Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Ava
Jackson is holding my arm, looking down at me with those cold green eyes, and I’d be lying if I said that hard, murderous look didn’t get me wet. It always has.
Fuck him, though. For real.
“Why are you even here?” I hiss, feeling much braver than I should, thanks to the four vodka shots that are currently pulsing through my bloodstream. Wait, no. Five.
“What did I say about trying to escape?” he bites out, his tone dripping with a calm that should probably terrify me. If I had any sense of self-preservation, it might.
I shake my head. “Actually, technically, I’m still on the university premises,” I point out, using my pre-planned reasoning. “I haven’t left campus, and Rush House is on campus, so…” I shrug.
He narrows his eyes at me, his grip tightening, like he’s pissed that I’ve logic’d my way out of his punishment. Is that a word, logic’d? Hm.
“You’re drunk.”
“Wow, so perceptive,” I shoot back, my head spinning.
“I’m taking you home.”
Home. Ugh.
I’m so far away from my actual home, it makes my chest ache. I wonder if I’ll ever see it again…
He starts pulling me toward the staircase that leads back up to the main part of the house, and I pull in counterpoint to him, digging my heels in. “I’m not ready to leave.”
Everyone is looking at us now. It’s like someone picked up a remote control and pressed “pause” on the whole party. Music thrums in the background, but even that sounds muted.
He turns, and the second he’s within striking distance, I slap him across the face—really hard. Harder than I intended, actually. A collective gasp ripples across the basement, and when I pull my hand back, my palm feels like it’s on fire.
His perfect, flawless face shifts from anger to pure, undiluted rage. His jaw is set, a tick pulsing under the flush of red on his cheek. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, his grip on my arm tightening painfully.
“And yet, I did,” I respond, resisting the urge to shake out the pain in my hand. I don’t want him to know that the slap hurt me as much as I’m sure it hurt him. “And I’ll do it again if you don’t let go of me.”
People are backing up now, giving us space, like they don’t even want to be peripherally involved with what’s happening. And I’ve noticed my new friends are nowhere to be seen. Cowards.
“We’re leaving,” he growls. “Continue to fight me, and I swear to God, Ava…”
The threat sparks something in me. What makes him think he can just tell me what to do? I’m a grown-ass woman. “You can go fuck yourself, Jackson McKnight,” I scream loud enough to be heard over the music.
With a sharp jerk, I tear my arm free, and by some miracle, his grip actually breaks. I turn and start walking away, but I only get a couple of steps before I’m yanked off my feet from behind.
Jackson spins me around and shoves me into a table, knocking over a mess of half-full solo cups that bounce and spill across the cement floor. Everyone jumps back.
“Why don’t I just fuck you?” His tone is low, wicked, and it sends a path of fire snaking through my veins. “Right here. Right now.”
My eyes dart around to the forty-plus people staring at us.
“You wouldn’t da—”
My words are cut off when he lifts me onto the table abruptly, his hot mouth latching onto my throat.
My flip-flops have flown off, so I kick at him with my bare feet, trying to shove him away from me, but I’m nowhere near strong enough.
His hand slips past the waistband of my sweat pants, and that sends a new wave of panic shooting through me, because then he’ll know…
“No!” I yelp, thrashing harder, my nails biting into his arm. He doesn’t even flinch. It’s like my resistance barely registers. I shove against his chest, claw at his face, my body twisting frantically beneath his weight.
Then his fingers force their way inside me, and he pauses.
“Well, well,” he says against my throat, a low chuckle vibrating through me. “Looks who’s already wet for me.”
Shame scorches through me, colliding with the heat igniting in my veins, every throb of my body betraying me.
I shove against him again, but it does nothing to blunt the rough demand of his fingers inside me.
My stomach knots, vodka sloshing around like acid in my stomach.
I feel hot, and the world tilts, bile burning the back of my throat—and before I can stop it, my body revolts.
I turn my head and vomit over the edge of the table, the vodka-colored liquid splashing across the cement floor.
Jackson jerks back, one brow arched in disapproval as he glances down at me. He barks an order for someone to clean up the mess, then slides an arm beneath my knees, another around my back, and lifts me like I weigh nothing.
My stomach lurches as he carries me up the stairs and out to his black sports car that’s waiting at the curb. Queasy, I sag against him while he bundles me into the passenger seat. A moment later, he slides into the driver’s seat.
Once we’re back at Rush House, upstairs, and in his bedroom, he deposits me onto his bed.
But almost immediately, my stomach roils violently again, and I roll off the mattress, then stagger to the bathroom, where I collapse to my knees in front of the toilet.
