The Devil has a British Accent: Book One: Jackson (White Carpet #1)

by Z. N. Willett

  “No.”

  “Then tell me you don’t feel anything more toward me.”

  “If I admit I do feel something, did you factor in what would happen if this something doesn’t end well? Do you think everything will go back as before?”

  “I hadn’t thought—”

  “I did.”

  I was stunned. He actually considered . . . us—even if it were only in a thought. I used to dream about us being together, hoping that maybe . . .

  “Lauren, do you understand why this something, cannot become more?”

  That realization was the crux of the matter. Letting my emotions take over, always brought me back to unwanted territory. If we didn’t work out, I could lose Cary forever. I would rather have him as my friend for a lifetime, versus not at all.

  And what about Jackson?

  There I was yearning for another man who I couldn’t have, while I had one every girl wanted. I was foolish to throw that away for a what if. Jackson was an incredible guy, and I was lucky to have him. He wanted me for me, no matter what that entailed.

  So why did it feel as though my heart would never beat again?

  Cary touched my shoulder. “Can you understand how much you and your family mean to me? If we pursued more, then what happens if it doesn’t work out? How would things be between us, between Blake and me, or even Victor and you? I’ve had friends become more, Lauren. When it ends, it’s not worth losing the friendship. Lauren, this life—my life—and dating are not easy. It can break the strongest relationships.”

  I didn’t want to hear that, but I knew he was right.

  “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t in our lives, Cary. My life.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought.” He smiled softly.

  We sat in silence, lost in our thoughts.

  “Hey, it’s been a long night for both of us. I should take you home, love.”

  “Cary, I’m glad, in a way, that we had this talk.”

  “I’m glad you finally let me explain some things.”

  He stood and stretched out his hand to help me up.

  I wrapped my arms around him, startling him for a moment. I didn’t care; I needed the connection.

  He leaned in and kissed my forehead. “Are you ready?”

  “This was very thoughtful and sweet, thank you,” I said, as we headed toward the door. “Wait!” I rushed back to grab the caramel cake. “No way am I leaving dessert behind.”

  We didn’t say much on the ride back to Mamaw’s house. The silence was long and stilted, and Cary finally realized that.

  “Music?” he asked.

  He started to flip through channels, finding a song he liked, but it ended. “That always happens.”

  A new song followed. “I like this one,” I added, looking out the window.

  Until that moment, I never really paid close attention to the lyrics. As the words settled in, my breath started to speed up, and I saw Cary had the same reaction.

  The words of the song haunted the space around us, as though they were written for us—telling my deepest thoughts. Every time the vocalist sang the words “hopeless love,” it felt as though someone were pushing a dull knife into my heart.

  The tension between us increased. Cary’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as the words kept repeating. A strong current pulsated between us, as my heart pounded to break free.

  Then I thought, out loud, “What if this something worked?”

  Silence.

  I arrived home in time to catch the end of the gossip report starring me. Victor’s PR machine was fast.

  “This latest update comes from Lauren Moreau’s camp. They released the following statement. ‘Lauren Moreau and Jackson Cruz are friends. It is unfortunate that doctored photos misinterpreted that friendship.’ After they released that statement, all camps followed with similar references that the photos were, in fact, altered. The angles taken are misleading. A kiss on the cheek can easily be misinterpreted as a kiss on the lips from these photos. Primal Darkness fans are breathing a sigh of relief.”

  After a brief pause, quoted words appeared on the screen as the announcer continued. “Here are some comments we received from our viewers. ‘I knew the photos weren’t real. It was obviously someone’s sick joke. Anything to make a buck.’ ‘Stop going after Jackson and Zara. They deserve to be happy.’ Others were not as kind. ‘Why would Jackson ever leave Zara for her?’”

  Ugh! I didn’t know how much more I could take.

  All seemed quiet on the home front since the release of my “statement.” I finally got through to Cary and Victor about my security overkill. As much as I appreciated the protection, I needed space. They understood—or so I thought.

  Victor didn’t remove the home surveillance, but he relaxed my driving restrictions. If Blake, Cary, or Jackson were with me, I didn’t need Ruben.

  A couple paparazzi still lurked around. I knew because of a recent picture of me on a tabloid magazine cover. I was photographed going into the Piggly Wiggly grocery store.

  After a brief tirade of tears and anger, I sadly realized my issue wasn’t that they splayed me on some trashy magazine, but that I looked like crap with ratty sweat pants and a baseball hat. It was bad enough everyone thought I wasn’t good enough for Jackson, but they had to reiterate that point by showcasing the world’s most unattractive photo of me.

  It now seemed like a piece of cake having kids tease and bully me in school, compared to having countless strangers doing it.

  Blake was feeling smug behind the wheel of his new, overly expensive SUV, as we drove down the road, headed to Zara’s house. But, as he took in his surroundings, Blake seemed perplexed.

  “Had no clue these condos were here?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he replied, as he continued to take it all in.

  “They’re trying to fix up this part of town. Too many abandoned buildings and warehouses. It’s a pretty cool area.” I thought so, anyway.

