As all good stories do, it begins at a party on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
She has no idea why she's even bothered to drag herself out of her bed as she grazes through her massive boudoir in a black silk robe, her fingertips running over high end silks, satins and lace. Some garments still have the price tag on them, masterpieces of fashion that hadn't even taken their first breath outside of the warm vanilla honey scented air of the walk in closet, the bits of paper fluttering like snowflakes on a winter morning. She's blatantly avoided all events like this for some time, and she doesn't need to go to this one either; a gala of little importance for a cause that her company donates a very small percent of its profits to for the good press it gives her. It's the Harper Avery Foundation this time, a charity that awards surgeons for their outstanding excellence in discovering new medical marvels, but even the charities are beginning to blur together. She's surprised that she pays attention to anything but the bottle of a bottle anymore, to be honest.
Her work is what keeps her occupied, what keeps her sane. Or at least, that's what her thoughts remind her of when she feels like she's lived a hundred lives. She's met all the people she needs to, smiled at every camera thrust into her face. She's drank all the concoctions that the cute and young bartenders can come up with, seen all the antics that the rich and famous get themselves into, done all the parties. Her mind has eventually learned to be cynical after all the heartbreak that she's endured through her short twenty eight years of life, forever reminding her heart that divorcees who run their own companies don't get to be girls who falls in love at a parties with men who hold only the very best of intentions.
It had once been a comforting and familiar dance to her, the posing and the smiling until her face felt as if it would shatter into a thousand jagged pieces. It had once been a waltz that she took such pleasure in performing with the utmost grace and without the smallest bit of effort. Her sashay had been her specialty - pose, smile, giggle, charm. They had written articles about how open the fabulous fashion designer had been with the press, how utterly entrancing she had been when they'd gotten their turn to spin her around the floor.
But then she had gone off and married a scarcely knowndirector that said he adored her more than life itself, and decided that this was her life now. She had given up her freedom to be on the arm of a man with the need for his dreams and aspirations to come before her own, and she had stopped dancing altogether. She had become quiet, keeping the purse strings of her life pulled tight, and the media turned it into a firestorm of rumors. It hadn't been long before she lost herself along the way and suddenly stopped putting her well being first, and eventually forgot about her lofty daydreams entirely.
She'd claim it was a business necessity if any of her friends asked why she had bothered to show up after the ordeal that she had been through in the past nine months. They would ask her how she was even standing after discovering through a misplaced love letter that her perfect husband of almost six years had been having an affair with her oldest friend in the world for two of them. How in the world could she be standing up straight when they'd been making a fool out of her for a over a third of her marriage?
But she has a new dance now, she reminds herself. A tango that's been carefully choreographed by attorney and public relation experts, where she perfects taking the high road instead of giving the verbal lashing she longs to. It's all carefully built statements and quaint smiles, but the difference is she knows who she is now - she's remembered the girl behind the red door.
Brooke Davis had never been one to sit idly by and weep for lost betrayals, to wonder what if's and bargain for an already destroyed marriage. No, that wasn't even close to what she had been groomed to become. She had been born to hold her head up high and claim whatever throne she desires.
Perhaps that's why she's debating on leaving her brownstone in the first place. She's sick of being the poor little girl just trying to keep her life together. She wants to feel alive again, feel something other than anger and grief over the debacle that has been her divorce - her now-finalized divorce.
For once, her mother's insensitivity to love had played in the young woman's favor. Julian, her now ex-husband, would not receive a penny of the empire that she had amassed for herself prior to their marriage and during it, nor would he receive any spousal support from her. His mistress could now support his ridiculous fantasies that had already burned up his accounts, pay for his extravagant taste when he hadn't worked for almost four years. Brooke would no longer his meal ticket to the top, free of his utter disregard for her wants and needs, and she had declared to no longer be the buoy that Peyton Sawyer would cling to when she would feel lonely and used up. To be rid of them both had been worth every coffer she had paid her shark of a defense attorney.
The reason for going is far more personal and vengeful, to hope that Julian sees her picture in whatever magazine he reads in the morning and simply dies with guilt, that he'll think of her every time he looks down into Peyton's eyes when they make love. She wants to make him suffer, make him feel like the worthless piece of shit that he's revealed himself to be, and when her eyes see a red strapless number in the back of her closet, the question of whether or not to go is settled. She smirks to herself, pulling the dress free from its confines.
