On My Knees (Stark International Trilogy 2)

So, yeah, maybe it’s stupid or bitchy or unfair, but I’m going to wallow. Because so long as I’m pissed off and moody about this, then at least all the shit with my father and brother stays buried under a load of irrelevant angst.

Fuck.

“Bad day?”

I spin around in my chair to find Karen standing at the edge of my cubicle holding a vase full of yellow roses.

I grimace. “Did I say that out loud?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve heard way more colorful language on the floor.”

“Sorry. And yeah, this isn’t the best of days.”

“Maybe these will help.” She passes me the flowers. “They just came for you.”

“Really?” I suppose I should have clued in; it’s not like Karen wanders the halls with roses. But I guess I assumed she was walking them to the coffee station to fill the vase with water. “Who are they from?”

But that’s a question that I ask only for form. Of course I know who sent them. And the heart that had been feeling so heavy flutters a bit in my chest.

Just to be sure, I peek at the card.

I’m just one floor away, but it feels like worlds apart.

I’m sorry.

J.

I tuck the card in my purse, and smile at Karen. “You’re right. They helped.”

“Glad to hear it.” She takes a step back toward the reception area, then pauses. “If Jackson shows up, should I send him straight back?”

“Yeah,” I say. “You do that.”

I’m about to type out a quick sorry I was a bitch text, but before I even start typing, I get a call from Cass.

“Hey, what’s up?” I ask.

“That’s what I want to know,” she says. “Do I need to come over there and bitch-slap your boyfriend?”

Either my best friend has completely lost it or—“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the redheaded twit. Who is she? Have you seen this shit? Hang on.”

She’s rattling her words off so fast I can barely process them, and I’ve just opened my mouth to ask her to please slow down when she sends me a text with a website link.

“Did it come through? Click on it.”

“Hang on.” I don’t want to—I really don’t want to. Because whatever it is, it’s not going to be good. But I need to know, and so I click. And then, yes, I curse.

“Oh, fuck.”

The site is one of the eight billion celebrity gossip sites. But this one is operated like social media. So someone can start a story, and then site members can add to it with comments or photos. This one starts with an image of Jackson, his head bent close to Megan’s, his face full of so much affection that I really just want to throw up.

There’s a headline, too. Starchitect Jackson Steele: Hollywood’s newest member of Club Bad Boy?

“Oh, god,” I say.

“I’m so sorry,” Cass says. “Do you know her?”

But I’m too busy checking out the images and text that follow the headline to answer. There are five pictures. The first of me and Jackson at Westerfield’s. Beneath that is another image from last night, only this one shows me and Jackson with our arms around Cass as we lead her to the limo. The last three images are of Jackson and Megan. The first is what I saw an hour ago—her kissing him in front of Stark Tower. The second is the two of them seated across a table from each other, apparently having lunch. And the final one shows the two of them on the deck of his boat. It was obviously taken with a long lens from the dock. They’re facing each other, his hands are on both of her shoulders, and from the angle, it looks like he’s about to pull her to him and catch her in one hell of a lip-lock.

And the most horrible thing? I recognize the green flag of the yacht that’s moored right next to them. Because it arrived this morning as Jackson and I were leaving for work. Which means that this fucking photograph was taken today. Today.

“This isn’t—” I try to form a sentence, but my brain is frozen. All of me is frozen. I’m cold. So very, very cold. “It can’t be—”

“I sure hope the hell not,” Cass says. “I mean, they’re making shit up about the three of us, so hopefully the crap about the redhead is bullshit, too.”

“Her name’s Megan.” I sound shell-shocked. “What do you mean the three of us?”

She answers me, but I don’t even hear her words. They’re just so much background noise. Because I’ve found what she’s talking about all on my own. The text under the headline that talks about how Jackson is working for Damien. About how he’s new to Hollywood, and he’s settling right in. Getting into fistfights. Fucking lots of women. Me. Me and Cass as a nice little girl-boy-girl sandwich. And this new woman that the writer can’t yet identify, but who Jackson took back to his boat after an intimate lunch for an even more intimate dessert.