn’t want to come off needy, so I stopped.
I get it… I remember what he told me that night. He’s got an entire empire to run, I’m sure he’s got a million other things to do than to hang with his stylist. He’s a busy guy.
It’s just that it bothers me, not knowing what it is I did to bring this on. He’s the one who wanted to be friends. What the crap kind of friend leaves another friend hanging without so much of an explanation for their erratic behavior?
Call me crazy, but it kind of feels like he’s avoiding me, and I really don’t know what to make of that.
No, I’m not crazy. There’s no need to sugarcoat this—he’s avoiding me.
Be that as it may, I have my own responsibilities to carry out. I don’t have time for this shit, either. As far as I’m concerned, he can take his friendship and shove it.
Work has been the perfect distraction. Stephanie’s been great about keeping me busy, and it helps keep my mind off the issues with Jackson’s mood swings. Although I will admit that there are moments throughout the day where my mind wanders back to him.
Not because I want to, because I don’t. I don’t care. But that’s a lie, because I do. I can’t help but stop whatever it is I’m doing when my brain involuntarily gives into some of the concerns I have. Like, whether or not he’s taking proper care of himself, for instance.
Friends are allowed to be worried about each other.
This is what the idiot has done to me since he dropped off the face of the planet. I’m bipolar now.
“Ow! Watch it!” Natasha snaps at me, her shrill tone shaking me from my ill-timed daydream. I’ve accidentally pinched her skin when closing the bracelet over her wrist.
Stephanie and I are both working the same session today, wardrobe styling at a photoshoot. The model I’ve been assigned to style just suffered from my failure to focus on my current task.
I shake my head again, ridding the thoughts of Jackson from my mind. “I’m so sorry,” I apologize.
No longer tied up with appointments where I cater to Jackson’s fashion needs, I’ve had a lot of extra time to take on other clients. And Stephanie was right. Some are nice enough, while some others are… not.
“Wake up, Lexi. You keep checking out on me today, what’s the matter with you?” Natasha massages the tender spot on her skin, shooting me an annoyed look before bringing her wrist up to inspect the damage up close.
This one’s a definite not. This little witch is the least likable person the world will ever see. But I try not to let it bother me much and keep to myself while on the job. The faster I get it done, the faster I get the hell out of here.
“Nothing’s wrong, it was my fault. I’m sorry,”
I apologize again, but Natasha just rolls her eyes at me and runs her hand over her hair, careful not to ruin her up-do in the process.
Witch better watch it before I yank that pretty high-pony right off her tiny head. I’m not in the mood for any bullshit today.
I turn when I hear the members of the crew greet someone.
Oh, good, it’s Caleb. No, I’m not actually serious.
Everyone in the studio is kissing Caleb’s ass, and the thought of me having to do the same does nothing to improve my mood.
In the past month, I’ve learned to tolerate him. I don’t necessarily hate Caleb anymore. I just don’t want to kiss his ass.
“Ah, Lexi, my favorite stylist…” He wears that devilish grin he’s famously known for as he approaches, arms reaching out for a hug that I don’t want.
Favorite.
Caleb says this to each member of his regular staff. Favorite hairdresser, favorite assistant, favorite makeup artist, favorite photographer… you’d think the fact that he’s always so friendly makes him easy to be around, but I’m not so easily bought.
“Asshole,” Stephanie mutters to him as she cuts through the space between us.
Insults never bring him down, but that doesn’t ever stop Stephanie from delivering them on the regular. They really do have the oddest friendship I’ve ever seen—if you’d even call it that.
My feet carry me back a few steps when he almost gets within reach. “Oh, Mr. Carlisle…” I try my darnedest to fake a smile, stopping him from getting any closer by holding my hands out in front of me. “Remember my rule about personal space,” I remind him in a sing-song tone.
“How many times have I asked you to call me Caleb?”
“I’ve lost count.”
“When will you ever?”
“Probably never.” I keep my attention straight ahead to where makeup is taking their time with Natasha, who is now scowling at me.
