Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. “Go on,” I say. “She’ll think talking to you in the middle of the night is a grand adventure.”
He flashes a grateful smile, then disappears below deck. I hesitate, not sure what I want to do. I feel that same need for action. The need to move. To do.
But do what? There’s not a goddamn thing I can do.
I know, because if there was, I would have done it a long time ago.
Finally, after standing there too long feeling impotent, I take one of the blankets out of the waterproof chest and curl up on the lounge chair. I pull out my phone and dial Cass, but I only get her voice mail. I don’t bother leaving a message. She’ll call me back simply from seeing that I called. But considering the hour, I don’t expect to hear from her before morning.
I close my eyes, thinking that perhaps sleep will be a good refuge, but I don’t want that, either. Not now. Not with Jackson being arrested. That’s a surefire trigger for a nightmare, and I cannot afford a nightmare tonight.
Not because I couldn’t survive it, but because I don’t want Jackson to feel compelled to soothe it.
I pick my phone up again, and this time I dial Ethan. He answers on the first ring with a drunken, “It’s my big sister! Dudes, it’s Syl!”
I hear more drunken male voices behind him shouting things like, “Hey!” and “Yo, baby!” and despite the day I’ve had I can’t help but smile.
“Where are you?” I ask, when the commotion dies down.
“Mexico,” he says. “Gracias, por favor. Arriba!”
I laugh. “Your Spanish stinks. Are you really in Mexico?”
“Just for the weekend. I’m with Larry and Jim,” he adds, mentioning two friends from college. “I figured if I’m going to go, I might as well do it while I have leave. No diving. Just snorkeling and drinking. And enjoying the buffet of female companionship.”
I roll my eyes. “God. My brother the hound dog.”
“And proud of it. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to hear your voice,” I say, to which my brother, who knows me well, says, “Bullshit.”
“Fine. It’s Jackson. He’s being charged Monday. He’s supposed to surrender himself at nine.”
“Holy shit.” His voice has lost the drunken happy tone. “Syl, I’m—that’s just fucked up.”
“I know.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.” My voice cracks a little, but I’m determined not to cry. “No, but I guess I’ll have to be.”
“Do you want me to come back?”
I hug the blanket close, completely in love with my brother. “Thanks, but no. I’ll be okay.” I’m not sure how, but I have to believe it is true. “But I love you for offering.”
“Anything, Syl. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“How’s Jackson holding up?”
“Stoic. Scared. Pissed.” I close my eyes and sigh. “Pretty much everything you’d expect.”
“What about his little girl? Is she—I mean, are you going to take care of her?”
I lick my lips, because my mouth has gone suddenly dry. That possibility hadn’t occurred to me. “I don’t know,” I admit. “She’s in Santa Fe right now. I don’t know what Jackson wants to do. He’s talking to her right now. He wanted—” My voice breaks, and I have to try again. “He wanted to talk to her before he’s taken into custody.”
“Yeah.” I hear him draw in a long breath. “Listen, I should let you go. It’s late.”
“Sure. I’m glad I caught you. Have fun. I’ll talk—”
“Samantha was pregnant.” He blurts out the words.
I replay that in my head, not entirely certain I heard right. “Say again?”
“That’s why we broke up,” he says. “Why I left London. She was pregnant. I didn’t want a kid—didn’t figure I could handle a kid. We fought. I left.”
“Oh.” I lick my lips. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“Because you left?”
“No.” He sounds suddenly tired. “No, I mean it when I say I’m not cut out to be a dad. But I’m sorry for ragging on you about the kid thing. I was talking at you through a curtain of my own shit.”
“So you do think I can handle it?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I can picture him tilting his head back with exasperation the way he does. “I really don’t know. Look at our role models, you know? But then again, we turned out okay.”