On My Knees (Stark International Trilogy 2)

“That’s where you came in.”

“He was asking everyone if they had extra work for him, and Reed used to do some of the on-set photography during shoots. Production photos, candids to use during press junkets, that kind of thing. He told my dad he did model shoots on the side. That he was looking to build up that end of the business. He’d seen me before—Dad took me to work with him a couple of times and got me on the set—and told Dad that he could use me.”

I push away from him, because I have to move. I can’t stand still and talk about this. Because it was the first step to horror. But it was also the first step to saving my brother.

I go to the window and look out, wishing that I didn’t have these memories. That I could just skip over the bad parts and be healed. But that’s not possible, and so I press on.

“We got the money.”

“You got the money,” he says. He’s still by the table, as if understanding that I need space right now.

“It was a lot of money,” I say. “It took about a year to earn enough. But I told myself that was okay, because it was for Ethan. And he’s better now, so it was worth it. What I did, I mean. It was worth it because it was for Ethan.”

I see my own pain reflected on his face, and then I see the decision—and it’s clear there’s no way he’s letting me stand over here by myself. He is at my side in seconds, and I slide gratefully into his arms.

“My dad knew, of course. He never said specifically, but I told him I wanted to quit. That I’d model if we needed the money for Ethan, but I wanted to go to someone else. He told me that no one else would pay what Bob did. And that’s how I knew. My dad knew exactly what Reed was doing to me, and he was whoring me out. Damaging one child for the sake of another.”

Even as I say them, the words resonate with me—wasn’t that what Jeremiah did to Jackson? Sacrificed him at the altar of his brother.

“Your mom?” Jackson asks. “Did she know?”

“I don’t know. She just went along with whatever my dad said. And even though she saw Ethan’s bruises, she never saw my pain.” I shrug. “I don’t—I don’t like being around either of them. I’m angry around them. Hard. I don’t like myself when I’m with them, and I don’t like the memories that come back.”

“And yet you’re going down there on Wednesday.”

“For Ethan. He doesn’t know any of this, and there’s no way I’m going to tell him. So he just thinks I had a teenage falling-out with our parents.”

“You don’t have to go,” Jackson says gently. “You can spend time with Ethan here. If he knows there’s a rift, he’ll understand.”

“Maybe. But he really wants me there. And there’s not much I wouldn’t do for him.”

Jackson is looking at me, and then he says, very slowly and very carefully, “Including letting a predatory photographer molest you?”

The tears that I have been holding back burst out of me with the force of a breaking dam. “Yes.” My voice is harsh. Choked. “I could have walked. I could have stopped. I could have done something—anything. But I didn’t.”

“Oh, baby.” There is grief in his voice, but I don’t hear pity, and I am grateful.

“I blame my dad, but it’s on me, too.” My voice is shaky and thick with tears. “All this shit that has colored my life. It’s my fault, too.”

“No.” The word resonates through me, as violent as an earthquake. “You were a child with a sick brother you loved. Your parents should have taken care of you, not used you. And none of it—none of it—falls on you. Christ.”

He pushes away from me, and I see the rage rising inside him. He wants to break something, that’s easy enough to see. And I think that given the slightest provocation he would reduce the furniture in this room to splinters.

“Are you okay?” I ask, and he responds with a self-deprecating laugh.

“Am I okay?” He closes the distance between us, and I can feel the power and heat—the rage and compassion—rolling off him. “Sweetheart, right now I only care about you.”

He brushes a kiss over my lips. It’s soft and it’s gentle. But I know that’s only an illusion. Inside him, there’s a volcano of my making, and I can’t help but wonder when it will explode.

nineteen

“Jackson.”

That’s all I say, but it’s enough. He scoops me up, then holds me tight against his chest, his strong arms as firm as iron bands. “Yes,” I murmur as my pulse kicks up simply from the rightness of being in his arms. “Whatever you need. However you need it.”