  “If that’s what you’re calling it.” He scoffed, not one for esthetics.

  “Blake, don’t you see the architecture? The detail on the columns is enchanting.”

  “Enchanting?” He snickered.

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”

  “It’s a bunch of worn-down warehouses. Huh! Maybe you should think about engineering for a career, loser.” He grinned.

  “Jerk! I think this is the place.” I pointed toward the building.

  He pulled into the parking lot. “I don’t think this is it, Lauren.”

  We stepped out into a gated warehouse that looked abandoned, but the landscaping indicated otherwise.

  “See there.” I pointed to the men, unmistakably Zara’s security, walking in the distance. “This is definitely it. Come on, Blake.”

  We were parked behind the building, and we had to enter through a courtyard that had a pond illuminated by tiny white lights. Music played in the background while small groups of people stood around smoking.

  We walked past a garden with a small pool and entered through one of the many French doors along the wall. Zara came immediately and greeted us, but focused mostly on Blake.

  “You’re here. Yah! Glad you were both able to come.”

  Zara’s home was beautiful. While the exterior was a façade of an abandoned warehouse, the interior was opulent and completely refurbished. The walls were all painted brick, and the hardwood floors newly restored.

  The décor was eclectic, fitting her quirky personality. Each piece of furniture was from a different period, but it seemed to all blend together. Zara clearly loved vivid colors, showcased by the abstract art along the walls—and by her bright neon-green jumpsuit.

  Her guests included people from the studio, as well as cast members. Zara announced, “Hey, everyone. Introductions. This is Blake and Lauren Moreau.” However, most were not interested.

  Zara began to walk us around the room. “This is Quinne Larouche.” The tall, African beauty glanced at us, a
nd as quickly, she turned her head.

  I remembered her from Alligators, the one who wore the red dress. She seemed to be a bitch then, as well.

  “Over here is Xavier, with this Aussie hunk, Robert Pena.”

  Blake shook Xavier’s hand. “Nice to meet you, man. Good to see ya again, Rob.” They did a guy handshake/hug thing.

  “This is your sister? Sweet,” the large Australian said.

  Zara and I left Blake as he talked with Robert, and we walked over to a group of guys. One, I knew quite well.

  “This is Clayton, our director.” Zara smiled. “Clayton, Lauren Moreau.”

  “Hello.” He held up his drink in greeting.

  “Nice to meet you,” I returned.

  “Jackson, of course,” Zara said with a wink.

  I acknowledged him, as he wrapped his arm around my waist.

  He greeted me with a sultry voice. “We know each other quite well.”

  I nudged him. “Subtle.”

  “You’re that girl!” a female voice exclaimed.

  I felt Jackson stiffen, as we both peered in her direction.

  Quinne plowed toward me. “You’re Jackson’s new toy?”

  Jackson shot her a glare and growled, literally.

  She stared at him for a moment and dropped her eyes to mine.

  “Oh, Jackson, you could do much better. Hell, I’ll give you a try if you want.”

  How dare she!

  “Why would I want something everyone’s had, Quinne?” Jackson hissed through his teeth.

  “Now, now. No need for curt words.” She smirked.

  “Quinne, not another word, understand?” Jackson’s voice was firm.

  They stared each other down. Jackson must have won, because she slithered away.

  “Ignore her. She can be a bit bitchy.” Zara sneered.

  I intended to. “I love your place,” I spoke as calmly as I could.

  “Isn’t it sick? I bought it a few years ago. I saw it when we were shooting the first film. It was cheap, and restoring buildings is my thing.”

  “Lauren and I were admiring the building,” Blake lied proudly, walking toward us. He’d missed Quinne’s show.

  “The interior sealed the deal. Let me show you two the rest of the loft.”

  It was enormous and expanded to three levels. With all the space, it could easily have been four separate lofts. Zara’s unique sense of style carried throughout the home. Many pictures adorned the wall. All different, but related somehow.

  “Your art?” I asked, unable to figure it out.

  “Don’t you love it? This piece is a mixed media. The artist’s interpretation of the keys to Hell.”

  That was it!

  They were all cryptic. Each piece obscure. “What is that?” I pointed toward a collage of junk.

  “My little memorabilia? I do them myself.”

  Blake stared at the piece closer. “What are they?”

  “I collect stuff from crime scenes and make collages from them. It helps me wind down.”

  “Those are from actually crime scenes?” I had to ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s an interesting hobby,” Blake mumbled.

  “It keeps me grounded.”

  Blake and I glanced at each other, confused, and a little scared.

  “Come. Eat. I had macaroons flown in from Paris and caviar from Astara.”

  She led us to the second level and handed Blake and me plates.

  “Thanks, Z. This looks good.”

  “Z? Really?” I repeated in a whisper.

  He shrugged.

  As I piled overpriced, over-the-top appetizers on my plate, a breeze came from behind me. I could sense Jackson’s presence. Something about him . . . about me.

  As weird as I knew that sounded, lately, it was as though people’s emotions affected me deeply. I felt this pull to them, and their mere presence heightened my senses.