What’s left in my stomach comes rushing up like liquid fire.
I’m moaning, eyes shut to keep the room from spinning, my cheek pressed against the cool toilet seat. Normally, having the toilet seat anywhere near my face would gross me out, but that’s how far gone I am. I don’t even care. It’s all about survival, at this point.
A second later, I feel fingers threading through my hair to pull it up, then a cool, damp washcloth pressed against the back of my neck. Oh, my God. It feels so nice.
“Why did you let me drink so much?” I whimper. I realize it wasn’t really his fault, but it feels good to blame him anyway.
“If I were there, I wouldn’t have,” he answers quietly. “But you never listen, anyway.”
Opening my eyes, I see Jackson kneeling beside me, his perfectly symmetrical face staring back at me. Goddamn, he’s beautiful.
“You look like a Greek statue,” I mumble, my brain foggy.
His hand falls away, and his brows pinch together. “What?”
I’m so tired.
I lift my hand and press it to his chest. Heat radiates through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, his pec a solid slab of stone beneath my palm. Right then, it occurs to me that he could snap me in two with very little effort if he wanted to. “Should I be afraid of you?”
“No,” he snaps.
I purse my lips. “I’ve seen what you’re capable of.”
He stares at me for a second before asking, “Are you afraid of me, Ava?”
That’s such a complicated question. It should be an easy one to answer, but then again, nothing about Jackson has ever been simple.
When we first met, I knew he was dangerous.
There’d been rumors. And I knew he’d be no good for me.
I mean, seriously, with a face-card like his, breaking hearts isn’t just a possibility, it’s a guarantee.
“I don’t know—” I lift my head, and immediately regret it. The room spins like a tilt-a-whirl. “Maybe, I am.”
But not in the way he thinks. Not in the way he’s asking. I know he’s capable of some serious, bone-crushing violence. I’ve witnessed it more than once. But he’s never hurt me physically, and God knows, he’s had plenty of opportunity.
“Good,” he says, reaching out to brush a stray hair away from my face. “I’m not a nice guy, and I never will be. You should remember that.”
I snort softly. “Don’t worry, I don’t think anyone is accusing you of being a nice guy.”
He hooks a finger under my chin and tilts my face up. “How do you feel?”
I swallow back a fresh wave of nausea. “Like I’m dying.”
“Come on,” he says, picking me up. “Straight to bed.”
“I might throw up again,” I moan, and with all the jostling as he walks me back into the bedroom, might is becoming more and more definite.
“You can’t stay in the bathroom,” he says, placing me gently on the mattress. Then he disappears for a second and comes back with a small, empty trash can. “If you feel sick, you can use this.”
“I’m never drinking ever again,” I whimper, rolling onto my side and curling up into a tight ball. This position seems to help with the nausea a little.
My eyes drift closed, and I can hear him rustling around in the background. A few seconds later, the mattress dips under his weight, and I feel cold plastic pressed against my cheek. “You need to drink this,” he says.
When I open my eyes, he’s stretched out next to me on the bed, looking sexy-as-fuck. He has a sports drink in his hand, the cap already removed.
“If I drink that, it’s going to come right back up.” I know my body, and my stomach has always been extra sensitive, especially when I’m sick.
“You need the electrolytes,” he says. “So you either drink it willingly, or I’ll make you do it. Up to you.”
With a scoff, I sit up and drink three small sips, just to satisfy him. And if it comes back up, I’ll deliberately aim for him. “There. Happy?”
He sets the bottle down on the nightstand. “For now.”
The drink settles in my stomach, and I wait for it to come back up, but it doesn’t. Ugh. I hate it when he’s right.
“You’re so damn bossy,” I say. “Do you know that about yourself?”
“I have to be,” he says, settling against the pillows, arm tucked behind his head. Meanwhile, I can’t even lift my head without the room swaying like the deck of a ship.
“Why do you have to be?” I ask.
“Because people can’t be trusted,” he says simply.
A tired laugh slips out. “Including me?” I murmur, lifting my eyes to look at his face. My body feels like lead, but my chest is tight, waiting for his answer.
There’s a long stretch of silence before he reaches out and brushes a finger down my cheek. “Try to get some sleep,” he says, shifting like he’s about to get up.
I reach out and place a hand on his bicep. “Just stay for a minute,” I whisper, my eyes heavy. His muscles tense for a moment, then relax beneath my hand. And the last thing I register before sleep pulls me under is the comforting warmth of Jackson’s body next to me…