22. Jackson
JACKSON
Irip through another drawer in my office, searching for the missing weapons manifest. The deal's in two days, and Cole will have my head if I don't produce it. It's not like me to misplace things, but I've been a little distracted.
Something has been off with Aliyah. I'm not exactly in the best place to judge since I basically refused to come home the first few days after we slept together. But she pulled me in, she told me she wasn't going anywhere, she made me feel like maybe I didn't have to worry…
And the last few days she's been acting like the same pissed off waitress I first met. Like I fucking kicked her dog and spat in her coffee - and this time, I don't think it was my charming personality that has her acting this way.
She's still staying with me, so I guess that's something. Neither of us have really talked about her leaving, about the fact that I take her to less and less deal meetings and now we're practically just roommates.
We're both good at avoiding the hard things it seems.
Gritting my teeth, I go to the living room, thinking that I must have left it in there. I pull open the drawers of the little table, thinking that maybe the housekeeper put it away. My fingers brush against the false bottom of the last drawer. Strange. I didn't install this.
The wood panel slides away, revealing a stack of manila folders and three thumb drives. A chill crawls up my spine as I pull them out. The first folder contains photographs. There's pictures here from dealings I've taken her to, Ryker's house…and me. My house and office.
My hands shake as I plug one of the drives into my laptop. Audio files. Hundreds of them, organized by date and location. I recognize some of the timestamps - they match nights when I took Aliyah to handle my dealings.
"Son of a bitch."
The third folder stops my breath. It's about me. Every weapons deal I've brokered. Every contact. Bank transfers. Properties. Even photos of my meetings with Ryker. That clever little devil has been documenting everything while playing innocent in my house.
The stairs creak, and my head snaps up. Aliyah stands there in one of the sundresses I bought her, those deceptively innocent eyes widening at the sight of her exposed operation.
"Going somewhere, angel?" My voice comes out lethally quiet.
She takes a step back. "Jackson-"
"Don't." I rise from my crouch, fury pulsing through my veins. "How long have you been gathering intel on my family? On me?"
"I can explain."
"You've been playing me this whole time. Living in my house, pretending to be my captive while you documented every fucking move I made."
Her chin lifts. "What did you expect? That I'd just sit here being your pretty little prisoner without trying to protect myself?"
The steel in her voice only fuels my rage. I advance on her, and she retreats until her back hits the wall. "Protect yourself? This isn't protection - this is ammunition. You've been building a weapon to use against all of us."
I stalk closer, caging her against the wall with my arms. The scent of her perfume hits me - the one I bought her last week when she mentioned liking it. Every little detail feels like a knife now. Was anything real?
"Tell me why." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "What's your endgame here?"
She crosses her arms, that familiar defiant tilt to her chin. "You're really going to stand there and demand answers? You kidnapped me, Jackson. Kept me prisoner in your house because you couldn't handle your little obsession like a normal person."
The truth in her words stings, but the ice in her tone cuts deeper. "I never hurt you."
"Oh, that makes it better?" Her laugh is bitter. "You bought me pretty dresses and fancy perfume while keeping me locked up like a pet. What did you expect?"
"I expected-" The words catch in my throat. What did I expect? That the fierce waitress who caught my eye would eventually see past what I am? That the nights we spent together meant something? "I thought we were..."
"We’re what? Building something real?" Her eyes flash. "In what world does Stockholm Syndrome count as a healthy relationship?"
Each word hits like a physical blow. I'd gotten used to her fire, her sharp tongue - hell, I enjoyed it. But this calculated coldness is new. This isn't my Aliyah. Or maybe this is who she really was all along, and I was too blind to see it.
"So everything was a lie? Every moment?" I grip the wall harder, trying to contain the urge to shake answers out of her. "You're good, angel. Really fucking good. Had me thinking you were just a waitress with an attitude problem."
"Don't call me that." She tilts her head, studying me. "What's wrong, tough guy? Did you actually start believing your own fantasy?"
The mockery in her voice makes something crack inside me. I'd started to let her in - further than anyone since my mother walked out. And like an idiot, I'd started to hope.
My mind races through every moment we've shared, trying to separate truth from lies. But what burns most isn't the intel she gathered - it's that she felt she needed to. That she didn't trust me. That she was more than willing to hurt me.
"You want to know what pisses me off the most?
" I slam my palm against the wall beside her head.
She doesn't flinch. "It's not the files.
It's not the photos. It's that you've been living in my house for months and you're plotting against me.
You were never letting me in the way you told me to do for you. "
"Let you in?" She shoves against my chest. "Why the hell would I trust you? You're the one who grabbed me off the street and locked me up here. You're the one who said you'd let me go when I wasn't useful anymore."
The pain that flashes across her face hits me harder than any punch. She blinks rapidly, trying to hide it, but I catch the way her lower lip trembles before she bites it.
"That's what this is about? You think I still see you as just some asset to use and discard?"
"What else would it be?" Her voice cracks. "Because we fucked? Because you bought me pretty things? Don't pretend this is anything more than what it is - you keeping your enemy close until you're done with me."
"You think that's all this is?" The words tear from my throat.
Everything I've been holding back, every emotion I've tried to bury, erupts.
"You think I spend my nights lying awake wondering if you're going to disappear?
That I buy you things just to see that spark in your eyes?
That I changed my whole fucking routine just to spend more time with you because you're just some asset? "
"It's for control! What else could it be?" She challenges, eyes blazing.
"It's because I fucking love you, damn it!
" The words explode out of me, echoing through the room.
"I love your smart mouth and your attitude and the way you drive me absolutely fucking insane.
I love how you stand up to me when everyone else backs down.
I even love that you were clever enough to gather all this intel right under my nose. "
I lean closer, our chests brushing as we both try to suck in air that doesn't seem to be there.
"And I have always loved how you have buried yourself under my skin, cracked my chest open and climbed in no matter how hard I've tried to drag you out when I have never been worth that to anyone else.
" My voice drops so low it's a rumble. "Or so I thought. "
The silence after my outburst crushes against me like a physical weight. Aliyah's mouth parts, but no words come. Those light brown eyes that have haunted my dreams just stare, wide and startled. For once, her quick tongue fails her.
I can't stand here and watch her search for a gentle way to crush what's left of my heart. With a snarl, I wrench away from the wall and stride out of the room. My footsteps thunder down the hallway as I escape to my study, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
The crystal decanter shakes as I pour three fingers of whiskey. I down it in one burning swallow, welcoming the bite. Pour another. The amber liquid sloshes over the rim as my hands refuse to steady.
Hours pass. The sun sinks below the horizon, painting my study in shadows. I've loosened my tie, rolled up my sleeves, but nothing eases the suffocating pressure in my chest. The whiskey bottle stands half-empty on my desk, a silent witness to my unraveling.
I drag a hand down my face, feeling the rough scratch of stubble. Those words keep echoing in my head. I fucking love you. Christ. I meant it. Every desperate, raw syllable.
The realization hits harder than any bullet. I love her. The waitress who stood up to me when I first grabbed her. The woman who challenges me at every turn, who makes me question everything I thought I knew about myself. Who gathered intel on my operation while sleeping in my bed.
A bitter laugh escapes me. My father always said love would be my undoing, just like it destroyed him when my mother left. I swore I'd never be that weak. Yet here I am, brought to my knees by a woman who's been systematically documenting every way to ruin me.
The whiskey glass cracks in my grip. I set it down before I shatter it completely, watching a drop of blood well up where the edge bit into my palm. This is exactly why I don't do love. It makes you vulnerable. Makes you stupid. Makes you want impossible things.
But fuck if I can stop myself from wanting her anyway.