Catching the Storm

39. The Word of A Conman

He raised an eyebrow and looked at me questioningly. "Done with what exactly?"

"You," I said as I looked at him. "I can't have a serious conversation with you. I can't keep arguing with you. If I remain anywhere near you I'm going to lose what's left of my sanity." I blew out another long breath. "I'm done," I said firmly and then nodded my head. "Yeah, I'm done," I muttered to myself as I walked past him into the bedroom.

Jackson just watched me and then shrugged. He walked over to the dresser and pulled out a small black bag, walking into the bathroom.

I should have done exactly what I said I was going to do. I should have just changed and gone to bed. Instead, I found myself standing out on the balcony wanting to pull my hair out and let out a frustrated scream. I gripped the railing in front of me and looked out in the dark of night.

I let out a sigh as I took in the events of the day. As I took in the events of the past few months . . . few years even. Everything was falling apart. I was falling apart. I was trying so hard to do too many things at once. Trying so hard to figure this all out and I was losing myself in the process.

And what was I even doing? I wasn't taking down my father like I had planned because I was busy running all over the world working with the man who had single-handedly ruined my life.

Of course, some things had changed since then. I suppose. He was now . . . tolerable to be around. Despite my best efforts to hate the man, sometimes he really wasn't that bad. And sometimes, I believed he thought the same about me. Of course, he was still using me. Just as he'd always been.

Whether or not he cared about me-whether or not I chose to believe that somewhere deep down he cared-he was still using me. He'd been using me from the moment I met him. Used me to get at my father. Used me to get Kurt Branson. Used me for information. For his entertainment. As something shiny to parade around.

So why the hell was I sticking around? Why was I hanging around with the man who'd ruined my life and then consistently put it in danger?

"Great question," I muttered. Although, I did believe that I knew the answer. It was because, for once in my life, I was actually completely free to choose exactly what I wanted to do. And hell, I did want to see this through. For years my choices had always been dictated by my mother or my father. As a child, sure being a model sounded fun, but as I grew older . . . it lost a lot of its appeal. But of course, if I was to walk away-and I had tried a few times-not only would my mother guilt trip me back into it, but the media still never left me alone. And yet, surprisingly enough, the media no longer appeared to be trying to follow my every move. Not since the scandal Jackson Storm had involved me in. I figured my father also had some doing in that as well, and quite possibly Damien.

I blew out another sigh and pushed back from the railing, walking back into the room. I heard the sound of something dropping, followed closely by swearing. I looked up at the closed bathroom door just as Jackson let out more curses. I frowned and walked up to the door. Half my brain was telling me to just walk away and go to sleep, the other half of my brain was telling me to go for it.

Go for what exactly, I wasn't sure.

I turned the knob and pushed open the door to see Jackson with his back to me, completely shirtless, trying to tie off the end of a bandage around his arm with only one hand. His shirt and jacket were in a crumpled pile on the floor, blood staining the arm of each.

He turned toward me when he heard the sound of the door opening and my mouth went dry when I caught sight of his chiseled chest.

He looked at me, his free hand holding one end of the bandage, the other end he was holding in his teeth. He spit out the one end of the bandage and we both just stared at each other for a long moment.