Part 22 (1/2)

Since we're leaving for the island in the morning, we decide to go ahead and brave the paparazzi at the marina. Remarkably, though, the herd is thin, and we pa.s.s easily through the gate and into the parking area.

”They've gotten used to me sleeping at your place,” he says. ”After tonight's show, they're probably there, wanting me to comment on that poor defenseless reporter I slugged.”

”Don't even joke about that,” I say, as he hooks an arm around my shoulder.

”You're right. I'm sorry.” He stops long enough to brush his thumb over my cheek. He's calmer now. I know he's still worried, but for the moment, at least, we can relax. If any more horrors are going to come, they can d.a.m.n well wait until the light of day. And he knows d.a.m.n well he doesn't need to be reminding me of it now. ”Join me for a shower?”

”I'll join you anywhere, Mr. Steele,” I say, and am rewarded by his smile.

”Do you want wine?” he asks once we've reached the boat. He's a few steps ahead of me now, as I've paused to take off my shoes. ”It's late, but I could use a gla.s.s.”

I don't answer. Frankly, I've barely heard the question.

What I heard instead were footsteps, and when I turn to look back over my shoulder, I see Harriet standing on the dock, as if waiting permission to step onto the yacht. She's on the approved guest list at the gate, but I have hoped never to see her here.

And seeing her now really can't be good.

I reach out, managing to grab Jackson's s.h.i.+rt. He turns back to look at me, his mouth curved into a question. Then he sees Harriet, and I watch as he goes completely stiff.

”Are you here about the concert?” I ask. ”Because Evelyn already read Jackson the riot act.”

”No,” Harriet says. She glances down at the deck. ”May I?”

I glance at Jackson, who nods stiffly. ”Of course.”

She steps onto the deck, and I look around awkwardly. My nerves are raw, and I'm on edge. If someone were to sneeze, I'd probably leap all the way into orbit.

I know this must be bad. It's well past midnight, and that is not the usual time for lawyers to make house calls. Something has happened, and while I desperately want to know what, I also don't want to voice the question.

So instead, I say lamely, ”Do you want to sit down?”

She shakes her head. ”I'm sorry, Jackson. They want you to surrender yourself Monday at nine.”

My chest is too tight. I can barely breathe. So I'm not sure how I even force out the question. ”If he doesn't?”

”Either way, they're arresting him. If he doesn't, it will be a media circus. If he does, we can get him inside without the fanfare.”

”Jackson,” I whisper, and he takes my hand, then holds it tight. And in that moment, I know that he's wrong about me. I'm not strong. I'm weak. Because he's comforting me, and I should be the one comforting him.

Oh, G.o.d. Oh, G.o.d, oh, G.o.d, oh, G.o.d.

Harriet is still talking and Jackson is answering. His voice sounds almost normal. Maybe tighter than usual, but it has an efficient clip. I'm not even listening to what they're saying. I think she's going over what will happen tomorrow. How he'll be processed. How she'll request bail, but with his temper he might be declined.

”And they want to interview you, Sylvia,” she says, making my head jerk up. ”I can postpone that for a day or so, I think. I'll explain to Detective Garrison that you're in shock.”

”That's true,” I say, and she nods with sympathy.

”You both need to understand that this isn't over.”

She is looking at Jackson when she says that.

”Not over, but also not good,” he says. ”The time I a.s.saulted him. The witness who saw me, who heard Reed and I arguing. The movie and Ronnie. All of it,” he finishes. ”All of it cuts against me.”

”Yes,” Harriet says. ”But now is when we ramp up for the fight.”

He says nothing.

”I know you're worried. I know you're overwhelmed. That's okay. That's why you have me. This is what I do, Jackson. This is what you're paying me for. So that I can take over the fight now. Trust me, okay? I'll get you through this.”

”Getting through it might mean that we enter a plea. End up serving less time, but still years.”

”It might,” she agrees, as my stomach twists at the idea.

He meets her eyes. ”I didn't kill him.”

”I believe you,” she says.

But all three of us know that doesn't really matter.

After Harriet leaves, I hold tight to Jackson as he practically vibrates with pent-up energy. The need for action. And, yes, the need to fight.

Right now, though, there is nothing and no one to fight.

He pulls me even closer, the motion wild and desperate, and for a moment I think that he wants me again. Wants to lose himself in s.e.x. Wants to pummel his fear with pa.s.sion.

But that isn't what he is looking for. Not now. Instead, he holds me to him for a few seconds of blinding solidarity, then he releases me and begins to pace. His long strides eat up the length of the boat, and though he says nothing, by watching his face I can discern his purpose. He is thinking. Planning.

He is making a mental list, making sure that everything that matters to him is either already handled or that it will be by morning.

”Chester,” he says, looking hard at me. ”Have him put together a list of architects I've worked with. You'll want someone to monitor the work, just like you'd planned for Dean to do.”

”Jackson. Stop. I can handle it.”

He meets my eyes, his haunted.

”I can handle it,” I say again.

”Can you? Can you really? Because I'm not sure that I can.”

I step to him, then gently brush his cheek. ”Yes,” I say. ”You can. This is just a step. One step on the path, just like Harriet said. You're going to get past this. You're not going to prison.”

”Do you really believe that?”

”Yes,” I say, because I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'll tell him anything else tonight.

He rakes both of his hands through his hair. ”I need to call Ronnie.”

”It's past midnight in Santa Fe.”