On My Knees (Stark International Trilogy 2)

Since I’m really not trying to snoop, I go straight to his contacts and do a search for Sutter. I find him, Clay Sutter, easily enough, and scribble both his office and mobile numbers onto a scrap of paper. Then I log out, pull out my own phone, and dial.

There’s no answer at the office number, which doesn’t surprise me as it’s already past ten at night. I hang up when the answering machine clicks on, and try Sutter’s mobile number. Voice mail there, too.

Well, hell.

I hang up, because I’m not prepared to leave a message. Will he hear it tonight? More important, will he deliver it?

I’ve just decided that I don’t have a choice, and am about to call back, when it occurs to me to text him. After all, voice mails require logging in, opening the message, listening to it. Lots of people ignore voice mails, myself included, unless I absolutely recognize the number.

But a text will flash across his phone screen, and that’s what I want.

So I tap one out, then revise, then tap some more.

Finally, I send my message:

Looking for Jackson-911. This is Sylvia. Please, do you know where he is?

It will either work or it won’t, but I figure it’s my very best shot, and I hold my phone in both hands and say a silent prayer.

Less than a minute later it rings, and I practically drop the thing trying to get to the button to answer the call. “Hello? Sutter? Hello?”

“You’re Sylvia? His girl?”

I’d been standing, but now I collapse into Jackson’s desk chair, my knees suddenly weak. “Yes. That’s me. I’ve been looking everywhere for him. Do you know if he’s—”

“He’s at my place,” Sutter says. “Or he was when I left him an hour ago. My boy was a wreck. Needed to work off some energy. So I gave him the extra key and told him to lock up when he leaves.”

I run that through my addled brain. “So, he’s not in a fight? One of those underground rings?”

“Not tonight, he’s not. Hell, I don’t think anyone’s got a fight going on tonight.”

“I need to see him. Can I go? Will you tell me where to go?”

He hesitates.

“Please.” My voice cracks as I beg.

“There’s not another key,” he finally says, “and I doubt Jackson would hear you knocking. Park in the back and go in through my private office. There’s a keypad lock.”

He rattles off the lock code and the address, and I am so grateful that I would have kissed this man if I could.

I use my phone to map the address and end up in a run-down strip shopping center by the airport. Most of the signs for the businesses are broken and the windows covered with brown paper, but three still remain in business. A thrift store, a liquor store, and the gym.

That’s all the sign on the facade says—GYM—but that’s all I need to know I’m in the right place. That, and the sight of Jackson’s Porsche parked in front, looking vulnerable in this seedy neighborhood.

My car, a simple Nissan I’ve had since I started working for Damien five years ago, isn’t as sexy or fancy as the Porsche, but it looks vulnerable as well when I park it all by itself behind the gym. It has a car alarm that I rarely use. Tonight, I activate it.

Fortunately, Sutter was thorough in his instructions, and it’s easy to find the door to his office, and once I’ve punched in the code and entered, I pull the door shut and lock it. The office is bare bones but neat, with what looks like an army surplus desk, a couple of filing cabinets, and lots of awards and certificates framed on the wall in plain black document frames that you can buy at any drugstore.

The gym is as simple as the office. It is mostly mats and free weights. Nothing like the gym at work with row after row of weight and cardio machines. Here, there is a treadmill for cardio, and that’s about it. There’s also a boxing ring, slightly raised and padded, and I imagine that’s some pretty serious cardio, too.

But it’s the far left corner that interests me as I stand in the doorway between this main area and the office. Because that is where Jackson is, shirtless and in loose gym shorts. His back gleams with sweat, and he is pounding away at a punching bag.

I don’t know how long I watch him—a minute, an hour, a year?—but finally he seems to run out of steam. He turns away, breathing hard, and as I step backward into the shadows, I see that the ferocity in his punches isn’t reflected on his face. Instead, he looks tired and a little lost. And that, I think, is because of me.

He walks to the locker room, and once he has disappeared inside, I step out of my hiding place. I follow him, slowly entering the plain white room that smells of soap and antiseptic. I see rows of lockers, and then off to the left there is a line of shower stalls with thin plastic curtains. Jackson is in one. He thinks he’s alone, and the curtain isn’t closed. He is facing the tiled wall, letting the water pound on him. After a moment, he leans forward and puts his hands on the tile, his head down, his posture full of defeat.