After all, just because she has to hold her head up high didn't mean that she can't get her hands a little dirty.
"Have you made a decision?"
Rachel Gattina stands in the doorway, clothed in an elegant black backless sheath gown, one of Brooke's designs. Her dear friend and chief operating officer of her company had flown back from a Clothes over Bro's runway show in Milan the moment that she'd heard about the destruction of her marriage, standing at her side through the tumultuous event that was Brooke's divorce. It had seemed fitting, considering that she had been a bridesmaid at the ostentatious event in the first place.
Only, while the other bridesmaids were saying how incredibly beautiful she had looked, Rachel had been begging her to reconsider her options. She had warned her that Julian would be the death of her, but Brooke hadn't heeded a single word. She'd walked down the aisle with a beaming smile and married the fucker, who she had been convinced would never leave her.
She had wondered sometimes if her life wouldn't be in such shambles if she had just allowed herself to get over her stubbornness and listen to Rachel. Would she be here, the head of a company with all the money in the world and still longing for something more? Would she have married some other man who didn't have such a wandering eye? Would she be a wife? A mother, even?
"Could you zip me into this?" Brooke asks without meeting her gaze, grabbing a pair of black Jimmy Choo peep toe pumps and slipping them onto her dainty feet. Her decision is subtle, the kind that just lingers in the air as she hands the hanger to Rachel, dropping her black robe to reveal the strapless black lace corset that seems to keep her together in that moment. She likes to think that it holds her heart in, protects her from anyone getting a bit too close to the feeble organ that she once hung on her sleeve without a care in the world.
She steps into the dress wordlessly, the organza folds of fabric from the bottom of the dress rustling against her skin the only sounds to be heard in the silent room. There is the soft sound of the zipper as she closes her eyes, the sensation of the fabric binding to her voluptuous curves keeping her a little more whole while she holds her shoulder length chestnut curls high from the back of the dress.
"We haven't done this…" Rachel trails off as she takes a step back, the both of them looking at the brunette's image in the nearby mirror. She stops herself, and Brooke picks up where she had left off.
"Since the wedding." Brooke murmurs as she brushes a stray lock of hair from her vision, her hands busying themselves with her hair as she pulls it into a low bun, messy yet sophisticated, before wrapping her arms around herself as if to protect her from the shooting pain that generally fills her veins when she speaks of her failed relationship.
But there's no pain, now. Her marriage is simply over, no longer a weight looming in the shadows waiting to drop. She's ready to move on, she convinces herself as she looks over at Rachel, smiling softly.
If only that were the truth.
The redhead pauses, her arms wrapping around Brooke's upper body as she returns the smile. "Your smile is a sight for sore eyes, Davis. Even if it is faker than Peyton's tits." Her face turns serious for a moment, her expression falling. "If it's too much, if you can't do it and you need to leave, just tell me. We'll come right back and pull out Gone With The Wind and swoon over Rhett Butler."
Brooke nods silently as she pulls away from Rachel, grabbing her black clutch from a nearby end table before moving out of the closet. No other words need to be said, no thank you's or sentiments of adoration. They both know that's not what Brooke needs right now.
Why?
Because Brooke Davis had been raised to claim whatever throne she could possibly want, and she'd look fabulous doing it.
- x - x - x - x - x - x -
"I don't even know why you bothered to bring me to this. This event is seriously tragic, Jackson, and it's not like if we really need to stay this long. We could be at the club right now. My secretary could've done this."
Jackson Avery sits at the bar, listening to his mentor drone on and on about how the gala that his family's foundation is throwing for their medical practice and their global surgical initiative is "tragic", as he so calls it.
He and his partners at the practice had been friends since he'd been mentored by them both during his residency at Seattle Grace Hospital. Where Mark Sloan was callous and impulsive, Calliope Torres was smooth and calculated – one of them always making up for the other's shortcomings. They made up two sides of the same inseparable coin since they'd opened up a private practice together here, shortly after her girlfriend had taken off to Africa and left her behind. They'd taken Jackson, then Mark's protege, with them when he'd begged to keep learning from him. After all, the farm girl he was in love with had gone off and married some paramedic, he didn't have a reason in the world to stay in Seattle. Jackson had far more ties in New York, anyway - the Harper Avery Foundation being one of them.
