Chapter 8 #2
"I'm sure it isn't." He didn't sound convinced. It was a lie anyway, inside wasn't all that much nicer.
He studied the building for a moment longer before turning off the engine. "I'll walk you to your door."
"You don't have to?—"
"It's a rough neighborhood, Elena." The use of my first name made me pause. "Humor me."
We dashed through the rain to the building's entrance, trying to dodge the waterfall from the broken gutter as best we could.
We still got drenched anyway. I fumbled with my keys, finally getting the door open.
The lobby light was out again like the first night we were here, leaving the stairwell dimly lit by emergency fixtures.
"Second floor," I said apologetically. "I'm happy to just?—"
"Lead the way." He was not about to walk away, and I knew when to concede.
Jackson followed me up the stairs, his presence solid and reassuring behind me. When we reached my door, I turned to thank him again.
"Thank you, really. I'd hate to have had to call in sick with a cold. I definitely need a shower now though. Would you like to come in for coffee? I can dry your jacket and shirt or something…" My cheeks burned as I tried to stop the words coming out, realizing they could come across suggestive.
He hesitated, then nodded. "Sure."
Crap. What if he thought I wanted something more?
Did I?
I unlocked the door and led him into the small apartment. It was clean but cramped, with a combined living room and kitchen, while a short hallway led to the bedroom and bathroom.
"It's just the one bedroom?" he asked, glancing around as I slipped out of my jacket and hung it on one of the dining chairs.
"Yeah, but Ivy and I are on opposite shifts.
She works nights, so it works out. Plus, the sofa pulls out if needed.
" I moved to the kitchen area. "Make yourself comfortable.
I guess I can't just use the dryer for your jacket…
" I chewed my cheek as I realized I'd fumbled.
The best I could do was use the clothes rack and set it up by the oil heater and hope it would dry it, maybe blot it down with a towel…
"It's okay, coffee is fine." He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the back of the other dining chair while I plugged my phone in to charge on the counter.
I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, acutely aware of Jackson taking in my humble living space. The coffee I pulled from the cabinet was store brand, nothing fancy.
"Sorry, I don't have anything better to offer," I said as I measured it into the French press. A splurge purchase from better days.
"This is fine." He leaned against the counter, watching me. "You said you only just moved in?"
"Yeah, on the weekend actually. Hence me still having bags in my car and such. I had a place with my mom out in Shenton, but..." I trailed off, not wanting to get into my financial troubles and my mom's condition.
"But?"
"Life happens." I shrugged. "Sometimes you have to adjust." I glanced around and managed a lopsided, awkward smile. "Do you mind if I change into something dry? I won't take long."
"Of course." He nodded, and I hurried down the hall.
I changed in record time, snatching up an oversized sweater I'd gotten for Christmas one year.
It was all I had that could possibly fit him.
The oil heater did little to actually warm our crappy apartment, and the guilt at being a bad host was gnawing hard now.
The kettle whistled just as I exited the room, and I returned to find Jackson in my kitchen, pouring the hot water over the grounds I'd gotten ready.
"Oh, sorry, I can do—" As I reached for mugs, Jackson moved at the same time, and our hands brushed. The brief contact sent an unexpected tingle through me, and I nearly dropped the mug.
"Sorry," we said in unison, then shared a small laugh.
He stepped aside, allowing me to take over.
"Here, I have this, it's all I have that could fit," I mumbled as I offered him the oversized green Christmas sweater.
He arched a brow as he eyed the reindeer on the front, the corner of his lip quirking.
"'Merry kiss-my-ass?' I don't know how I feel about that." That smirk spread, and my cheeks burned as I shook my head.
Why was this hot-as-hell guy in my kitchen? Why was I this stupid sometimes? And why was I enjoying it?
"Ivy got it for me," I said quickly. "She thought it was hilarious. But it's the only thing I have that might fit you, since your shirt and jacket…" I closed my eyes, wishing I could dig my way out of this deepening hole.
"Right, well, thank you."
