by Laura Lee
Reed is his usual silent and stoic self, only giving a slight smirk in response. Kingston gives his sister a middle-fingered salute.
Ainsley props a hand on her hip. “What’s rude is interrupting our night. Which won’t happen again. Jazz and I need to have some good old-fashioned girl talk, and we can't do that with you idiots present."
“Whatevs,” Bentley pouts.
I jerk my head toward the hall as I face Kingston. “I assume you’re waiting to speak with me alone?”
One side of Kingston’s mouth kicks up in the corner. “Maybe I want to tuck you in.”
“Not happening. But if you have something to say, walk with me.” I give Ainsley, Bentley, and Reed a single wave. “‘Night, guys.”
“‘Night,” they all reply in unison.
Kingston waits until we’re inside my room with the door shut before speaking. “Has Peyton given you any trouble?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t seen her once since I’ve been home from the hospital. Why?”
He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “She said something concerning the last time I was here.”
“Like what?” I head into my closet and pull some clothing out of the drawer.
“She implied she might’ve had something to do with your attack.”
I drop my sleep shorts on the ground. “Are you shitting me?”
"She didn't outright admit anything. It could've been a baseless threat, but I'm having my P.I. keep a closer eye on her just in case. You need to tell me what happened, Jazz. If it makes you more comfortable, I can arrange for John—that's my P.I.—to be there when you do."
Kingston steps into my closet, picks up my fallen pajamas and hands them to me. He briefly looks over my shoulder and seems lost in thought. I turn my head and see nothing but a stark white wall. The same wall where I climbed him like a tree and let him finger me. Aw, hell. Now I’m thinking about it.
He smirks, obviously picking up on my train of thought. “Good memories in this closet.”
I hold my hand out, shaking my head. “Nuh-uh. Don’t do that.”
The jackass laughs. “Do what? I didn’t do anything.”
I swirl my finger in his direction. “You’re not going to charm me with your sexy smirky smirk. You owe me answers, buddy, and I refuse to wait any longer. Once I get those, I’ll tell you what happened.”
“So, you think I’m sexy?”
I’m pretty sure I actually growl. “Not the point, asshole.”
He takes a moment, stretching his neck from side to side before he answers. “Fine. But we meet at my house. I have something I need to show you.”
I narrow my eyes in suspicion. “If that something is in your pants, keep it to yourself.”
Kingston steps forward, crowding me against the built-in dresser in the center of the closet. “We both know you don’t really mean that Jazz, but don't worry; I can control myself if you can."
I stare him right in the eye. “I can definitely control myself.”
He steps back and looks me over, making no effort to disguise his thirst. “Fine, then it’s settled. You feel well enough to come over tomorrow after you hang with Ains?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I can hitch a ride with her when we’re done.”
Kingston raps his knuckles on the doorframe. “Just text when you’re on your way.”
“Okay.”
“One more thing. Pack a bag. It’s going to take a while, so you’re staying over. And before you say it, I can sleep on the couch.”
I shake my head. “I never agreed to that.”
“I didn’t ask.” He flashes a wicked smile and walks out of the room without another word.
Cocky jackass.
CHAPTER NINE
KINGSTON
“I have the equipment. When can we meet up?”
John thinks we should install a surveillance camera in my dad's corporate office because he's not getting anything useful from the bugs we placed in the home office. Since Monique, Davenport Boating's head receptionist, is freakishly vigilant, placing the camera falls on my shoulders since I'm one of the few people who can get past her desk without an invitation or appointment. I need to somehow get into Charles Callahan's office, too, but there never seems to be an opportunity. Ms. Williams lives in the Callahan house full time, and I swear the woman never leaves.
“I’ve got something going on tonight, but I can do it tomorrow. Same place?”
"That works," John answers. "One o'clock, okay?"
“Yep. See you then.”