He agrees with Mark, that the event is something that he normally would find as boring as watching an intern fuck up an appendectomy. But he stays regardless. Perhaps it's because their practice has just been named number one in the city after their pro-bono work with Syrian refugees that had been gassed, that this is actually his family foundation's party to continue raising funds for their efforts. Maybe it's the unnaturally cool autumn night, the full moon and the expensive cognac all mixing together. Or maybe it's because he really doesn't have anywhere else to go.
His life is a never ending string of calculated business decisions and careless personal moves, beginning from his decision take the MCATS without his family knowing and eventually get his medical degree. He'd gone to Mercy West to get a fresh start from his family, and then the merger had dropped him right in the middle of Seattle Grace. He'd mentored under Mark because it was what could bring in billables, not because it had been what he loved - at least, not at first. He'd eventually grown to love the complications of it, the delicacies of burns and the pure skill it took to create nerve graphs. Plastics became his life, and then he'd gone and slept with the virgin at his boards, with his best friend.
And then, April failed her boards, and it all went to shit.
After April had gotten engaged to the paramedic sent to her from Jesus Christ himself, Jackson had gone completely down the rabbit hole, losing twenty pounds after adapting a diet that had consisted of nothing but scotch and the occasional cheeseburger. It had been Mark that had dragged him to New York and gotten him the hell away from Seattle in an effort to help him move on, years after it had happened. It had helped for the most part, kept them out of a plane crash that had nearly killed a number of their attending surgeons. Callie had even fallen for a cute little red head resident, Penny, and was talking about settling down. Mark had remained his normal playboy self, bouncing from intern to intern a result of his little indiscretion with Addison Shepherd, and Jackson was fine with doing the same thanks to April and her little virginal mind games. Fine with sleeping with nurses and drug reps, fine with being a managing partner of his practice, fine with going out with Mark because there's always another gorgeous brunette who wants to live on the edge with a surgeon.
Or is he?
"Jackson, are you even listening to me?"
Mark's tone of annoyance and disdain rouses him from his musings, tipping back the glass of cognac and downing the rest of his drink. He shakes his head, irritated out of his mind by the intolerable whining. "Honestly, no. I stopped listening around the secretary part, because we don't have secretaries, so shut the fuck up and drink. It's what you do best anyway."
His tone is firm, the sound of a man long forced to sit back finally standing up. It's whom he's become in the last few years, the man that no longer allows himself to be walked all over by those that he thinks deserves happiness more. Too much has been taken from him, too much he's willingly given up. No more, he'd said after he watched the love of his life walk back to another man that could give her what she wanted, no more would he be the man that gave everything up for all the right reasons. He would fight for things, he had told himself when he'd come back to New York. He would be the man that only got what he deserved, but what he wanted as well.
"Well aren't you just a blast tonight." Mark snidely replies, surveying the room once more before signaling to the bartender that they both are in need of another drink – desperately on his part. "Maybe I should go hang by Callie and her little ginger snap."
Jackson sighs as he turns, facing the party with his back to the bar. There's a sea of people in front of him, each person swimming along on their due course, the socialites smiling their ridiculously plastic grins and the businessman acting as if they own the room. It's as if the local boarding schools built them all up to be these hollow and horrific human beings, cutting them with cookie molds and filing them to their respective universities like they were the ovens that would finish the job they started. Charming intellectuals, they were, all aspiring to run the city of Manhattan with no drive to actually do so, relegated to a life of splendor and luxury by their massive trust funds and their family names.
"What are we doing here, Mark?" He murmurs, his eyes still milling through the pastel colored dresses and jet black tuxedos. "What the fuck are we still doing here?"
Mark smirks as the bartender sets their drinks down. "Didn't I just ask you that?" He drawls, his body hunched over the bar. "Come on, let's go to that new club on Fifth and find some nice halfway drunk grad school girls to play around with. I'll even let you pick first."
