Jazz walks throughout the open space, cataloging the small kitchen and living room. I don't like a lot of clutter, so the furnishings I do have are minimal, but they're plush and built for comfort. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to fantasize about all the dirty things I'd like to do to her as she ventures into my bedroom. I will my dick to calm the fuck down because I'm wearing sweatpants, which would do a shit job hiding an erection.
I'm not an idiot; I know damn well that nothing physical is going to happen between us anytime soon. I may be an asshole, but I'm not going to make a move on a woman while she's recovering from a traumatic event. Sure, I give her crap and throw around all sorts of innuendo, but that's because I think Jazz needs that normalcy right now. I can't imagine all the horrible shit running through her head, and I know what I tell her tonight is only going to make that worse.
That's exactly why I was trying to delay this conversation as long as possible, but she's left me no other choice. Finding out who attacked Jazz is the most pressing issue at the moment, and if she needs me to answer some questions before she'll answer mine, so be it. Jazz heads back into the living area and lowers herself to the couch while I walk over to the kitchen and open the fridge.
I hold up a bottle of water. “You want one?”
“Sure.” When I hand it to her, she adds, “Thanks.”
I take a seat on the cushion next to her. I kept going back and forth on where to begin with this and finally settled on the very beginning.
“What do you know about your mom’s childhood?”
Jazz frowns. “Um...basic stuff, I guess. She had kind of a crappy one, so she didn’t talk about it much. She was a firm believer in the old adage, ‘You can’t create the future if you’re all wrapped up in the past’.”
I turn my body toward hers. “When you say, ‘crappy’, how so?”
“I’m confused as to why this matters.”
“I’m getting there,” I assure her. “Just go with it.”
Jazz captures her lower lip between her teeth as she thinks about it. “Well, I know she bounced around the foster system. The woman who gave birth to her was really young when my mom was born—like fourteen, I think. She relinquished her parental rights before she even left the hospital. I’m not sure my mom ever knew why she was abandoned or why she was never adopted.” She takes a big gulp of water. “Why are you asking me this?”
I set my water on the end table. “I’ll be right back. I need to grab something out of my closet.”
Jazz scrunches her brows. “Um...okay.”
I grab the photo album I need and flip through it until I find the picture I was looking for. With my thumb bookmarking the page, I take a seat on the couch again.
Jazz points to the photo album. “What’s that?”
“A photo album.”
“Obviously. An older one, from the looks of it. You can’t distract me with your cute baby pictures, Kingston.”
"I'm flattered you assume I was a cute baby—which is one hundred percent accurate—but that's not why I have it."
She sighs. “Will you please get to the point?”
I take a deep breath before flipping the album open. I carefully peel back the protective layer and extract the photo of our moms.
I hand the photo to Jazz. “Look at that.”
Jazz slams a hand over her mouth to cover her loud gasp. Her eyes widen, and her other hand trembles as she looks at a picture of our mothers standing next to each other with three toddlers at their feet.
After a moment, she finally speaks. “What the hell is this? Where did you get it?”
I point to the beautiful blonde on the left. “That is Jennifer Wilkes-Davenport. Also known as my mom.”
Jazz’s eyes are quickly filling with tears. “Why are your mom and my mom in a picture together?” She holds up the photo. “That little girl on the right is me.”
"And the two on the left are Ainsley and me."
She shakes her head. “I don’t understand. It has to be doctored or something.”
“Jazz, there’s no doubt in my mind it’s an original. That album has been hidden away in my closet for the last nine years.”
Her face softens as she traces her mom’s image with her index finger. “Do you have a better explanation?”
"I do." I nod. "When I first ran into that photo, I was nine, maybe ten years old. I asked my dad who the other woman and child were, and he said it was one of my mom's old friends and her daughter. He tried taking the picture away from me—which in retrospect was really weird—but I found it on his desk a while later and stole it back.”
“Our moms were friends?”
I gesture to the picture. Both women have their arms around each other in a side hug. “I’d say yes based on their smiles and body language.”
"That makes no sense. How can our moms hang out with each other when we were kids when my father didn't know I existed until recently? My mom told me so herself—she left when she was pregnant without ever telling him." She studies the picture again. "Holy shit!"
“What?”
She points to the sliding glass door in the background. “That’s the door leading to Charles’ back yard. This photo was taken at his house.”
I already knew that, so I simply nod in agreement.
Jazz pinches the bridge of her nose. “Please tell me you have an explanation because now I have even more questions.”
I grab her hand. “Jazz, look at me.” I wait until her eyes meet mine before continuing. “What do you remember from our little eavesdropping adventure?”
If she thinks about it, the conversation we overheard between our fathers proves they both knew about Mahalia’s pregnancy.
Her brown eyes widen as it hits her. "Oh, my God. They lied—both Charles and my mom. He knew about me all along, didn’t he?”
I nod my head. “Yeah, he did. I’m pretty sure Madeline knew, too. John, my P.I., dug up tax records proving your mom worked at the mansion as a live-in maid shortly before you were born until you were two or three years old. Madeline and Peyton would’ve moved in somewhere in the middle of that timeframe. I can’t imagine she’d allow someone else’s child to live in that house without good reason.”
“But why would my mom hide that? She already told me he wasn’t a good man, so why wouldn’t she be honest about when she left?”
I shrug. “If I had to guess, I’d say she was trying to protect you. The less you knew, the better.”
“What am I missing? There has to be more to this story.”
“There is.”
Here we go.
CHAPTER TEN
KINGSTON
“I don’t know how to say this, other than just saying it, so...” I fill my lungs with air before releasing my breath. “I’m fairly certain our dads run some kind of sex trafficking ring and have been for a very long time.”
Jazz blinks rapidly. “O-kay...that’s...wow, um...that’s really fucked up. But what does that have to do with my mom?”
My lips thin. “Because I think your mom was directly...affected by it.”