Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Jackson
My uncle and lawyer, John McKnight, is waiting for me in the study. He’s standing by the fireplace, looking down at his phone. When I walk in, his head snaps up, and for a second, I freeze. His face, which is so much like my father’s, is tight, strained.
“Hey, Unc,” I say. “What’s up?”
He slips his phone into his pocket and walks toward me. “Thanks to that fucking article, the situation in Missouri is heating up again…” His jaw tightens. “And I checked with the Senior Council. They’re not going to intervene. Not this time.”
I nod, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “I heard,” I say. When his questioning gaze lingers, I add, “Roman ran into Byron. He said the Senior Council is washing their hands of the whole thing.”
He runs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “I can’t shake the feeling that the Senior Council knows something we don’t,” he says.
“My dad is on the Senior Council,” I say. “I can call him, see what he knows.”
I’d rather chew glass than talk to my dad, but at this point, he might be our only option.
“Your dad is a cunt,” John spits. “Always has been, even when we were kids. He’d flash that thousand-watt smile, while at the same time, sinking a knife into your back.
” His eyes narrow to slits. “You know what he did the day of our mother’s funeral?
The cunt sent me a bill. He itemized every cent I ‘owed’ him from years ago.
Shit, I don’t even remember. That’s who your father is—a selfish, cold-blooded cunt who turns everything, even grief, into a fucking transaction. ”
He’s talking like I don’t know who Alexander McKnight is, like I haven’t lived with the man. But I get it. He’s just blowing off steam.
“Yeah, I know how my dad works. He won’t do shit unless it benefits him somehow,” I say. “But my image affects his image, right?”
John pauses, like he doesn’t want to admit that I might be right.
“Fine,” he says. “If you want to call him, then call him. But don’t expect him to give a fuck unless it’s a headline on TMZ.”
He’s not wrong. My dad is the most self-absorbed person on the fucking planet.
“Listen,” John continues, raking a hand down his face.
“I heard through one of my channels that the FBI is reopening the case. And, I’m telling you right now, if this goes public, it’ll be catastrophic.
Your life will be—” He drops his hand and draws in a slow breath. He looks exhausted. “—gone. Destroyed.”
I know he’s worried. My uncle has always been more of a father to me than my own ever managed to be. My dad never wanted kids—he wanted props. Perfect replicas he could parade around to sell the illusion that he’s more than what he is: a selfish man addicted to appearances.
“It’s fine. The FBI doesn’t know a damn thing,” I say, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat.
His eyes narrow, latching onto the certainty in my tone. “Jackson, what aren’t you telling me?”
I know John is loyal to me, and to the Burning Crown, but I still find myself swallowing back the truth.
Only one other person knows what happened the morning my stepfather died, and I plan to keep it that way.
Because the truth would destroy more than just me.
It would shatter the illusion I’ve worked so fucking hard to build.
“Nothing,” I say.
John studies me, scanning my face for the lie. Finally, he says, “Whoever is behind all this isn’t looking for justice. They want someone to fall. Publicly. They want blood. Do you understand that?”
I nod. I know what’s at stake better than anyone.
John leans forward, eyes hard. There’s a reason people call him the Shark of Malibu. “I’ll do what I can. But you owe me honesty, Jackson. I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s really going on.”
“Yeah, got it,” I say. “Thanks. I appreciate your help.”
I deliberately don’t mention Shadow and Ash, or Sin rotting in our basement, because the less he knows about how I’m handling things, the better. And I sure as hell can’t tell him about Ava’s pretty little ass waiting for me in my bedroom.
He turns to leave, but before he can, I stop him. “Hey, before you go, has your team managed to find anything on @AurumNoctis?”
Aurum Noctis. Latin for “Golden Night.”
I first saw that username the night the coroner hauled the senator away. It was on his laptop, the one he kept hidden in the secret drawer of his desk. The message still up on his screen was cold and precise—
I want a video of you fucking that girl in your house, Ava.
Since that day, I’ve hunted the sick fuck behind that username. I’ve traced every lead, poured every resource into finding him. I even threw our best private investigator at it. But @AurumNoctis is a fucking ghost.
“Nothing,” my uncle says. “But, we’ll keep looking.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Once he’s gone, the head of our security team, Andre, corners me in the hallway. Wearing head-to-toe tactical gear, the guy radiates intimidation.
“Boss, we might have a problem,” he says.
For fuck’s sake. What now?
“What’s up?”
“A black pickup has been circling the house. Third pass in the last hour, same route every time. Could be the feds. Could be Shadow and Ash. You want us to check it out?”
“Not without me,” I growl, raking a hand down my face. “If it’s nothing, I’ll see it for myself. If it’s something, I’m not letting anyone else deal with it first.”
I’m not taking any chances. Not with Ava in the house.
We end up circling campus for over an hour with nothing really to show for it. If it was someone canvassing, they’re either gone now or they were smart enough to dip before we could catch up to them.