"I'm not talking about here at this party." Jackson snaps as he turns back to the bar, snatching up his drink and downing it before slamming the glass down on the cherry wood with finality. "What are we doing here, as in why the fuck are we still doing the same fucking things that we did five years ago when we got here?"
"Warn me next time you're planning on being philosophical, then." His mentor's tone is tart, to the point as he looks at him through the mirror behind the bar. "You're one of the best plastic surgeon on the East Coast, Jackson. We run a multi million dollar practice. I don't remember doing anything like that when you were fetching me bone dry cappuccinos and begging for surgeries, do you?"
"I remember thinking that by the time I was thirty, I'd be married to April and doing shit that mattered. Do you remember that?"
"I remember that April married the paramedic, Jackie, and that it's just the two of us. Don't you fucking preach to me about how we haven't moved on when I'm…"
Mark's words drone on in bitter resentment as he rants on about his poor life and how awful it had turned out - forgetting that he's bedding supermodels and saving lives - but Jackson stops listening as soon as something catches his eye.
It doesn't even catch his eye, really; it just wanders by, seemingly unnoticed by everyone else in the room because they don't quite know yet what they're supposed to be looking at. They're looking at each other, at their fake smiles and their materialistic desires, but he's not looking at them any more.
Red. The color grabs him before he can even attempt to stop himself from looking, blurring out everything else around it as he allows himself to fall down a rabbit hole that has long been forgotten, long been buried by cynicism and heartache, long been covered up by a desperation to figure out who he is. He isn't the lost little boy anymore, no longer biding his time as he waits for someone to figure out what they want from him. He's free, the kind of free that deserves the ringing of church bells and the firing of rifles. The color of seduction, of love, of anger drags him in, and Jackson can't stop looking because he's suddenly in paradise and nothing else matters.
Why?
Because red is no longer just a color. It's a feeling, an incredibly undescribable sensation.
It's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.
Green eyes meet the red folds of fabric of a woman's dress, a woman so radiant that he feels like she's haunting him as she moves through the dredges of people that surround her. Her hair, shoulder length and formed into loose and effortless curls, is the color of cocoa, her skin reminding him of vanilla. He wonders for a moment, just for a split second, what she tastes like, if every inch of her skin would be disguised as melting vanilla ice cream layered with honey. His gaze catches green glimmered with gold, an intoxicating shade of hazel. Across the room from this woman, a speechless Jackson Avery feels his blackened heart jackhammer in his chest, and he can't even begin to explain why.
"….and you were the one who let your red headed vixen go in the first place, so you can just-"
"I'll see you later." Jackson manages to mutter out and he stars to walk away, unable to listen to the ramblings of his bitter best friend as he leaves his drink. He's unprepared, he's completely and utterly out of his league in more ways than one, but none of that matters as he makes his way through the crowd. He watches the wearer of the red dress the entire way, seeing her escape out onto the front of the balcony in something that could only be described as a graceful frenzy.
All he knows is that if he doesn't at least try to talk this woman, he'll regret it for the rest of his life, and there's already enough regret for ten lives in his soul. Jackson uncharacteristically pushes through the last few yards of people, makes it to the door, and sees her through the glass.
She's in pain, the kind of pain where it takes your soul and it rips it in two just because it can. There's no movement in her face, just closed eyes and deep breaths, words on her lips that she only hears. Jackson hesitates as he reaches for the door handle, debating on what he was about to do.
It's what he does, really. He hesitates.
Having April or staying her best friend. To reach for the stars, or to keep himself comfortable.
But what in the hell has being comfortable ever gotten him?
He opens the door to the balcony and slips outside, standing in front of the glass as she turns to look at him, her expression still as blank as before.
"Do you have a light?"
- x - x - x - x - x - x -
"She looks positively wretched."
Brooke stands frozen in the middle of the party, clutching her purse with a dangerous ferocity. They had been there an hour or so, maybe even two, and so far it had been fine for the most part. She had milled about with a glass of champagne in her hand, rubbed elbows with some of the wealthiest people in New York, possibly even found a few clients for her new men's line. Not to mention, she had been complimented on her dress so many times that she was so grateful for her own talents. The trumpet silhouette, the beautiful folds at the bottom where it fanned out – she feels like a mermaid, a gorgeous sex goddess of a mermaid that floated through the party effortlessly. Brooke feels as if she's been walking through the clouds, beaming so bright that she actually had felt normal.
