He smooths the wrinkles of his shirt harshly with his palms and then spits out something in French that she thinks roughly means ‘fake’ before turning and storming off. Jackson grabs her hand, pulling her down the hallway the opposite way from where Jamaica went. He tries a door, growling when he finds it’s locked. "Jackson?” Monica asks, not sure what’s going on. He was so angry. She really thought he might hit Jamaica. Not that Jamaica didn’t deserve it, but still . . .On the third try, Jackson finds an unlocked door and pushes her inside, slamming the door shut behind them. He was panting hard, and when he flicks on the light, she can see that his eyes are bright and wild, and they were in some sort of small linen closet. "Jackson?”Jackson's pulse pounds in his temples, his rage barely held back by more pressing matters such as Monica’s safety. When he came around that corner with plans to surprise Monica and heard her plea of ‘no’, he saw red.His vision actually blurred, and whi
Monica tilts her head, smiling gently. “No, you were an orphan, but you weren’t like Jamaica. Where were you at eighteen? Walking a runway? In a fancy home with plenty of food in the pantry? Looking at a future with near limitless possibilities?” The truth hits him sharply. He wants to help these boys and feel like he can empathize with them because fuck knows, he have got plenty of hang-ups from his start in life, and even when his life was significantly more golden with his aunt, it still wasn’t perfect by any stretch. But Monica was right, he wasn’teighteen and facing the streets like Jamaica was. “That doesn’t excuse what he did,” Jackson says flatly. Monica shakes her head. “Of course it doesn’t. But it puts someperspective on it.” He gives her a dubious look and she says more fiercely, “I wasn’t hurt. Jamaica needs help. He’s not a bad kid, not a bad man. He’s terrified.” “You are too kind-hearted.” It’s one of her best traits, but it’s not a compliment right now. “Fair enoug
Jaqueline holds up a staying hand before he can protest. “And no, the most recent auction funds will not be used for anything other than the orphanage. I gave my public word on that.” He notes that his aunt doesn’t shut Venerable down because his switcheroo idea is fucking evil. She only shut him down because it would cause her public image to take a hit if it was found out. It makes him realize something. There is something inherently wrong with the fashion industry in general, and House Corbin isn’t exempt. It takes advantage of the poor, paying as little as possible and sending work to sweatshops if it can, while turning around and selling those items for maximum amounts. He wonders, would the workers who assembled those gowns his aunt donated for auction have been able to buy one of them with a year’s worth of pay? Five years? Ten years? Ever? Never mind what they auctioned for. It makes him think about Monica’s words, about how fashion needs to change. For her, fashion hurts wom
“We will see if he was available, but I have the check for the director. I thought you would like to see the good work that the gala is going to do.” Jackson pulls the envelope from his jacket’s inner pocket and hand it to Monica. Slowly, she takes it with a question in her eyes. “I don’t need to see it. I’m sure the House is doing right by the orphanage.” “You would be surprised what they can come up with, but I want you to see.” Jackson doesn't explains, but she opens the flap of the envelope and peeks at the check. “Sweet Baby Yoda . . . that’s a lot of zeroes.” “It’s a start,” Jackson agrees as he parks. Inside, they were ushered to Madame Brittanie’s office. She was an excellent director—good-hearted, cares about the children, and often works miracles with a paltry budget, so he trusts that she will be a good steward of these funds. “Monsieur Corbin, what a pleasant surprise!” she exclaims, standing to shaking his hand. “Lovely to see you as well. May I introduce Mademoiselle M
After sometimes he says “Wish I could have seen that. She’s a fireball when she’s mad.” Jackson grits his teeth, not liking the familiarity he was expressing about Monica.He notices and grins. “She handed both of us our asses when we got out of hand after the basketball game?” The reminder settles him a bit. He’s not talking about Monica in that hallway. Jackson nods slowly and chuckle. “Yeah. She’s amazing.” Jamaica is quiet for a long time, so long that he tries to find something else to say. “You are about to age-out here, and I know you are scared about what’s out there for you. But I’m here to help you navigate that. A job, a place to live, school? Whatever you want, I will help you research, find resources, fill out applications. That’s what friends do for each other.” “You would still do that for me?” he asks quietly. There’s a hitch in his voice, and it hits Jackson full in the chest that Monica was so right. Jamaica is still, in some ways, a boy . . . a scared one who onc
“I’m up for anything. Take me places and show me things. Show me more of the real Paris!” Monica says delightedly. It’s a risk, one she knows they were both taking. Going to the Sun Orphanage was too, but being seen together in public is an entirely different level ofdanger. They have been carefully avoiding it, but today, she desperately wants to be themselves. Jackson and Monica, with no restrictions, no worries, out to proudly celebrate a great donation to the orphanage and the progress Jackson made with Jamiaca. For such a simple desire, it’s majorly complicated. She chooses to pretendotherwise though. Jackson nods and does just that. He finds a parking spot in the heart of Paris, on a side street. “We can explore away from the usual tourist places.Shall we?” He helps her from the car and offers her his elbow. She takes it, feeling quite enamored with his gentlemanliness. And they both walk. They share choux cremes at a little bakery that’s mere blocks away from the Latin Qua
“How long does that take?” Jackson asks. “Fifteen minutes?” “Make it ten if you can, and put MT on mine and JC on hers,” Jackson tells the saleswoman, but his eyes are locked on hers in the mirror. “Oui, oui, Monsieur.” The saleswoman disappears with the two necklaces, and Monica whispers to Jackson, “You didn’t even ask how much they are.” He bends down, kissing and nibbling at her neck. When he places his teeth right over the tendon to her slender shoulder, Monica's head falls to the side, giving him more room. “I don’t care. Having that on you and yours on me?” He groans. “She would better hurry or I’m going to fuck you right here.” To prove that point, he grinds the ridge of his rock-hard cock against her round ass. Monica swears it hasn’t even been five minutes before the saleswoman returns, a bag in her hands. Hell, she was not even sure how long she has been standing there when she clears her throat, but Monica jumps as though she have been busted doing something wrong. Jacks
“Ugh!” Monica groans. She drops the skirt she was working on to grab another Band-Aid and a fresh finger condom. “Why can’t I sew the one time I need to?” She asks, not expecting an answer. Beatrice laughs. “If you figure it out, please tell me because I am having the same issue.” She smacks the sewing machine she was currently arguing with before beginning to curse at it in French. “Merde inutile. Je prendrai plaisir à te frapper avec une batte.” Monica doesn't even know what she was saying, but the evil glint in her eye makes her suspect she was threatening dismemberment to Maude, as they have come to call that particular, and persnickety, machine. Holding up her freshly re-bandaged hands, Monica tells Beatrice, “Normally, I would be down to back up whatever you are planning, but I would leave DNA allover the place right now. I can be your alibi, though.” Grinning, she adds in a saccharin, innocent voice, “Officer, Bea was with me the whole time. Right by my side.” Monica goes ove