by Laura Lee
Jazz pulls back and tilts her chin up to look at me. “You’ve been looking into this for two years? But why? What made you suspect them in the first place?”
“A lot of little things that started to add up, but a conversation with my grandfather—on my mom’s side— was the catalyst.”
She scoots back against the arm of the couch. “How so?”
"Ainsley and I flew to San Francisco to visit our grandfather shortly before he died, which was just over two years ago. He had colon cancer and wanted to see his only heirs before he passed. We didn't spend a lot of time with him growing up, so we weren't close, but I think Ains and I needed a chance to say goodbye because he was the only link we had to our mom beside each other." I swallow the lump in my throat. "We never got the chance to say goodbye to her."
Jazz’s eyes are filled with sympathy as she listens.
"Anyway...one day, he told me we needed to talk. Man to man. He proceeded to tell me how he felt about my father; he never liked him, didn't trust him from day one. He thought my dad was only after her money. My father comes from wealth, spanning several generations back on the Davenport side. But my mom was the sole heir to one of the world's largest luxury hotel chains. Her family's money makes my dad's bank accounts look like pocket change.
“According to my grandfather, when my parents started dating, he tried putting a stop to it. He knew something wasn’t right. My dad was literally old enough to be her father, and they seemed to have nothing in common. Unfortunately, Preston Davenport can be pretty damn charming when he wants to be, and she fell for it. Got pregnant early into their relationship. Once she found out they were having twins, she agreed to marry him.
"The honeymoon phase didn't last long, though. I was eight when she died, so it isn't too clear, but even in my earliest memories, I can easily recall how vastly different their personalities were. How often they argued. My grandfather told me she was planning to leave him right before she died. She was going to take Ainsley and me away from here and move to San Francisco, where she grew up.
“She called my grandfather one day, told him he was right all along; her husband was a liar. My mom confessed to learning something awful about my dad’s business dealings. She claimed she filed a police report, detailing everything she knew, so she had to take the kids and get out as fast as possible. When my grandfather asked her to explain, she promised she’d tell him everything once she arrived in the Bay Area.” I rub the tension at the back of my neck. “She never got the chance because she died later that day.”
Jazz isn't even trying to stifle her tears anymore, and it's killing me. "How did she die?"
I unclench my jaw. “The official cause of death is drowning, but a toxicology report showed she had a large amount of heroin in her system. Police concluded she shot up a little too much, went for a swim, and passed out.”
Jazz stares through the windows at the illuminated pool just beyond the door. “You don’t think that’s what really happened?”
“Not after speaking with my grandfather.” My eyes fog over as I look out the window. “The timing is too suspicious. And she was fully dressed, which is an odd choice for swimming, don’t you think?”
“Do you think your dad...killed her?”
“He was somewhere in the Caribbean when she died.” I exhale sharply. “But I do think he hired someone. Or maybe he asked your father to do it since he was in town that day. Knowing what I know now, they both would’ve had the same motive. They’re equally guilty as far as I’m concerned, regardless of who actually did the dirty work.”
“Were you and Ainsley home when it happened?”
“No. We were on a playdate a few houses down that afternoon. Looking back, I think my mom wanted to get us out of the house so she could pack our things without drawing attention. I think my dad somehow found out she was planning to run, and he put a stop to it before she could make that happen.
"I will never forget that day. It was getting late, and my mom didn't pick us up when she was supposed to. She wouldn't answer the phone when Mrs. Wallace—that's the neighbor—called. Finally, Mrs. Wallace brought us home herself, thinking maybe Mom's phone died, or she fell asleep. No one answered when we rang the bell, so we walked around the house to check the back. Ainsley tripped along the way and scraped her knee, so Mrs. Wallace stopped to take care of her.
“I kept going, though. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad had happened. When I rounded the corner of the house, I saw her floating face down in the water. I jumped in the pool, trying to save her, but as soon as I managed to flip her over, I knew it was too late. She was heavily bloated...her skin was almost...gray. Seeing her like that will haunt me for the rest of my life.”
“God, Kingston. No wonder you hate them so much.”
“Yeah.”
Jazz turns her head toward me. “Were you living in this house back then? Is that the pool?”
"Yes, on the house. Not exactly for the pool."
Her delicate eyebrows knit together. “What does that mean?”
“My dad’s second wife—the one he married not even a year after my mom died—had it redone. Ainsley and I wouldn’t go anywhere near it, so my dad told her about my mom’s accident. She was freaked out by the whole thing, so she hired someone to expand and redesign the landscape of it." I grind my molars together. "That's right around the time she demanded we remove all traces of our mom from the house as if that would erase the fact that she was dead or something."
“What a bitch.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
“Does Ainsley know? I mean, about our fathers?”
“She knows they’re involved in something shady, but she has no idea it’s this bad.” I shake my head. “And I don’t want that to change until I get proof that’ll take them down. I have measures in place to keep her as safe as possible, but I don’t want her to know the details, Jazz. Ainsley’s poker face is shit, so if she knew anything specific, it’d put her at risk.”