I hang up the call and open my GPS tracker app. Ainsley's car is only about a mile away, so I head to the front of the main house. When my sister initially said she was spending the day with Jazz, I had assumed they'd lie low since Jazz is still recovering. What I hadn't counted on was the fact that they'd go to Ainsley's ballet studio. They're right around the corner now, so I tuck my phone into my pocket and wait for them to pull up.
I originally installed the tracker on their phones for safety purposes—okay, maybe a slightly different reason on Jazz’s—but I have to admit, it’s come in handy outside of that. Even if they’re perfectly safe, it eases my mind knowing where they’re at considering all the shady shit up in the air. I thought for sure Jazz would throw a fit when she found out I had installed it, but since the tracker had proven useful when Peyton cornered her in the bathroom, she’s logical enough to see its value. I rarely check it, but since I hadn’t heard from Jazz as expected, my paranoia got the best of me.
I hear the roar of the Huracan’s engine shortly before they pull into the driveway. Ainsley spots me before she makes it to the garage, so she rolls the car to a stop and shifts into park.
Rolling down her window, she says, "What are you doing?"
"Waiting for you." I bend low, so I can make eye contact with Jazz. "You were supposed to text when you were on your way."
“Why?” she sasses. “So you could clear your groupies out of the house?”
I give her a half-cocked smile. “Careful, babe. Your jealousy is showing.”
Jazz’s gorgeous brown eyes roll back. “I’d have to care to be jealous.”
Ainsley rubs her temples. “Oh my God, you two. Do you ever stop? You’d think finally screwing each other would get this out of your systems.” She turns her head toward Jazz, then to me. “Or maybe you need to screw again because that’s the only way you can tolerate each other.”
“I’m open to testing that theory. What do you say, Jazz?”
Jazz scoffs. "Uh, no, thanks."
I laugh. “Don’t pretend you didn’t love it when I—”
“Don’t say it!” Ainsley shouts.
I look down at my sister. “Not so fun being on the other end of it, is it?”
The impertinent little shit gives me the finger.
I round the car and try opening the passenger door, but it’s locked. “Unlock the door.”
Jazz flashes a toothy grin through the window as she mouths, “No.”
Ainsley throws her hands up and mutters something before hitting the button from the master control panel. The second the door is unlocked, I swing it open.
“Get out of the car, Jazz.”
Jazz turns toward my sister and grumbles, “Traitor.”
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Jazz, the whole reason you're here is to talk to him, so go talk to him.”
“Yeah, Jazz, come talk to me.”
She gets out of the car and slams the door shut. Ainsley wastes no time shifting into gear and pulling into the garage, leaving Jazz standing in front of the house with me.
“Where’s your bag?” I ask.
She parks a hand on her hip. “I didn’t bring one.”
“Suit yourself.” I shrug. “You won’t hear me complaining if you want to sleep naked.”
I can see her bronzed cheeks pinken under the outdoor lighting. “I won’t be sleeping here at all. Ainsley offered to drive me home when we’re done.”
I slant my head to the le
ft, ignoring her comment. We can save that argument for later. “There’s a path to my place along the side of the house. Can you walk on uneven ground?”
Jazz straightens her shoulders. “I’m fine.”
As we start walking, I can tell she's doing her best to hide her discomfort. This girl won't let anything hold her down, and it's hot as fuck. I rub a hand over my mouth to hide my smile because I suspect Jazz will take it the wrong way and give me even more attitude. Even though her feistiness turns me on, I need to deescalate the situation because what I'm about to tell her is likely going to birth a whole plethora of messy emotions.
Jazz looks around when we enter the pool house, making me realize she's never been here before. It's nothing special—just a standard guest house you'd find on any property around here—but every square inch is mine to do as I please, and that's important to me. Having my own security system is a nice perk, especially considering all the digging I'm doing into our fathers' activities. I moved out here right before my freshman year, and I haven't missed the luxuries of the main house one bit.