And then, she had appeared.
Peyton Sawyer stands directly across the room in a sleek white dress, all pale skin and bones. She's changed her hair since they've last seen each other, stringy blonde curls now chemically straightened in a severe ultra modern bob that reminds her of her failed attempt their senior year at straight hair. Her lips are coated in a dark red lipstick, eyes smudged with smoky black eyeliner and a diamond wreath hanging around her neck. Brooke can't help but survey that she looks more mature, but more importantly she looks she's lost the touch of innocent youth that she had with mascara running down her cheeks from fake tears and horridly crafted lies.
It's been nine months since they'd seen each other, nine long and seeming to. never end months since she'd found out that her husband was sleeping with Peyton, history cruelly repeating itself. She had cried, Brooke remembers, she had wept and pleaded for her to forgive her once again. Her past with Lucas Scott and Peyton Sawyer had flashed before her very eyes as the blonde had begged forgiveness from her for the third time in their lives.
"I don't know what hurts worse, you and Lucas sneaking behind my back or you lying about it to my face."
"The last time? Do you hear yourself right now?! The last time you tried to steal my boyfriend? He's on the door, Peyton! He's on the damn door under me!"
"Don't you dare! Don't you dare twist my words around to make yourself feel like you are not a backstabbing two face bitch, Peyton! Because you are, and you know it!"
Brooke had just stood there the last time, when Peyton had begged her for mercy, to not cut her out of her life, to forgive her. She had just stood there wordlessly as she told her that she would give Julian up, that it was just a horrible mistake and that their friendship meant so much more. She had turned on her heel and walked away while the blonde had screamed her lungs out apologizing to her. It had only been when Peyton had grabbed her arm, attempting to pull her back to the conversation, that Brooke had truly uttered the words that would change her marriage forever.
"You want my husband? You can have the bastard, but don't you ever fucking come near me again or I'll put you through a goddamn wall, you disgusting tramp. That's not a threat, by the way. That's a promise."
"Be fair." Brooke says quietly, downing her drink. "She looks halfway decent."
Rachel shakes her head, blown away by the fact that she's trying to take the high road. "No, she doesn't. She's the woman you caught having an affair with your husband, a woman who then tried to get him to rip you apart in a divorce so she could get your money. She's a fucking leech, Brooke, and she's had her teeth in you for so long that there should be a goddamn scar."
"Rachel, that's enough." She hisses as she grabs another glass of champagne and desperately tosses it back, hoping that it'll take the edge off of her nerves. "She won't come over here, she knows better. Or at least she should."
"When has Peyton Sawyer ever done what she should do? When?" Rachel snaps back, her steeled gaze focused on the blonde across the room. "When she was fucking your boyfriend, or when she was fucking your husband?"
"She will." Brooke promises, more to herself than anything else. Perhaps it's not just the haircut that's grown up, she prays. Maybe her childhood now ex-friend had listened and wouldn't come anywhere near her, as she'd told her to. Certainly not at a public even, she wouldn't do it. The source of Brooke's marriage collapsing had never once been revealed to the press, to her stockholders, not anyone outside of the attorneys, the slut and Rachel. After all, she had a brand to protect, a business. Peyton had to at least understand that. Surely with Red Bedroom Records, the label that Brooke had financed at the urges of the blonde - and against the wishes of her mother - she'll grasp that right now, Brooke needs silence. It's at that moment that she's really beginning to hate how right Victoria Davis can be, as she's realizing she'll now need to shed her stocks in the record label as well.
But when their eyes meet and as brown hits hazel, Peyton's eyes don't drop in utter shame, and she realizes that she's fucking doomed.
Brooke's face shows no emotion, the polar temperature of her mood apparent. It's all in her gaze, the unbridled rage that had yet to be unleashed. She had held it all in during the divorce, kept herself from saying one ugly thing about her husband and his mistress. She had stopped herself from badmouthing him in the press for her own survival, but it's all still there, lingering in the dark when she's not paying attention. Her crystal flute of Dom Perignon begins to shake in her hand, the liquid nearly spilling over until Rachel grabs the glass from her hand.
