Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Ava
Jackson is gone for a total of three minutes before I decide to say “fuck it” and leave. Don’t leave this room. His low, threatening tone was meant to intimidate me into compliance, but, yeah, fuck him.
Rolling off the bed, I find my panties and work slacks and pull them on. My shoes are nowhere to be found, but whatever. There’s no time to look for them. I tiptoe to the door, crack it open, and peer into the dark hallway.
Empty. Perfect.
I ease past the door and shut it softly, but the old hinges squeak loudly.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I pause, every muscle frozen, listening for the faintest sound, my heart battering against my ribs. The hallway is dark and creepy, hauntingly silent. Breath held, I wait for a few seconds, and just when I think it’s safe to continue on, a voice breaks through the quiet.
“I didn’t think anyone was allowed up here.”
With a sharp gasp, I whirl around, my pulse still racing, only to find a girl about my age lingering in one of the doorways. Her dark hair is knotted into a messy bun, strands slipping free to shadow her face. She’s dressed in dark leggings and an oversized sweater that hangs off one shoulder.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
It takes a second, but I recognize her. It’s been three years since I last saw her, and she’s developed more of a woman’s figure, but her face is still identical to Jackson’s.
“Ember?” I say, shocked to see her here, of all places. My dad keeps me in the loop about the McKnight family—totally unsolicited, by the way—and last I heard, Ember was still living with her mom in Calabassis. The same property my dad lives on, in the guest house.
Her eyes flick over me, like she’s only just realized who I am, and can’t believe it’s really me standing in front of her.
I guess it’s understandable. I probably look like a nightmare.
Plus, the last time she saw me, I swore up and down Jackson would never see my face again.
Yet here I am. Creeping out of his bedroom.
“Ava?” She blinks at me. “Oh, my God. What are you doing here?” Her gaze darts to the bedroom door, then back to me. “Are you two…?”
“No,” I say in a burst. “No. I was…just leaving.”
“Oh.” There’s a hint of disappointment in her voice. “Bummer, we couldn’t catch up.”
Ember and I never really hung out. In the summer, when she was in Missouri to visit her mom and stepdad, she had her own circle of friends she’d meet up with. But she was always nice to me, and every so often over the past couple of years, I’d find myself scrolling through her socials.
“We should grab some coffee sometime,” I say, forcing myself to sound nonchalant, even as my heart slams against my ribs.
“Yeah, that’d be fun,” she says. “Hit me up on my socials.”
“Will do,” I laugh—why am I laughing?—before turning on my barefoot heel and heading toward the nearest staircase.
The wood creaks beneath my weight as I make my way down to the kitchen, which is mercifully empty.
And from the landing, I can see the back door.
Just a few more steps, and I’m home free.
“Thank God,” I whisper to myself.
But the second my foot hits the cold marble tiles, I hear voices drift in from the hallway. Laughter, actually. And it’s headed straight for the kitchen. Is it Jackson? Is it someone who knows I shouldn’t be down here?
“Shit.” Do I sprint for the back door? Or do I hide? To get to the back door, I’d have to cross the length of the kitchen, which feels too risky. So, instead, I lunge for a broom closet that’s tucked under the staircase.
Darkness swallows me up, and as I click the door shut, it becomes apparent this isn’t a closet.
My fingertips brush against the wall until I find the outline of a railing, and that’s when I realize I’m standing at the top of a narrow staircase.
This must be the basement. It’s cooler in here.
The air is damp and heavy, curling up from below like the breath of something creepy waiting in the dark.
The absolute last thing I want to do is go down there, but…what if there’s an exterior door that dumps out into the backyard? It’d be easier than escaping through the kitchen.
I’m halfway down the staircase when I hear voices echo in the darkness, coming from somewhere below. I recognize the baritone instantly. It’s Jackson’s voice, tense and angry. I pause, heart in my throat, and start heading back the way I came, when suddenly, I hear something that stops me cold.
“What the fuck do you know about Ava?” he asks.
What the fuck?
My name, spoken in the darkness, sends my anxiety spiraling. Who is Jackson talking to? And more importantly, what does this guy know about me?
Another voice responds, rougher, like gravel scraping against stone. “I know she isn’t as innocent as she pretends to be...”
