Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel by Eve Jagger Read Free Book Online Page B

idea that Shelby might be in trouble nags at me. What if she’s hurt? And I know Knox isn’t with her . . . .
    I hit redial.

9
    Skylar
    F uck fuck fuck . He didn’t pick up. Who else can I possibly call?
    But then my phone vibrates. He’s calling me back!
    “Hello?” As if I don’t know who it is.
    “Ruby, is that you?”
    Who the fuck is Ruby? “Um, no. Hi Jackson. It’s Skylar.”
    “Oh. Sorry.”
    There’s a pause. I rush to fill the silence.
    “Look, I’m really sorry to be calling and bothering you. You’re probably out, so if you’re busy, it’s totally fine—”
    “Whoa, slow down. Everything’s fine. You’re not bothering me.”
    “Oh. Ok. I mean, I was going to text you, but then I felt like that was kind of impersonal . . . especially based on what I have to ask you.”
    “Which is?”
    “Do you know how to change a flat tire?”
    There’s a pause, and then he chuckles. “Sure, I know how to change a flat tire.”
    “Okay, so that means you know where the spare tire is kept, then.”
    “Yeah . . . It’s usually pretty obvious. Somewhere in the trunk.”
    “That’s what I thought, but for some reason, I’m not finding it. And also, the tire iron thing, to prop up the car. That’s missing, too.”
    “Do you mean the car jack?”
    “Right. That.”
    I feel like I ought to be embarrassed right now, but his voice is so calm and reassuring on the other end of the line, I mostly just feel relief.
    “Look, where are you?”
    “Right off I 285. Exit . . . um . . .” I climb out of the car, crane my neck, and squint toward the highway. “Exit 24.”
    “Okay. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
    The phone clicks, and I look down at the screen in wonder. No irritation, no questions—he’s just going to drop whatever he was doing. This guy, who I’ve met a grand total of two times and who didn’t even recognize my phone number, is going to help me change a flat tire.
    Life is so weird.
    Then again, what was he doing that he can just drop everything and come help me out? Shouldn’t he be out with his friends? Or on a date?
    My stomach drops a little at that last possibility, but if I’m honest with myself, he does seem like the girlfriend type—and I know exactly where that leads. He’ll want to get serious way too fast, and then I’ll feel suffocated, if I’m not bored by then . . . basically the story of my whole life.
    Skylar the heartbreaker.
    Of course, that’s not quite how things went with Cory. But then again, Cory’s the whole reason I don’t do the relationship thing anymore.
    God, he was fun. And to be fair, he’s exactly what I needed at that point in my life. Fresh out of Julliard, I was dancing my heart out. Morning, noon, and night were a whirlwind of ballet shoes and high heels, auditions and basement clubs. Manhattan was my stage. The world was at my feet.
    And then I broke.
    Two weeks into rehearsals with the American Ballet Theater, I tore my ACL. I will never forget that sound: I could actually hear the ligament ripping inside my body. And then I was on the floor. They didn’t need to tell me what had happened; we’ve all seen it happen to someone else.
    Now, I was that someone else.
    I must have fallen hard, because when I woke up in the ER not only did I have a torn ACL, but a concussion as well. That’s where I met Cory. If God has a sense of humor, Cory is the biggest, cruelest joke he’s ever played. He was my savior and my distraction, sneaking me extra pain meds and then duct taping my leg to the back of his motorcycle to get me home.
    Once my leg healed, we high tailed it out of Manhattan on our own crazy South American adventure tour. Ziplining in Puerto Rico. Skydiving in Bermuda. And drinking. So much drinking. Rum and tequila at the clubs, and then Adderall to stay up until the sun rose, spinning and swimming and feeling everything—fully alive.
    We acted like we were invincible, because that’s what we thought. A torn ACL, a life