Jazz walks throughout the open space, cataloging the small kitchen and living room. I don't like a lot of clutter, so the furnishings I do have are minimal, but they're plush and built for comfort. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to fantasize about all the dirty things I'd like to do to her as she ventures into my bedroom. I will my dick to calm the fuck down because I'm wearing sweatpants, which would do a shit job hiding an erection.
I'm not an idiot; I know damn well that nothing physical is going to happen between us anytime soon. I may be an asshole, but I'm not going to make a move on a woman while she's recovering from a traumatic event. Sure, I give her crap and throw around all sorts of innuendo, but that's because I think Jazz needs that normalcy right now. I can't imagine all the horrible shit running through her head, and I know what I tell her tonight is only going to make that worse.
That's exactly why I was trying to delay this conversation as long as possible, but she's left me no other choice. Finding out who attacked Jazz is the most pressing issue at the moment, and if she needs me to answer some questions before she'll answer mine, so be it. Jazz heads back into the living area and lowers herself to the couch while I walk over to the kitchen and open the fridge.
I hold up a bottle of water. “You want one?”
“Sure.” When I hand it to her, she adds, “Thanks.”
I take a seat on the cushion next to her. I kept going back and forth on where to begin with this and finally settled on the very beginning.
“What do you know about your mom’s childhood?”
Jazz frowns. “Um...basic stuff, I guess. She had kind of a crappy one, so she didn’t talk about it much. She was a firm believer in the old adage, ‘You can’t create the future if you’re all wrapped up in the past’.”
I turn my body toward hers. “When you say, ‘crappy’, how so?”
“I’m confused as to why this matters.”
“I’m getting there,” I assure her. “Just go with it.”
Jazz captures her lower lip between her teeth as she thinks about it. “Well, I know she bounced around the foster system. The woman who gave birth to her was really young when my mom was born—like fourteen, I think. She relinquished her parental rights before she even left the hospital. I’m not sure my mom ever knew why she was abandoned or why she was never adopted.” She takes a big gulp of water. “Why are you asking me this?”
I set my water on the end table. “I’ll be right back. I need to grab something out of my closet.”
Jazz scrunches her brows. “Um...okay.”
I grab the photo album I need and flip through it until I find the picture I was looking for. With my thumb bookmarking the page, I take a seat on the couch again.
Jazz points to the photo album. “What’s that?”
“A photo album.”
“Obviously. An older one, from the looks of it. You can’t distract me with your cute baby pictures, Kingston.”
"I'm flattered you assume I was a cute baby—which is one hundred percent accurate—but that's not why I have it."
She sighs. “Will you please get to the point?”
I take a deep breath before flipping the album open. I carefully peel back the protective layer and extract the photo of our moms.
I hand the photo to Jazz. “Look at that.”
Jazz slams a hand over her mouth to cover her loud gasp. Her eyes widen, and her other hand trembles as she looks at a picture of our mothers standing next to each other with three toddlers at their feet.
After a moment, she finally speaks. “What the hell is this? Where did you get it?”
I point to the beautiful blonde on the left. “That is Jennifer Wilkes-Davenport. Also known as my mom.”
Jazz’s eyes are quickly filling with tears. “Why are your mom and my mom in a picture together?” She holds up the photo. “That little girl on the right is me.”
"And the two on the left are Ainsley and me."
She shakes her head. “I don’t understand. It has to be doctored or something.”
“Jazz, there’s no doubt in my mind it’s an original. That album has been hidden away in my closet for the last nine years.”
Her face softens as she traces her mom’s image with her index finger. “Do you have a better explanation?”
"I do." I nod. "When I first ran into that photo, I was nine, maybe ten years old. I asked my dad who the other woman and child were, and he said it was one of my mom's old friends and her daughter. He tried taking the picture away from me—which in retrospect was really weird—but I found it on his desk a while later and stole it back.”
“Our moms were friends?”
I gesture to the picture. Both women have their arms around each other in a side hug. “I’d say yes based on their smiles and body language.”