"Just breathe, Brooke." Rachel whispers into her ear, trying to pull her away. "Come on. Let's grab a bottle of Cristal and go home. I know they've got it hidden behind the bar, I used to screw one of the surgical partners."
Brooke watches as the blonde fidgets in her gaze, watches Peyton shift uncomfortably as her own fists ball up in rage. It's all there, every ounce of pain and hurt that she'd felt since she found out about their secret relationship. How many times had Julian told her that she was insane, that she was just imagining things, that absolutely nothing was going on. How could anyone compare to her, his beautiful wife?
Peyton did, apparently. Peyton Sawyer, who took everything from her, seemed to always have the higher ground on her. She'd taken Lucas, taken Julian. Not a single person but Rachel, Haley and her older brother were left, and the woman standing before her had been the one to do it.
She doesn't even say a word as Peyton takes a step towards her, just shakily holds up her hand like a makeshift stop sign and shakes her head before turning on her heel towards the nearest balcony. "I need some air." Brooke gasps out before clamoring through the crowd, trying to remain as poised and graceful as possible.
It's like parting the Red Sea, every person in front of her easily moving just to get a glance at her. She smiles, she says hello, and she even compliments someone on her dress – a Clothes Over Bro's Couture design. It's all to get her to the glass door on the side of the party, and when she finally gets to it, it's her lifeline.
Brooke rips open the door and goes flying out onto the balcony, the bitter cold of the fall air hitting her like a freight train. She wordlessly cries out as her body hits the railing, her hands holding onto the railing for dear life. She looks down for a moment, the people walking below like ants. If only Peyton were down there. Then she'd be praying for a magnifying glass to fry her up with.
"This is not your fault." She whispers to herself, gasping for air. "None of this is your fault, he's a cheating bastard and there was nothing that you could possibly do about it. This was his mistake." Brooke manages to get out, squeezing her eyes shut in order to keep the tears from falling. She's finally able to control her external emotions as she heaves a deep breath in, finally catching it. The ice water settles in her veins once more, her blood ceasing its relentless boil, and she opens her eyes to the world before her.
Brooke tears her purse open wide, grabbing her emergency stash of cigarettes as she opens the holder and pulls one out, only to realize that she had forgotten to bring a lighter with her.
The sound of the door shutting causes her to turn, expecting it to be Peyton. Her hand instinctively relax, as if ready to throw her off the balcony at a moment's notice.
Instead, her eyes focus on the man that enters the balcony, a welcomed surprise.
He's effortlessly handsome, the kind of handsome that Brooke would've once found to excite her, found to thrill her. Buzzed black hair, caramel skin, gorgeous green eyes, perfect build. He would've been a conquest to satisfy her overwhelming commitment issues, a man that she would've seen as a potential suitor. But now, he's just another man, a man that could destroy her just like every other man had tried to do.
He's just another man, but maybe he could be of some use, looking over the man's shoulder to see Peyton coming her way. Her eyes land on him, focus on him, protecting herself from the woman behind him by keeping her eyes on him.
- x - x - x - x - x - x -
"Do you have a light?"
Her voice fills the empty space between them, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, Jackson feels nervous. He takes a few steps forward, reaching into his tuxedo jacket and pulling out his lighter. It had been a gift from his grandfather on his eighteenth birthday, he remembers with a soft smile, recalling the words that his once best friend had said when he'd given it to him. "Trust me, Jackie boy, it'll be useful when you're trying to get someone to go home with you." Harper Avery had said with a smirk and a light shove. He made a mental note to thank him the next time he saw his grandfather, pain in the ass as he may be.
He flicks it open as she leans in with the cigarette between her plump rouge lips, only pulling it away after the end of it burns a bright orange, the light causing a certain glow around the woman's features. From this close, he can feel her breath on his hands, the frosty autumn New York air suddenly not nearly as chilly as it was a few short moments before.
Jackson can see her now, truly and openly see her for the beauty that she is. Her soft features, as stunning as they are, have a certain cold temperature to them, hardened by pain and heartache. And her eyes, green and gold flecked, have a severity to them that's all too familiar. He knows that look, he's had it time and time again, and so he says the only thing that comes to mind.
"He's an idiot."