“Agreed.” Jazz nods her head in understanding. “But Bentley and Reed know?”
“Yeah, they know everything. I kind of went off the rails for a while after I got back from San Francisco. I was so goddamn angry all the time. I couldn’t figure out how to channel it into something productive. I was becoming reckless. I had to vent before I did something that couldn’t be undone. They’re my brothers—I trust them with my life.”
Jazz takes a moment to collect herself. Swiping away the last of her tears, she asks, “What about the police report? Wasn’t your dad a suspect?”
“John found no record of a report being filed.”
Jazz tucks her feet beneath her. “I don’t understand. How is that possible?”
My jaw tics. “I think our fathers have a lot of powerful people in their pockets.”
“You think they’re bribing them?”
“I think they’re blackmailing them. I’ve seen some of these men at dinner parties and whatnot. Something’s...off. They practically salivate whenever my sister or Peyton are nearby, even when they were barely teenagers. And the older I get, the looser their tongues get as the night wears on. They assume like father like son, I suppose. Hell, why wouldn’t they? Our fathers think I’m just as misogynistic and perverted as they are.”
“Why would they think that?”
“Because that’s what I want them to believe. That’s how I’m gaining their trust. Trust me, I loathe every minute I have to spend in their presence, but it’s the role I have to play. And I’m going to keep playing it until I get what I need to nail their asses.”
Jazz traps her lower lip between her teeth. “Is that why you were so awful to me at first? Because you were pretending to be like them? Or were you projecting your feelings for my sperm donor on to me?”
I think about her question for a moment. “Full honesty?”
She gives me a wry look. “I think that’d be implied at this point, but if you need me to spell it out, yes. Full honesty.”
"Before we met, I was indifferent more than anything. I knew your mom had just died, and that you grew up in the projects, so I assumed you'd be this meek, grieving girl, who did not want to make waves. That you'd be grateful you suddenly had a rich daddy who rescued you from the system. After a period of mourning, I thought you'd eventually fall in line with Peyton's group and just be another inconsequential rich bitch."
“And after we met?”
I scoff. "I realized I was so fucking wrong and so fucking screwed. The second you stepped out of that car at Windsor, with your head held high, looking fierce as hell, I knew you were trouble with a capital T. Then, when you gave me lip, my God, it made me so hard, I wanted to bend you over right there in front of everyone, showing them you were mine. My self-control was slipping fast, and quite frankly, it pissed me off and scared the shit out of me. I'm not a fucking Neanderthal, yet you made me feel like one. No one has ever had that kind of effect on me.”
Jazz makes a time-out sign with her hands. “I beg to differ on the caveman part. Also, let’s keep your boners out of this conversation.”
I smile, which earns me a glare. “Why? Afraid you won’t be able to stop thinking about my dick?”
“Anyway,” she continues, completely ignoring my taunt. “I still don’t understand why my arrival made you feel so fucked.”
I shrug. “I made that inheritance deal with Peyton so I could get closer to Charles. I had been working on it for a long-ass time, and things were finally starting to fall into place. Charles and my dad were making little comments here and there, hinting about future business opportunities they'd like to bring me in on. But your arrival threw an elephant-sized wrench into my plan. I felt cornered, and I didn't like that one bit."
“Why not just ignore me?”
I laugh humorlessly. “Because that’s impossible. Christ, Jazz, you have no idea, do you?”
“No idea about what?”
“I don’t think anyone could ignore you,” I explain. “I don’t know...it’s like you have this X factor that draws people in. It makes them want to know you, want to be you, or want to fuck you. Why do you think Peyton and her minions were so aggressive with you right off the bat?”
“Uh, because they’re stuck-up bitches?”
I shake my head. “It’s because they’re insanely jealous. They consider you a threat—probably more than any person they've met before. You're smart, beautiful, kind, confident, and give zero fucks what they think of you. You're real—what you see is what you get. That’s sexy as hell, Jazz, and what’s more, refreshing as fuck in our world. They could never be as authentic as you are, no matter how hard they tried.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s the truth.” I clear my throat. “In the interest of transparency, there’s uh...one more thing you need to know.”
Jazz’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “What?”
Fuck. This isn’t going to go over well.
“About playing that role...both Charles and my dad may be under the impression I’m spending time with you to help get you under your father’s control.”
“What?!” she shouts. If Jazz wasn’t still healing, I have no doubt she’d be launching herself at me right now. “Why would they think that?”
I stretch my neck from side to side. “It was before I got to know you. I can’t say I wouldn’t have made the same deal if I had known you better, but there’s a good reason.”
“Explain,” she demands through gritted teeth.
"It was the first day we met—right before dinner at your house. I was in your dad's cigar room listening to them blather on about whatever. Then, at one point, my dad asked how things were going with you, and your dad bitched about how rough around the edges you were." I hold my hands up when her eyes flash with rage. "His words, not mine.
