24. Jayce
TWENTY-FOUR
Jayce
T he car pulls to a slow stop, tires splashing against the slick pavement. The rain has started to fall, light at first, then heavier, drumming against the windshield like the heartbeat still raging in my chest. Rosie’s driver shifts the car into park, engine idling, waiting. But I can’t sit here. Not with this fire inside me.
“You can stop scowling at me now,” Rosie murmurs, but her voice is softer this time, almost unsure.
I push the door open without a word, stepping out into the rain. It’s cold, soaking through my shirt in seconds, but it does nothing to cool my fury. A beat later, Rosie follows, slamming her door shut.
The rain makes everything hazy, the streetlights glowing in a golden blur as I walk up to Ethan’s house.
“Jay,” she yells after me. “Talk to me. You can’t just not talk to me for an entire car ride and then…keep on not talking!”
I stop and look at her. Soaked, defiant, infuriatingly stubborn, and alive. She’s alive.
I don’t say anything. I can’t.
My blood is still boiling, my pulse hammering from the fear that gripped me when I realized she went after Peter. The images won’t leave my head—Rosie being dragged into the darkness, a gun pressed against her side…and the worst part? My body betrayed me. My leg locked up when I tried to run after her, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. I should’ve gotten to her faster. But I couldn’t. What man am I? I clench my jaw and force the words out.
“Swear to me,” I demand, not caring a bit that the rain is drowning me. “Swear you won’t put yourself in danger like that ever again.”
“You would’ve done the same, Jay.”
Yeah, if my leg wouldn’t have killed me.
I don’t step closer. “That’s not the point! I was terrified for you. Do you even realize what could’ve happened? What if I hadn’t found you in time? What if someone worse had gotten to you first? That man has drugged you, for fuck’s sake!”
She shivers, whether from the rain or my words, I don’t know. But then she smirks—weakly, barely there. “I had a plan.”
“A plan?” I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “What? Stabbing Peter with your heel?”
“For example,” she fucking dares to say.
“That’s not funny,” I yell. “You don’t get to joke about this. I need you to be safe. I need you to stop throwing yourself into situations where I might lose you.”
And it’s out before I can even think about what I just said.
The air between us crackles, charged with more than just rain and tension. She blinks at me, lips slightly parted, her eyes scanning my face as the water pours down her hair, turning it into a cascade of dark curls.
“Jay…that’s…” Her brows draw together. “I never threw myself into danger in front of you before?”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “No? Fuck, Rosie. You don’t remember all the times I put you to bed because you had too much?”
She’s silent now, just staring at me as the rain drips from her lashes.
“I can’t even count on one hand how many nights I sat by your bed, just hoping you’d wake up okay.”
Her breath catches. “But…but, you never—”
“I never said anything, yeah,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “Because I didn’t want you to see it for what it was. Because we could never be a thing. Because your brother would kill me. Because I fucking love taking care of you. Because—”
“Wait—that was you? The pool house party last summer? And—”
“The gala. Your birthday. The night we celebrated the Stanley Cup. All of it. Me.” I shake my head, exhaling sharply and slowly walking up the stairs because I’m already fucking wet. “Ask your driver—he and I know each other better than you think.”
When I turn around again, she’s staring at me like she’s never seen me before. And maybe she hasn’t. Not like this. This is the true me. The man who’s been hopelessly in love with her for years . The man who fought his guilty conscience more often than anything.
“Jay,” she whispers, walking toward me with that dress clinging to her every curve.
“Sometimes I promised Riley I’d get you home. I couldn’t just leave you. Never could. And your driver? He always knew where to take me after.”
The silence that follows is unbearable. She blinks once, twice, as if trying to process the weight of what I just said.
Then, barely above a whisper, “But…”
I shake my head. “For the love of God, Rosie, stop making me worry. Stop giving me this fucking anxiety. Stop putting yourself in danger, because I can’t—” My voice breaks. I exhale sharply and run a hand through my hair. “I can’t lose you. Not to drugs. Not to anything.”
She opens her mouth, then hesitates. “But…I’m not helpless, Jay.”
“I know that.” My eyes lock onto hers, desperate for her to understand. “But you’re not invincible either.”
“Do you have any idea what it did to me when I realized you were gone?” My voice is rough, thick with something I can’t hold back anymore. “I would’ve torn the whole damn city apart to find you.”
She swallows, her fingers curling in her lap. And this time, when she looks at me, I swear I see something crack open between us—something deep, something dangerous.
Something that was always there, waiting.
“I didn’t think it through,” she murmurs. “I’m just…I’m dying inside, Jay. Imagine if you didn’t know what someone had done to you. What they put in your body. What they did with your body. I have no clue what they did to me . Peter was some hope for me. I couldn’t let it slip away.”
