“I have someone who runs errands and shit for me when I don’t have time.” Kingston shrugs.
“Like a gopher?”
He gives me a wry look. “Call him what you want, but I think of him more as a personal assistant.”
What eighteen-year-old—who isn’t in Hollywood—needs an assistant? Kingston Davenport, apparently.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter. “Is this assistant one of your resources? Is he the guy you hired to look into my attack?”
He shakes his head. "I know a private investigator. He has a lot of contacts—in and out of law enforcement, hence the police report. This guy has a knack for getting information most people wouldn't have access to, including the cops."
I fold my arms over my chest. “And how exactly does he accomplish that?”
Kingston smirks. “I tend not to ask those questions. Plausible deniability and all that.”
I pop an eyebrow. “In other words, this P.I. of yours obtains information through illegal means.”
“I’m sure some of his methods are perfectly legal,” Kingston argues. “Either way, it’s his job to worry about how he gets the information. It’s my job to pay him an obscene amount of money for that information.”
“Why do you know a P.I., anyway?”
“Because information is power,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Information about this thing you’re keeping from me?”
“Among other things.” He bites his lip, looking contemplative. “Can I say something?”
I take a deep breath and let it out. “Go ahead.”
“I can’t get the image of you lying on the ground, beaten and bloody out of my head. I can’t stop imagining all the horrendous possibilities of what you went through. It’s all I think about, day and night. It’s fucking eating me alive, Jazz—all these what-ifs. I need to know what really happened.”
My head snaps up when he barely chokes out that last sentence. The commanding tone I've come to associate with Kingston Davenport is nowhere to be found. His voice is shaky, unsure. My chest aches when I hear the agony bleeding through his words. I know it costs him a lot to have this conversation in front of Bentley. As close as these two are, I don't get the impression they like showing vulnerability to anyone.
I think about Bentley asking me whether or not I was raped. How relieved he was when I refuted it. The last time I saw Bent was before my attack, so the only way he could’ve known it was a possibility was if Kingston had mentioned it. Is that what Kingston is so worried about? Does he think I lied to cops about it for some reason? The way he’s looking at me right now—waiting on bated breath—tells me it might be.
“Tell him, baby girl,” Bentley says softly. “He needs to know.”
“I wasn’t raped.”
Kingston closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, muttering something under his breath. When he opens them again, he asks, “What did happen?”
"Everything that's on the report is what actually happened, Kingston. I didn't lie about anything if that's what you're thinking. I just didn't give them all the information.”
Kingston frowns. “So, what—”
I hold my hand up. "It's late, and I'm fucking exhausted. I'd really like to go back to sleep now."
Bentley kisses me on the cheek and gets off the bed. “I guess that’s my cue to bounce. Text if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Bentley.”
Bentley pauses in the doorway. “You coming, man?”
Kingston barely spares him a glance. “In a minute.”
Bentley nods. “I’ll wait out front. We need to talk. Bye, Jazzy Jazz.”
Kingston waits until Bentley shuts the door behind him before speaking again. “Why are you hiding something from me? Withholding vital information could prevent us from catching the fuckheads who did this to you.”
Because I can’t ignore the doubt those men have instilled in me. If I tell you what they said, I have to face the fact that it might be true.
I try shaking off the memory, but it doesn’t work.
Your precious boyfriend doesn't give a shit about you...sweet-talking you out of your panties was all part of the plan.
I suppress a shiver. "I don't think it's relevant information. I just spoke with the detective this afternoon. The police are actively working the case. I'm sure they'll figure it out."
“Oh, really? And how many leads do they have so far?”
I bite my bottom lip. “Well, none. Yet. But you already know that, don’t you?”
“C’mon, Jazz. Deep down, you know you can trust me. You know I can help. You don’t have to do this alone.”
He seems so sincere, and I desperately want to believe this man had nothing to do with my attack, but I’m scared. I don’t ever want to be that vulnerable again, and Kingston Davenport is probably the one person on Earth who has the power to obliterate every one of my walls.
“Kingston...” I rub at the kink in my neck. “I need more time to process my thoughts.”
His Cavill-esque jaw tics as he considers that for a few moments. “How was your follow up with the doctor this morning?”
I blink rapidly from the sudden change in topic. “How did you know I had a doctor’s appointment this morning?”
He gives me a wry look. “Really?”
I shake my head. “Ah, your stalker tendencies. How could I forget?”
“I’m not stalking you; I’m trying to keep you safe.”
I raise my brows. “Sounds like something a stalkery stalker would say.”
His eyes narrow. “Can you be serious for a minute?”
"Who says I'm not serious?"
“Christ, Jazz!” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m not the goddamn enemy! Quick picking stupid fights with me and just answer the damn question.”
Is that what I’m doing? Ah, crap.
“Fine. The stitches came out, which was a relief because they itched like crazy. My wrist is healing well. I go back in a week, and the doctor said if all goes according to plan, he'll clear me to return to school then." I cross my arms. "Anything else you'd like to say before you G-T-F-O?"
His hazel eyes narrow. “I really don’t like you staying here.”
I prop a hand on my hip. “As I’ve already told you, I have nowhere else to go. I’m not crashing at your place, Kingston.”
He releases a heavy sigh. "I'm coming back in the morning, and we are going to talk about this some more.”
“You have classes in the morning.”
He lifts an eyebrow in challenge. “I don’t give a fuck.”
“Haven’t you missed enough school lately?”
“So have you.”
I huff. “I’m not going to have your inability to graduate on my conscience.”
Kingston gives me a smug look. “I have a 4.3 GPA and got a 1560 on my SATs. I think I’ll be fine.”
I knew he was smart, but damn. Kingston smirks as he stands, and the sight of it makes my lady bits take notice. Nope, not going there.
I sigh. “Are you really ready to stop hiding what you know? One hundred percent full disclosure?”