Page 36 of Beneath the Hood

One. Two. Three.

“Hello?Are you listening?

“Ye—yeah.” I clear my throat. “I’ll be there, Cee.”

My voice is small, the weight of our conversation settling on my shoulders, reminding me of everything I’ve somehow lost sight of.

The harsh truth is that I’ve been letting myself down, slackening the grip I had on my life, thinking that letting go was relief, when really it was my downfall. My stomach heaves, nausea stealing what’s left of my breath when I think of all the ways I’ve let things slip from my control.

How absolutely pathetic I’ve been.

So what if I’ve had a fewmoments.A few precious instances where I was able to break the routine—able to be spontaneous and not feel like the world was crashing down on top of me. So what if I found someone who looks at me without the plastered-on smile, without the illusion of perfection, and still wants me to stick around.

All of that is temporary. None of it will fix my problems. Eventually, they’ll float back to the surface and I’ll be left wallowing in the constant reminder of everything I’ve lost, all of the time I wasted just to end up living in my flaws.

Somehow, in the past few days, Jackson went from being a tool—a step on the ladder to my success—into a man who dug his way under my skin, settling in the center of my universe and making me feel things that he’ll never feel back.

Things we couldn’t act on even if he did.

Jackson Rhoades is bad news for me and I’ve just been reminded of all the reasons why.

18

Jackson

Slicing the last of the cheese, I set it on a plate with an assortment of crackers, trying not to eavesdrop on Blakely murmuring from the living room. I wasn’t sure what to do once she woke up, I only knew that I didn’t want her to leave. So, I’m working with what I’ve got.

It’s not until I’ve opened the bottle of wine and poured us both a glass that I remember she’s technically not even supposed to have alcohol. Hesitating, something pinches in my chest when I’m once again reminded of our age difference. Not being legally allowed to drink is such a distant memory for me, I can barely remember what it felt like. She still has two more years until she’s twenty-one.

Jesus, what the hell am I doing?

Honestly, I’m not sure that being friends with someone this young is appropriate, which is one of the many reasons I’ve tried to keep her at arm’s length for as long as I have. But today, something shifted and I’m finding it increasingly more difficult to give a damn.

Shaking off my reservations, I finish pouring the wine, reminding myself that age is just a number and if there’s someone I connect with—even if it’s a nineteen-year-old—I shouldn’t take that for granted.

Plus, it’s been nice getting to know the real Blakely. The one I wasn’t sure existed until today.

Blowing out a deep breath, I pick up the glasses of merlot and walk into the living room, my heart stuttering along with my feet when I see her pocket her phone and stand, her gaze already trained on the front door.

“Hey.” I swallow, feeling awkward as hell, standing here like I expected her to stay when it’s obvious she’s ready to leave.

She glances at me, her eyes flicking to the wine, then back to the door. “Hey, sorry I fell asleep. Sierra’s about to kill me if I don’t get home.”

“What’s she gonna do, ground you?” I raise a brow.

Blakely laughs, but irritation atSierratakes over every bone in my body. There’s just something about her that seems off. Something that makes me want to stand by Blakely’s side and make sure she’s not being taken advantage of. And I sure as hell don’t like the way she brushed off Blakely’s panic attack like it was an inconvenience.

“I thought you could maybe stick around a bit. Have some wine.” I lift the glasses, smiling. “I made a cheese board.”

Blakely glances at me again, her lips twitching. “Acheeseboard?” Her eyes fall back to the merlot in my hands but she shakes her head, glancing away. “I really should get back.”

Sighing, I ignore the disappointment that’s sinking like a rock in my gut and walk next to her, placing the glasses down on the coffee table. “Okay, let me put everything away and I’ll take you.”

I spin to head to the kitchen, but her hand reaches out, gripping my forearm. Electricity zigzags along my skin from her touch.

“No, really, that’s okay. You’ve done more than enough, Jackson. Lennox can take me home, I’m sure he’s just sitting outside.” She grimaces.

Of course. How could I forget that our worlds are stratospheres apart? She always has security to drive her around. To protect her. She doesn’t need me. The Blakely I experienced today is one that rarely comes to the surface, too busy being smothered behind the cameras and the socialite persona.

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