“Keep an eye out,” I tell Andre, heading back into the house. “Let me know if you find anything.”
“Will do, Boss.”
Inside the house, I head to the living room in search of Lindsay. I need to pin her down, make sure every last detail for tomorrow’s ceremony is locked in.
When I walk in, Lindsay is on the floor, kneeling beside another chick, shoving her phone in her face and laughing at whatever is on the screen.
“Hey, Lindsay,” I say.
She snaps to attention when she hears my voice, rising and walking over. Her eyes are wide, and she looks nervous, like a kid about to be reprimanded. “Sorry, I didn’t see you walk in.”
“Is everything set for the ceremony?”
“Yes. I called the clerk’s office like you told me to, mentioned your name, and called in the favor.” She swallows. “I put the paperwork in the top drawer of the desk in the study.”
“Great, thanks,” I say.
As I head for the door, Lindsay stops me. “Hey, um, you told me to keep an eye out for that girl, Ava. I saw her leave with a group earlier.”
Pausing mid-step, I turn to face her. “You didn’t stop her?”
Lindsay takes a nervous step back. “I-I didn’t know I was supposed to—”
I cut her off before she could rattle on about how sorry she is. I honestly don’t give a fuck. Because at the end of the day, this isn’t on her. Keeping Ava safe is on me. “Where is she?” I bite out.
Lindsay swallows. “Um, I think they went to a frat party across campus. Alpha Omega Pi.”
Fuck.
Lindsay’s shaky voice follows me out the door. “Jackson, I’m so sorry. Please, don’t be—”
I don’t respond. I have a single thought—find Ava, drag her by the hair back to my bed, and fuck her so hard, and so deep, she won’t be capable of walking, let alone leaving.
I climb into my sports car and drive the short distance around campus to the frat house. It’s faster than walking. I park at the curb, kill the engine, and step out. Loud music pours out of the old Victorian house, the facade now warped and weathered from decades of fraternity abuse.
The front door is open, so I walk in and push through the crush of people, my gaze scanning for a pair of familiar green eyes.
The main floor is packed, bodies grinding against each other, red cups sloshing, someone doing a keg stand in the corner while people cheer.
I move through the crowd like a shark through water, people parting instinctively when they recognize me.
A few nod. Some call out greetings I don’t acknowledge.
I don’t see her.
I check the kitchen—more bodies, more noise. A girl tries to grab my arm and says something I don’t hear over the music. I shake her off and keep moving.
Living room. Nothing.
Back porch. Empty except for a couple making out against the railing.
Fuck.
Then I hear a burst of muffled laughter coming from the basement.
I take the stairs two at a time, the sound of the party fading as I descend into the dimly lit space below. The basement is cooler, darker, but the music gets louder. A handful of people are scattered around, some on ratty couches, others leaning against the unfinished concrete walls.
And there, in the corner near a ratty pool table, I spot her.
Ava.
She’s laughing at something someone said, her head thrown back, that silky brown hair catching in the weak basement light. She’s holding a red cup, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen her in days. And she’s surrounded by people I don’t recognize, or more accurately, people who don’t fucking matter.
My jaw clenches.
She hasn’t seen me yet.
I walk up from behind, the people surrounding her noticing me first, their conversations faltering mid-sentence, eyes going wide as they track my approach. I pause directly behind her, my gaze drilling into the back of her head.
“Ava,” someone says, nudging her, their eyes shifting up to me in warning.
“What?” Ava says, annoyed, turning around. The second her eyes meet mine, she groans. “Ugh. My warden is here.”
I take in what she’s wearing— what looks like a pair of my sweats, rolled at the waist, and one of my t-shirts, cut short to expose her smooth stomach. It looks grungy and sexy as fuck, which is a problem. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
Her eyes narrow at me. “All I have is my waitress uniform, which is filthy, so I had to figure something out.”
She’s drunk. I can see it in her half-lidded eyes, in the way her body sways. I take the drink from her hand and hurl it aside. Several people gasp and move aside as the liquid arcs through the air.
Zero fucks given.
“What the fuck?” Ava yells, shoving at my chest. “Now you owe me a phone and a drink!”
“I owe you a lesson in obedience,” I snarl, snatching her arm. She pulls against me, but she’s drunk, so it’s a weak attempt.
“Let go of me,” she hisses, slamming the fist of her free hand into my chest. “There are actual witnesses here, Jackson. And they’re not the brainwashed members of your little cult. These people are my new friends, and they’ll step in if you try anything.”
Friends. I almost snicker at that. That’s the booze talking. These people aren’t her fucking friends. They’d give her up in a second if they thought it’d save their own skins.
With a sharp tug, I pull her closer, until there’s no space between us, until her soft body is molded to mine. “Should we test that theory?”
Her eyes narrow defiantly. “I know this might come as a shock to you,” she seethes, “but you can’t control everyone, Jackson.”
My hand tightens around her arm. “I don’t give a fuck about everyone,” I growl. “The only person I want to control is you.”