The woman kinks an eyebrow, looking over at him with nothing short of confusion, but her face remains the same cold and hard expression. "And who exactly is the idiot in this situation, considering you are the only "he" out here at this very moment." She says with a certain ice to her melodic voice, her lips wrapping around the cigarette and pulling in a deep drag of smoke.
Jackson laughs, his eyes never leaving her weathered stare. She's fiery, the sort of spiteful that can only be described as mean, and by some measure she reminds him of someone - Cristina Yang. Maybe he'd get to drunkenly make out with her too.
"I may be an idiot for standing outside during October in New York, but whoever made you so damn upset is an absolute jackass." He says with the sort of dashing smile reminiscent of his boyish charm, something that usually works on the women he desires.
But why he had thought that it was work on her is beyond him, as she isn't even fazed. She simply turns her head away from him and stares out into the New York skyline, her hands grasping the iron railing of the balcony. It doesn't even appear as if she's heard him, and if she has she just doesn't care. But the faintest smile, a ghost of it, appears upon her lips, and she looks even sadder than she had been moments before.
"I was in love with a man like you, once." She murmurs so softly that he can scarcely hear her, wistfulness in her fixed gaze as it skitters from building to building, rooftop to rooftop. Jackson wonders if she's searching for something, something that she hasn't even learned yet. She looks like she's lived a thousand lives, wisdom seeping from her pores like rivers of memories yet to be untangled, and for a moment he wonders if she came out here to jump off the ledge.
"Gorgeous eyes, hopeful and telling me that I was going to change the world someday. He's married to an editor now, a nice woman who cushioned his ego and gave him children. I loved him so much that I actually designed her wedding dress." There's a bitter smile that follows, as if she's just used acid for mouthwash, her hand slowly moving to her chest and resting above her heart. It's a sort of shield, he thinks, and as she turns to face him, her resolve is steeled in her eyes. They settle back upon him like daggers.
"My ex-husband was charming like you, too. Right up until he left me for my best friend."
He nods, unable to find the words as he looks at her, seeing the chink in the red armor that she dons so stunningly. "I was in love with a woman like you once. Multiple women, actually. I tend to get around." Jackson counters with a sigh as he leans against the railing, watching intently as she continues to pull in desperate breaths on the rapidly disappearing cigarette. "Beautiful, controlled, used their words as weapons. The city's full of them, you know, and they're all my type." He daringly takes the cigarette from her fingers, taking a drag of his own before handing it back to her. "She's a surgeon now, a bad ass trauma surgeon in Seattle. I didn't sew her wedding dress, but she definitely fucked me up good before she married a paramedic with faith."
She's surprised, to say the least, and even Jackson can admit how incredulous it sounds because he lived it all. Or maybe it's the blatant honesty that appalls her. It's a rare commodity in New York, after all.
"You think that I'm controlling?" She asks as she pulls in another drag, handing it to him.
Jackson smiles as he takes it. The surgeon in him is screaming for doing this, but it feels like freedom on a night like this and so he heaves in a little more of the cancer stick.
"Controlled. There's a difference, I promise." He pulls in the last breath of noxious smoke before flicking it off of the balcony, his eyes remaining focused on her. "So I've served my purpose, lit cigarette and all. Think just maybe, you can crack the hold you've got and tell me your name?"
She smirks as she steps away, looking at him over her shoulder. Her curls frame her face so perfectly in the moonlight that he wonders what he'll do if she won't tell him, knowing that he can't let this be the last time he gets to see her.
"Are you sure you want to know that?" The woman responds, seeming to be scrutinizing his every feature. "I mean, I've clearly shown that I'm damaged goods. Obviously something's wrong with me if I've said all of this to a stranger. A handsome stranger, but a stranger none the less."
"Maybe I like damaged, maybe damaged good are my thing." Jackson says with a laugh, taking a few steps towards her. "You said it yourself, we're strangers. We ought to get to know each other better." He holds out his hand to her, as if begging her to take a chance on him, to give him a shot at showing her that he's not just some stranger on a balcony. "I'm Jackson Avery...and this is my party that I've been avoiding to talk to the most gorgeous woman in the whole place. Who thinks I'm handsome, which - clearly - I am."