But it did. Because the minute she ran out of the club, Peter was nowhere to be found.
The anger I’ve been clinging to crumbles.
I grab her shoulders and kiss her, hard.
“I just—” I whisper. “I just…I can’t lose you. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m utterly, completely…” I hesitate. I can’t say in love. Not now. Not when everything feels like it’s about to crack apart. “Dependent on you,” I finish instead. “I can’t lose you, do you hear me?” My voice is almost a plea now. “You’re no longer just my best friend’s younger sister. In fact, you never truly were. I can’t let you go, especially now, after all these years, I finally have the chance to be with you—”
She moves before I can finish, her hands cupping my face, her lips crashing into mine. It’s desperate, wild, fueled by heat and fear and something we’ve both been too afraid to name. The rain soaks through our clothes, plastering her hair to her face, but none of it matters. All I can taste is her, all I can feel is her—warm and alive and everything I’ve ever wanted but told myself I couldn’t have.
I clutch her tighter, pulling her against me, as if letting go would mean indeed losing her forever. My fingers slide against the slick fabric of her dress as my lips mold to hers, deepening the kiss until there’s no air left between us. Her breath hitches as I kiss her harder, pouring every unspoken word, every buried feeling into this moment. And just like that, all these moments come back, all these times I longed for her, I stole glances, I watched her even though I shouldn’t.
She’s my sin. My poison. My virtue. My antidote. My everything.
The rain beats down on us, cold and relentless, but she is heat and light, burning through every wall I ever built.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers in between kisses.
“I almost lost you,” I breathe into her mouth.
We crash against Ethan’s door, our hands roaming, grasping, desperate for more.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, her fingers clinging to my drenched shirt.
And then— wham —we crash into something else. A wall? A mailbox? Who knows. Who cares. I’m too busy trying to remember how to breathe. “I need you, Rosie. I need you like I need air.”
She shudders against me.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice now a little quieter.
That’s when the door bursts open, and there’s Ethan, staring at us as if we just torched his home.
We immediately break apart, hearts racing, faces burning. He glares at us, clearly not impressed with our romantic display . Or maybe just with us entirely.
Ethan crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing. “Seriously? In front of my door? What are you, teenagers?”
We just stand there, sheepish, and I half expect him to tell us to get a room. But, well, it is what it is. At least I’m not actually on fire.
Ethan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great. Just great.” He steps aside, muttering under his breath as we stumble inside, puddles forming beneath our feet. “I don’t even wanna know. But if my couch gets wet, you’re both dead.”
Rosie laughs, and I can only wish to be as carefree as she is in moments like this. My cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, while she treats it like any ordinary day.
“Stop bitching, Ethan,” she says, slipping off her heels just as Ethan’s boyfriend, Aiden, arrives with two blankets.
“Thanks,” Rosie and I say, taking the blankets to wrap ourselves up. I’m not too wet anymore since I managed to hang up my jacket, but my pants and hair are still drenched . Rosie, on the other hand, is soaked from head to toe, and her dress clings to her in a way that makes me glad Ethan and Aiden aren’t interested in women.
She wraps herself up and strides into Ethan’s impeccably organized apartment. Naturally, Ethan grumbles, but Rosie ignores him and goes directly to his white dining table, where his laptop sits.
“Sure. Just come in and use my stuff. No problem,” Ethan mutters, shooing her away before she can even touch it.
“We have footage,” Rosie says, sitting in the chair across from him and tapping her fingers impatiently. “We need to compare it to what you found.”
Aiden heads to the kitchen, bringing us water and some crackers. It’s then I notice he’s in joggers, while Ethan remains in his usual gray suit. I wonder if he changed after Rosie called to say she was coming over. Honestly, who wears a suit all the time?
Ethan lets out a sigh and gives Aiden an apologetic glance, but he just grins. “No worries, I’ll make myself at home,” he says, gesturing toward the TV.
“I do worry,” Ethan mutters, plugging in the USB. “We have a long-distance relationship, and these idiots are wasting our valuable time.”
Okay, that’s when I start to feel guilty. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“Sorry,” Rosie echoes, but Ethan just sighs again.
“So, when’s the wedding?” he asks, not even looking at me.
“A month from now,” I deadpan.
Ethan actually smiles while typing away. “Funny.”
“Stupid question deserves a stupid answer.”
Rosie squeezes my hand, suppressing a laugh.
Ethan just shakes his head. “So, I’m sure Riley is still in the dark. You need to inform him. I don’t want any involvement in this, and if he finds out I was aware from the start, he’ll have a fit like always, and I have enough headache with Rosalie right now.”
