The fact that I’m a no-name waitress just adds to the sketchiness of the whole thing. I can’t decide if I hope they connect me with the Emmy and Claire circle, or if I would rather just be viewed as a club girl, wanting five minutes of fame.
When we get to his apartment, Jack speaks for the first time.
“We can go through the rear entrance; Ace’s security men are here, getting the press to back off.”
I nod, and follow his lead. Stepping out of the limo, I hear cameras going off, but security is with us, flanking me as we enter the complex. I keep my head down, and the shock of the intrusion is enough to keep my tears at bay.
Once we’re upstairs, behind the doors of the apartment, I stand in the foyer and listen as Jack speaks with the head of security.
“Just make sure someone is here at all times, and we need someone at Tess’s home address too, to make sure no one is getting into her things in an attempt to get information on her. Those guys are ruthless.”
My mind spins. Dizzy, I ask, “You really think security at my studio is necessary?” I need to get back to my place, undiscovered, so I can get away.
“No doubt,” says a man who looks a little too much like The Rock. “Remember that Celine Dion scandal? Dudes busted into her bathroom, started writing down her prescriptions to sell the information to the press.”
“I’m not Celine Dion. I’m nobody.”
“Not anymore, you ain’t,” The Rock says. “It’s all good, though. We got your back.”
“Great,” I tell him, smiling tightly, but also completely claustrophobic. I never should have kept my money in a freaking moneybox in the closet. If my savings were in a proper account, I could go. Now.
“Thanks guys. I’ll call you later to check in,” Jack tells them, locking the door after they leave.
With them gone, Jack’s loft is silent. There are a million things I want to ask him, but I don’t trust myself to go anywhere near him.
Because what if he answers me honestly? What if he asks me to walk into uncharted territory with him? Territory I’ve never walked in with anyone?
What then?
This morning—after we fucked in the limo, when we walked into the elevator—he wanted me to say that what we have between us is some form of love. Didn’t he say that to me? Didn’t he want me to validate what he was scared to say?
Well, I’m not giving him what he wants. If I give him that, there will be nothing left for me.
I tell myself not to look at him. So we stand here, five feet apart, and I keep my eyes on the ground.
Finally, he speaks.
“Want some tea, Tess?” he asks.
Tea. Jack is asking me if I want tea.
I didn’t cry over the sex tape, because that’s stupid bullshit and I honestly couldn’t care less about people seeing that. We were in a dark limousine, and Jack was calling my fake name in the back seat.
I didn’t cry over the fact that I have to skip town. Maybe because, deep down, I always knew this was going to happen at some point. Ever since I left Arkansas, with blood on my hands, I’ve known my past would eventually come back to haunt me.
But now, tears fill my eyes, splash down my cheeks.
“You want to make me tea, Jack?”
“I do,” he says, stepping toward me. “I don’t know how to make you feel better, but you said tea always helps. Let’s start there.”
He leads me to the couch, drapes a blanket over my shoulders. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
I hear him rooting around in the kitchen, and my shoulders relax for the first time all day at the realization that someone is choosing to take care of me.
I can’t think of when that’s happened before.
I’ve always taken care of myself.
Except … I remember, once, far back in my memory, being tucked into bed. I remember a warm washcloth placed on my forehead, hands rubbing eucalyptus oil on my chest to ease my cough. I must have been maybe four years old, but I remember the smell, the feeling of safety.
But that memory sticks out because it’s like a diamond in the rough.
I don’t need to go all the way back to when I was four, but I know Jack deserves to hear a bit more about me.
I still have to leave town, but a man like Jack, who holds my hand and makes me tea, deserves to understand why.
Now I just need some time to figure out where to begin.
Chapter Twelve
JACK
In the kitchen, as the water boils, I pull up the video of Tess and me on my phone. It’s already been removed from Periscope—I can thank Lola for that—but it’s been copied all over the internet. A few clicks and I’m watching it.
You can’t see our faces, but we sure as hell are making a lot of noise and using one another’s names. At one point, Tess even says, Jack Harris, you have the biggest cock I’ve ever seen.