  I had finally lost my mind, I thought to myself, before I snapped out of that thought and peeked over my shoulder. There he was, staring at me. Jackson strolled over, all the while, not taking his eyes off mine.

  “You look amazing,” he whispered in my ear. “I like you in red.”

  “I thought you liked black?”

  “That, too.” He pressed a soft kiss on my neck.

  Everyone in the room was from the studio, and they all knew Zara and Jackson’s little secret. I wondered how many confidentiality forms they had to fill out—all threatening everything but bodily harm if you whispered a word.

  “Missed me?” I joked.

  “Baby, you have no clue.”

  Something in his eyes caused Cary to flash across my mind.

  “What is it?” Jackson asked, as he examined my face.

  “Nothing.” I kissed him lightly.

  Remembering I had everything I needed right there, I pressed harder into the kiss, and Jackson reciprocated, pulling me in closer. We kissed a while until we remembered we weren’t alone. I scanned the room and couldn’t believe what I saw.

  “Blake!” I hollered, making him jump. I stormed over to him. “Are you serious? You’re drinking?” Rage began to pour out of me.

  “Ease up, Lauren. We’re all adults.” He sipped his drink.

  “Are we? You promised me!”

  “One drink won’t hurt,” Blake said, believing ever word he spoke.

  I heard Zara say, “Jackson, tell girlfriend number two to ease up.” I looked over and saw her wave her hands around, walking away.

  “Baby, it’s only a drink,” Jackson said.

  I glared at Blake. “What are you going to do, Blake?”

  He scanned the room, then took a large swig from the glass.

  I was furious and knocked the glass out of his hand, spilling liquor down his shirt.

  “What a psycho.” Quinne was right on cue.

  I could hear Jackson growling at her again.

  Blake, now pissed off, reached for a towel. “Lauren! What the hell?”

  “Do I need to remind you, Blake?”

  “You’re embarrassing yourself, Sis.”

  “You think I care what these people think? You are who I care about. Sadly, you don’t feel the same. You couldn’t even keep one promise to me?”

  Jackson’s hand touched my shoulder. “Lauren, you two can talk about this later.”

  I didn’t budge, daring Blake to get another drink. I thought we were at a truce, until Zara floated over and refilled his drink.

  “See, no worries. Fresh drink.” She leaned into Blake. “Everyone drink up, enjoy.”

  Blake glared back at me and sucked down the whole thing.

  It was as if he punched me in my gut. How could he do that after he promised me? The numerous arrests and drunken blackouts weren’t a wakeup call? He was headed for destruction, and he didn’t care what it was doing to the people who loved him. I couldn’t just stand there and watch him drown.

  Jackson tried, unsuccessfully, to stop me as I stormed outside to the patio. “Lauren! Baby, are you okay?” He grabbed my arm, turning me around.

  “I needed air. I couldn’t look at Blake for another second.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Blake promised me he wouldn’t drink anymore. He made a promise, to me, but he doesn’t care, even for himself.”

  He listened as my tears fell. “I didn’t realize how bad it was.”

  “Why would you?” I said.

  He wiped my tears with his thumbs and wrapped his arms around me.

  “Sorry. I think I’m dealing with too much. Between graduating, work, Blake, you, Car—”

  Jackson tightened up. “It’s a lot to take in,” he said, as his lips touched my forehead.

  “Since my return from Minnesota, everything seems to be escalating too quickly. It feels as though I spend most of my time trying to catch up. I think this place is affecting me—and not in a good way. My chest is always tight, and sometimes I struggle to breathe. It’s as
if someone is constantly sitting on me.”

  An expression of horror crossed Jackson’s face.

  “I’m physically fine, Jackson. I feel this . . . this heaviness on me. It sounds crazy. But, since I came back, a lot has happened—is happening to me—and it’s overwhelming at times. Before I went north, everything was good. Mamaw was the foundation. Ashley and Victor were the rocks, and Blake was the protector. Now, things are complicated. Roles changed, people changed . . . I’m changing.”

  Jackson sighed, as he kissed the top of my head. “Baby, nothing stays the same.”

  “That’s what scares me. I couldn’t wait to be independent. Do things on my own. Yet, I’m starting to realize it’s not what I thought it would be.”

  “Lauren, you see yourself as the one being taken care of, but from what I see, it seems you are the person taking care of them. Because of your crappy past, you had to grow up fast. But have you really had time to enjoy life and have fun?”

  As I listened, it dawned upon me that I made a complete fool of myself in front of his friends, yet he was consoling me, versus cussing me out.

  “Jackson, I want you to know, if you change your mind about me, about us, I’ll be okay.” Not sure about okay, but I would function.

  “What!” He pulled away.

  “I come with a lot of baggage, and being with me is causing you problems. I’m never going to fit in with your lifestyle, and you’re being pressured. I don’t want you to feel obligated to stay with me.”

  “Lauren, where the hell is this coming from?”

  “Seeing you in your element, surrounded by your friends and coworkers . . . that’s your life, and now you’re forced to console me and deal with the mess that is my life. I like you, Jackson, a lot. I want to be with you, but it’s not fair that you have to deal with . . . everything. I want to give you an easy out.”