“We will,” I say, clearing my throat. Truthfully, we hadn’t even talked about it yet. But I’m not letting her go anymore. So, whatever I believed would be the simpler solution won’t be an option. Actually, it never was an option in the first place.
Ethan mutters something about inevitable disaster, then pauses. His eyes flick over the blue screen.
“Interesting.”
Rosie springs to action like a squirrel on caffeine, zooming to his side and hovering over his shoulder. Ethan grimaces, leans away, and tries to reclaim his personal space, but Rosie just readjusts and perches on him.
“Do you mind?” Ethan grits out, twisting awkwardly.
“Not even a little,” Rosie says, eyes still glued to the screen.
Ethan exhales the long-suffering sigh of a man who has seen too much. “I regret every choice that led me to this moment.”
I get up, too, my leg still throbbing from earlier, and place a hand on her waist while we all watch the footage that shows Rosie entering the club. She looks conscious—technically—but her movements are off, her laughter too loose, her balance just slightly wrong. She throws her head back, grinning at a guy in baggy jeans and an even baggier white shirt. Kix Lyle.
I frown.
I hate musicians.
“Zoom in,” she orders. “Please.”
Ethan obliges, and we watch as three men close in around her, ushering her inside. And I’m this close to hunting them down.
“I wasn’t only on coke here,” Rosie mutters, crossing her arms.
Ethan fast-forwards. The VIP lounge. Drinks in hand. And then—another person joins them.
“Oh. Shit.”
Rosie’s face drains of color. “No way.”
“Well, looks like the bitch lied to us,” I say, jaw tight.
“Why would the bartender cover for Charlotte?” Rosie asks, her eyes fixed on the screen, on the girl she once trusted. I never liked her, but, well, that’s not helping right now.
Ethan rewinds, zooms in. Charlotte leans in, kissing someone.
“Who is that?” Rosie reaches for the laptop mouse, probably to make the picture bigger, but Ethan clicks his tongue sharply, like she’s one of his misbehaving cats.
“If you’d like to live through the night, never, ever touch my stuff again.”
“Okay, okay.” She mock raises her hands in surrender.
I take them in mine, holding her close, steady. Keeping her safe.
Because God knows my patience has its limits.
Ethan zooms in once more, yet the image remains unclear. Despite this, Rosie gasps. She likely can’t see anything. What the hell?
“Oh. Okay,” she says. “He was protecting Charlotte. That’s him kissing her.”
I squint at the screen. “You can tell that from what? That’s all pixels.”
“It’s Peter,” she insists, freeing one hand from my clutches and jabbing a finger at what I assume is supposed to be a head. She’s careful not to touch the screen though. “See? That’s his red hair.”
I squint harder. The pixels shift, almost taunting me. “Rosie, that could be a traffic cone.”
She huffs. “No! Look at the shade—burnt orange. That’s definitely his hair.”
I stare at the screen, then at her. Then back at the screen. “I mean…sure. Or it’s a Cheeto.”
Ethan sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. “I could be working for a baseball team…I had the chance…”
“No, it’s him. It makes perfect sense. The only thing…why would Charlotte kiss a bartender?” Rosie says. “She always called them ‘lower-class’ jobs.”
Ethan zooms in on the guy’s wrist resting on Charlotte’s hip.
There’s a watch.
“Oh. Hold on.” My stomach tightens. “I know that watch.”
“The Rolex! He wore it in the club too,” Rosie says.
“And when we visited Charlotte, it was on her coffee table.”
“Oh God, yes,” Rosie says. “It had to be his. But how the hell could a bartender afford that? It’s not a cheap model.”
“A waiter doesn’t buy a Rolex,” Ethan states flatly.
The video continues. Charlotte leans over the bar, exchanging hushed words with Peter, and now I see it too. Yeah, she’s probably right; damn it, she has good eyes.
Peter hands Charlotte a drink and she walks it right over to Rosie.
A few minutes later, Charlotte brings Kix Lyle a drink too. He reaches for one, but she gives him the other. All planned.
Rosie sucks in a breath. “She drugged us both.”
“Why would she do that?” Jay asks, voice tight.
“Why does anyone?” Ethan mutters.
“But why use Kix Lyle?” Rosie asks. “She doesn’t even know him.”
A sick feeling curls in my stomach as the pieces click into place.
“She wasn’t after Kix Lyle,” I say slowly. “She was after you .”
And in that moment, Ethan’s phone goes absolutely feral—buzzing, dinging, vibrating like it’s possessed. His laptop pings nonstop with incoming emails, the sheer volume of notifications making him look personally offended.
Then, Rosie’s phone starts ringing too.
She freezes, glancing up at me first, eyes wide, before hesitantly picking it up.
“Riley?”
There’s a pause, and then her brother’s voice explodes through the speaker. “Rosie—what the actual fuck did you do?”