Terror floods my veins, every instinct shrieking at me to turn back, but something stronger than fear drags me forward—the need to know what the fuck they’re talking about. So I creep step by step, deeper into the basement.
There’s a home gym at the bottom of the staircase, and beyond that is a small cement room with an open vault door.
There are a couple of guys inside the room, and a couple of guys standing in the doorway, their backs to me.
I slip behind a weight machine and try to steady my breathing, so I can hear what they’re saying.
A sinister laugh cuts through the murkiness. “That’s right. Your perfect little girlfriend isn’t quite what she seems, is she?”
Is he still talking about me? My heart is literally lodged in my throat, and I can’t help it; I’m drawn forward. But I keep to the deep shadows, so they don’t see me.
“You don’t know shit about Ava,” Jackson growls.
Yes. Thank you, Jackson.
Another sinister laugh. “I guarantee I know more than you think I do.” A pause. “Release me, though, and maybe we can talk.”
From where I’m pressed against the wall, I can see Jackson standing over a man on a cot. The man’s face is bloodied, his lip split, but he’s smiling like he’s enjoying every second of Jackson’s rage. Two other guys—Lucas West and someone I don’t recognize—are watching.
“I don’t negotiate with liars,” Jackson snarls, his voice filled with contempt. “And if you think the Burning Crown can’t bury a body, maybe I should give you a live demonstration.”
Jackson draws his fist back, and the man on the cot laughs, a cold, taunting sound that makes my skin crawl. Then the man spots me peering out from the shadows, and our eyes connect for a brief second.
“That’s right,” the man says, his voice dripping with venom. “Show her what you really are, Jackson.”
Jackson’s fist connects with the man’s face, hard. Droplets of blood launch into the air and fleck the cement wall, instantly transporting me back to Missouri, to that early morning three years ago. His stepdad’s blood spattered across the white cabinets, dripping off the marble countertop…
The sound of bone crunching yanks me back to the present, and I gasp. The sound flies out of my mouth before I can call it back, and everyone turns to find the source of the sound, including Jackson.
Shit.
I take a slow step back, but it’s too late. Jackson’s hard gaze is locked on me. My heart is pounding, my palms sweaty. I squeeze them into fists.
His expression shifts quickly from annoyance to shock, then to alarm. “Ava—”
With a shake of my head, I take one more step back, then I turn on the ball of my foot and run. Jackson’s heavy footsteps follow me up the staircase. My lungs are screaming by the time I reach the kitchen, and I pause briefly to catch my breath. Damn, I’m seriously out of shape.
That brief pause is enough to allow Jackson to catch up. His large frame appears in front of me, blocking any hope of escape. I straighten and take a step back.
Adrenaline is still pumping through my veins, even more so, actually, with Jackson standing in front of me, his bloodied hands balled into fists. I can see the tension in his shoulders. He’s keyed up, and I’m standing right in front of him.
“I told you not to leave the bedroom,” he says, angry.
I gesture to the basement. “Who is that guy?”
Jackson shakes his head and rubs his raw knuckles. “Don’t worry about it.”
My chest tightens, and suddenly I’m furious, all sense of self-preservation fleeing instantly. “Don’t worry about it?” I repeat, incredulous. “I heard him say my name, Jackson. Who is he? What does he know about me?”
“For fuck’s sake. We’re not doing this right now,” he says, trying to grab my arm, but I manage to pull it out of the way before he can get a hold of me.
“Oh, we are absolutely doing this right now,” I say, voice raised. I’m heated, and I won’t be intimidated into compliance. I deserve to know what the fuck is going on.
His expression turns to stone, and this time his grip finds my arm. “We’ll talk about this upstairs.”
With clipped movements, he hauls me upstairs, pulls me into his bedroom, and slams the door shut. Finally, he releases me, and I stagger back. Blood stains my white work shirt where he was holding my arm. The muscle already feels bruised.
He stares at me for long seconds, like he’s trying to decide how he’s going to deal with me. Finally, he asks, “What were you doing in the basement?”
Nope. That’s not where we’re starting this conversation.
I blow right past his question. “Who is that guy?” I ask again. “And why is he in your basement?”
A million more questions bob and weave through my mind, but we can start there…
He walks over to the side of the bed and tosses my phone onto the nightstand. It’s an odd thing to do right now, but I get the sense he’s stalling, trying to figure out what he’s going to say.