"That makes no sense. How can our moms hang out with each other when we were kids when my father didn't know I existed until recently? My mom told me so herself—she left when she was pregnant without ever telling him." She studies the picture again. "Holy shit!"
“What?”
She points to the sliding glass door in the background. “That’s the door leading to Charles’ back yard. This photo was taken at his house.”
I already knew that, so I simply nod in agreement.
Jazz pinches the bridge of her nose. “Please tell me you have an explanation because now I have even more questions.”
I grab her hand. “Jazz, look at me.” I wait until her eyes meet mine before continuing. “What do you remember from our little eavesdropping adventure?”
If she thinks about it, the conversation we overheard between our fathers proves they both knew about Mahalia’s pregnancy.
Her brown eyes widen as it hits her. "Oh, my God. They lied—both Charles and my mom. He knew about me all along, didn’t he?”
I nod my head. “Yeah, he did. I’m pretty sure Madeline knew, too. John, my P.I., dug up tax records proving your mom worked at the mansion as a live-in maid shortly before you were born until you were two or three years old. Madeline and Peyton would’ve moved in somewhere in the middle of that timeframe. I can’t imagine she’d allow someone else’s child to live in that house without good reason.”
“But why would my mom hide that? She already told me he wasn’t a good man, so why wouldn’t she be honest about when she left?”
I shrug. “If I had to guess, I’d say she was trying to protect you. The less you knew, the better.”
“What am I missing? There has to be more to this story.”
“There is.”
Here we go.
CHAPTER TEN
KINGSTON
“I don’t know how to say this, other than just saying it, so...” I fill my lungs with air before releasing my breath. “I’m fairly certain our dads run some kind of sex trafficking ring and have been for a very long time.”
Jazz blinks rapidly. “O-kay
...that’s...wow, um...that’s really fucked up. But what does that have to do with my mom?”
My lips thin. “Because I think your mom was directly...affected by it.”
I can see the wheels turning in her head. “You think she was their victim?”
I nod solemnly. “I do.”
“Holy shit. The conversation we overheard between them makes so much sense now.” Jazz’s voice is barely above a whisper.
I gulp when I see her eyes water. “Yeah, it does.”
“But why would my mom stick around for so long if she was being abused? Why would they just let her go? Wouldn’t they worry about her turning them in? Or did she escape somehow? God, if this is true, that means the only reason I exist is because my mom was repeatedly raped by that sick bastard.” Jazz places a hand over her stomach. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
I scoot closer, risking the potential vomit to wipe her tears away with my thumbs. "I have some ideas about part of it, but nothing has been confirmed.”
“What kinds of ideas? Don’t sex traffickers keep their victims isolated in dank places, or sell them off to the highest bidder? If she truly was their prisoner, why was she living in a multi-million dollar mansion? Why was she allowed to befriend your mom? She looks happy in that picture." Jazz gasps. "Oh my God, what if she wasn't a victim, but she was actually working with them? I can’t believe she’d do something like that, though. I’m so confused.”
I grab her hand. “Hey. There’s no way she was working with them, Jazz, so get that out of your head right now.”
She frowns. “But how can you be so sure?”
“Because she fits the victim profile perfectly. Young, beautiful, no money, no family. John says your mom was listed as a runaway a few months before she turned eighteen and aged out of the system. Based on when you were born, that'd be about the same time she got pregnant, which means she already knew Charles."
“But why does she look so happy in this picture?” Jazz waves the photo around. “She looks healthy. Definitely not like someone who was being abused.”
“That’s the part I’m still working on. One thing I’ve learned over the last two years is that sex trafficking comes in many forms. If that is what they’re doing—and like I said, I’m fairly certain it is—then it’s a pretty sophisticated operation. They have to somehow be hiding their activities behind a legitimate business; they’re too clean. John is excellent at what he does, and he can't find a single piece of evidence linking them to a crime. He suspects some influential people are suppressing evidence to save their own asses."