She shakes her head, and a real laugh escapes her perfect lips. She pauses for a split second, and their gazes lock together in a stare so controlling that it could've stopped time. Take a chance, gorgeous. Take a chance on me. Jackson thinks to himself, standing there like the fool for her that he is with his hand extended.
It's like she's read his thoughts as her fragile hand slips into his, grasping it gently. She looks at him warily, as if he'll snap her arm in two just to watch it break. "Brooke Davis." She says with that same mistrust in her eyes, and they remain there for a moment, his hand holding hers and the intensity of the stare so strong that he can feel it coursing through his veins. "It was a pleasure to be a stranger with you, Dr. Avery, but I do have to get back to your party. I'm a very big donor to your foundation, or so my accountant tells me."
"I'm sure they're completely lost without you. We thank you for your hefty donation." Jackson says with a warm grin, debating on pulling a Mark Sloan and kissing her hand, but deciding against it when she releases his grasp. "Can I see you again?" He asks her forwardly, but he doesn't care. A woman like Brooke Davis came around once in a lifetime, and he isn't about to let her slip through his fingers.
"Haven't you had enough of me, yet?" Brooke teases with a smile, a genuine smile from what he can see, and she's gone as quick as she'd blown in, retreating back to the party he's inclined to go back to as well
Jackson finally exhales, feeling like he's been holding his breath since he saw her across the room. "Somehow, I don't think anyone ever has." He murmurs to himself, leaning back against the railing as he watches her move through the crowd once more. He wonders if he'll ever see her again or if this will just be the serendipitous night that he met the incredible Brooke Davis.
And then, just for a second, she looks back at him with a smirk, and it's all he needs to know that this is not just a one time thing, and he can't remember the last time he was this excited about seeing woman he'd become interested in more than once.
- x - x - x - x - x - x -
Brooke manages to get back through the crowd to Rachel, who waits expectantly by the entrance. Her best friend looks pissed, but not at her, not even by a long shot. How could she be mad at her, after all? She had just needed some air, just needed a moment to breathe.
And then Jackson had been there. Green eyes, boyishly playful charm, and an optimism that she hadn't even known existed anymore. He's a new face, a fresh, youthful and handsome face with no previous judgments, with no previous assertions. It's the beautiful thing about New York, the fact that you could walk out onto the street and meet someone that you had never even seen before. It still amazes Brooke after all this time in the city, having once been so used to seeing the same people with the same ideas and the same assumptions.
"Maybe I like damaged, maybe damaged goods are my thing."
His words ring in her head as she moves through the room, a certain confidence in her step. Their short conversation has given her that, a sensation that spreads through her body like wildfire. She can still feel the heat of his gaze, the warmth of his smile, the empathy in his words. He had been honest, every word that came out of his mouth the utter truth, and it's so refreshing that she can scarcely believe he's real. A real Prince Charming in the flesh, she's discovered, a man that had actually brought out a smile, a real honest to goodness Brooke Davis smile.
"This…is my party that I've been avoiding to talk to the most gorgeous woman in the whole place."
"You good?" Rachel asks her as she walks up, reaching out to her and taking her hand. Her tone is nothing short of supportive, keeping to the promise that she had made when she came home to protect her from it all.
Brooke nods, smiling weakly as she allows herself to be lead out of the building and into the parking lot. She doesn't speak, doesn't even say a single word. She just moves when Rachel moves, no more no less. She feels light on her feet, having been untouched by Peyton and her insane guilt. She had been able to get through the night without creating a total scene, even though she had seen the woman that had once again attempted to ruin her life. She feels strong, but still the cold-hearted woman that she had come in as is still there, holding her composure together and keeping her weapons close at hand.
"What were even doing out there?" Rachel asks as they make their way to their town car. "I mean it was a great place for you to land, but the railing seemed a little low."
"I wasn't looking for somewhere to jump, if that's what you're asking." Brooke sighs in exasperation as she slides into the backseat of the card, looking out the passenger side window up at the balcony where she had once been. She can't see Jackson anymore, but maybe he's still up there, thinking of her as she's thinking of him.
"I'm sure that they're completely lost without you."
Rachel gazes at her quizzically. "Then what were you doing out there?"
She smiles as she keeps her gaze up at the balcony. "I was introducing myself to the host."