I opened my eyes just as he turned away and began unbuttoning his shirt. The heat in my cheeks only intensified when I realized he intended to change right there.
I turned away partially, turning on my phone to distract myself, but I couldn't help it as I glanced out of the corner of my eye.
He tugged his soaked shirt off, hanging it over his jacket, and revealed the back of a man who never missed the gym and had an addiction to tattoos.
But also one of a man who'd survived what looked like hellfire.
His back was a map of pain and survival.
Charred lines etched across broad muscles like lightning frozen in skin—some silvery and smooth with time, others still holding the dusky pink of half-healed wounds and tinged with the black ink of his tattoos, warping them.
The burns fanned out from one side, as if something had exploded behind him, or as if he'd stood between hell and someone else on purpose.
It wasn’t grotesque. It was terrible , yes, but in the same way war-torn statues are terrible. Ruined and beautiful. Powerful.
Just what had he endured and survived?
I averted my eyes as he pulled on the sweater, and I picked up his mug, making sure to not reveal that I had glimpsed his battle scars.
What was his story? I so badly wanted to know now.
"Barely fits," I noted as I turned to him once he faced me, holding out a mug for him. I couldn't stop the silly grin at how ridiculous he looked in the sweater, the one that swamped me but barely contained him.
"It'll do." He accepted his coffee, our fingers almost touching again as he took it. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, neither of us moved.
Was this actually one o f those moments? A moment where ? —
My phone buzzed on the counter, breaking the moment. I glanced at it as I stepped closer.
The text message preview made my blood run cold as a shiver rippled through me.
It was from Trent Simpson, my PI.
Can't continue investigation. Situation too risky. Powerful people involved. Don't contact me again.
I opened the message, grateful that Jackson had sat down at the dining table as I read over the message once more, my stomach knotting.
"Everything okay?" Jackson asked as he sipped his coffee.
"It's my mom," I lied as my heart lurched. "She's not feeling well."
"I'm sorry to hear that." His expression was unreadable. Was he buying it?
My heart hammered in my chest. "I should probably call her." I wanted to know what the hell was going on.
"Of course." Jackson set down his barely touched coffee. "I should get going anyway. Thanks for the coffee."
"Right." I managed a weak smile as he rose. A part of me wanted to urge him to stay and at least finish his coffee, but the other wanted to cal Trent right away. "Thank you for the ride. I really appreciate it."
He nodded. "See you tomorrow, Elena. I'll return the sweater."
"No need, looks better on you," I said before I could stop myself.
Thankfully, he just gave me an amused nod before he gathered his wet clothing and headed for the door.
As soon as the door closed behind him, I called Trent. It rang several times before he answered.
"I told you not to contact me again," he said, his voice tense.
"What happened? What did you find?"
"Nothing. And that's how it's going to stay." His breathing was shallow. "Leave it alone, Elena. These people... they're not who you want to mess with."
"But my father?—"
"Is dead. Let him stay that way." He paused. "I'm sorry about your mother, but this isn't the way."
"Trent, please?—"
"Goodbye, Elena. Don't call again."
The line went dead. I tried calling back immediately, but it went straight to voicemail. A text message failed to deliver—he'd blocked my number.
With shaking hands, I texted Ivy.
Trent just texted. Says situation too risky. What the hell is going on? He won't answer and my texts aren't going through now.
I set the phone down and paced the small apartment, my mind racing. I'd thought the Donatis were just wealthy business owners. What could have scared Trent like this?
Jackson's words echoed in my head: "They inspire loyalty." "They're honorable people."
But what kind of "honorable people" would make a private investigator cut ties and run?
I sat at the dining table and opened my laptop, determined to get some work done for Aaron Accounting despite my messy thoughts.
But as I stared at the spreadsheets, all I could think about was Jackson's furrowed brow when he saw my address, the way his eyes had lingered on mine, and the terrifying possibility that Ivy had been right all along.
Maybe there was something darker behind the Donati family's wealth and power. Something dangerous enough to make Trent Simpson turn tail.
And I was right in the middle of it.