I manage to stay silent until I’ve led him into the single small conference room on this floor. “What the hell?” I snap as soon as the door snicks shut behind me. “What in the goddamn hell did you just do?” I surge past to the control panel on the nearby credenza and hit the button to close the electronic blinds. I fully intend to scream and rage, and I damn sure don’t want an audience when I do it. Jackson, damn him, is brutally calm. “I’m just making sure that everyone has all the relevant information.” “What does that even mean?” He moves to the window and stands beside it, so that downtown Los Angeles is spread out behind him. I’m reminded of the image from the premier—Jackson on the girder in jeans and a hardhat, all power and control, force and motion. Today, he wears a finely tailored suit, and looks crisp and put together. Or mostly put together.