“Anyway...my dad suggested I could teach you how things worked in our world, put you in your place, so to speak. Teach you to heel like a woman should.” Jazz eyeballs the lamp beside her like she’s considering clocking me over the head with it. When she makes no move to do so, I continue. “So...I told them I’d be happy to help. Peyton was continually testing my last nerve—I saw an opportunity to get what I needed without her, and I grabbed it. Charles and my dad said if I was successful with you, they’d bring me into the fold. Reforming you would prove I was ready to take on other projects.”
Jazz sits there for a moment, shooting daggers at me with her eyes. Finally, she takes a deep breath and speaks. “Let me get this straight. You promised our fathers you could turn me into one of their little Stepford wives?”
“Essentially, yes.”
She cocks a brow. “And how, exactly, did you plan on doing that?”
“I hadn’t quite figured that part out yet.”
“So, after dinner, when you showed up in my room—what happened in my closet—that was because you were playing a role?”
“Fuck, no.”
Now, I’m seething right along with her. The one thing Jazz should never question is how much I want her.
“What was the purpose then?”
I shoot up from the couch and throw my hands out. “I didn’t plan any of that! After dinner, I was supposed to be with our dads smoking Cubans. I don’t even remember walking upstairs, now that I think about it. But when you came out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel, the last thread of control I had inside of me snapped.
“I was pissed I couldn’t keep myself in check around you. I was planning to say fuck it to the whole plan because if I couldn’t control myself, how in the hell would I control you? I tried warning you to stay away, but you wouldn’t fucking listen. You just had to keep pushing my buttons, like you always do, and I reacted.”
“By putting your hands on me? By finger fucking me against the wall? Are you seriously trying to blame me for this shit?!”
I stare her directly in the eye. “Don’t pretend you didn’t love every fucking moment, that night, or any other time I touched you afterward."
She stands up, fists clenching at her side. “Fuck. You.”
“Gladly. Name the time and place, sweetheart.”
Jazz raises her arm, but she’s broadcasting her intention from a mile away.
I grab the arm mid-swing. “Nice try.”
“Let. Go. Of. Me.” She struggles under my grip, eyes wide.
What the fuck am I doing?
Restraining Jazz is probably giving her some kind of flashback. I immediately release my grip and take a step back. Damn it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Shut up.” She balls her fist around my t-shirt. “Just shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
Before I can say, “Or what?” Jazz is tugging on the cotton, pulling me down to her. She presses her full lips against mine, and the thought of challenging her dissipates into thin air. Nothing else matters after that.
Our mouths meet in a frenzy of desperation, clinging to each other for more. Jazz's soft moans shoot straight to my dick, making me go from half-mast to full sail in two seconds flat. She rubs her torso against my hard-on, but the friction isn't enough. I drop down onto the couch and pull her with me until she's straddling my lap, never breaking our kiss. I can feel the heat of her pussy through our clothes as she grinds against me. Her back arches when my lips travel down her neck. She rocks on top of me as my thumb brushes over her peaked nipple through her top.
“Fuck!”
“I know,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. “Fuck, you feel good.”
“No.” Jazz presses on my chest with one hand and places the other on her abdomen. “Ouch! Fuck, as in ouch!”
“Shit.” My eyes run the length of her upper body, trying to identify the source of the problem. “What’s hurting?”
Jazz lifts the corner of her shirt. My jaw clenches when the material slides up a little more, revealing an angry, jagged red line.
“Jesus Christ. Is that from the knife?”
&nbs
p; She nods, rolling her shirt up and tucking it beneath the band of her bra.
“Does it still hurt?”
Jazz shrugs. “The majority of the pain now is from my abdominal muscles, which are still pretty sore from being cut open during surgery. It’s mainly a dull ache, like when you had an extra hard workout, but when I move a certain way, it’ll trigger a really sharp pain, which is what just happened. It hurts like a bitch but only for a few seconds. Compared to how I felt in the beginning, though, it’s night and day.”
I lightly trace the fresh scar, causing goosebumps to scatter across her flesh. "Is this the only scar?"
Jazz shakes her head. “No. There’s another one about twice as long from the surgical procedure they had to do.”
My brows pinch together in confusion. I have a clear view of her entire abdomen, yet I see nothing. “Where?”
Jazz starts pulling the waistband of her leggings down, followed by her black cotton panties. Before I can ask why, another line appears, maybe five or six inches wide, about six inches below her belly button. The skin here is also red and raised slightly, creating a ridge of sorts, but it’s obviously from a more precise cut. I’m so focused on the evidence of her assault, the fact that Jazz is sitting on my lap with a partially exposed pussy isn’t even fazing me. Guess I do have some self-restraint after all.
My eyes travel upward, over her taut abdomen. For the most part, it’s all smooth, bronzed skin. But there’s one sizeable patch marring the perfection, lightly tinted in a yellowish-brown color.
My hand glides over the darkest part. “Why is there still bruising here?”
“That’s where I took a boot to the stomach. It looks much better than it did. You saw my face when it first happened, right? Half my body was the same lovely shade of reddish-purple.”