Page 17 of Call It What You Want
“Thank God,” I whisper to myself.
But the second my foot hits the cold marble tiles, I hear voices drift in from the hallway. Laughter, actually. And it’s headed straight for the kitchen. Is it Jackson? Is it someone who knows I shouldn’t be down here?
“Shit.” Do I sprint for the back door? Or do I hide? To get to the back door, I’d have to cross the length of the kitchen, which feels too risky. So, instead, I lunge for a broom closet that’s tucked under the staircase.
Darkness swallows me up, and as I click the door shut, it becomes apparent this isn’t a closet. My fingertips brush against the wall until I find the outline of a railing, and that’s when I realize I’m standing at the top of a narrow staircase. This must be the basement. It’s cooler in here. The air is damp and heavy, curling up from below like the breath of something creepy waiting in the dark.
The absolute last thing I want to do is go down there, but…what if there’s an exterior door that dumps out into the backyard? It’d be easier than escaping through the kitchen.
I’m halfway down the staircase when I hear voices echo in the darkness, coming from somewhere below. I recognize the baritone instantly. It’s Jackson’s voice, tense and angry. I pause, heart in my throat, and start heading back the way I came, when suddenly, I hear something that stops me cold.
“What the fuck do you know about Ava?” he asks.
What the fuck?
My name, spoken in the darkness, sends my anxiety spiraling. Who is Jackson talking to? And more importantly, whatdoesthis guy know about me?
Another voice responds, rougher, like gravel scraping against stone. “I know she isn’t as innocent as she pretends to be...”
Terror floods my veins, every instinct shrieking at me to turn back, but something stronger than fear drags me forward—the need to know what the fuck they’re talking about. So I creep step by step, deeper into the basement.
There’s a home gym at the bottom of the staircase, and beyond that is a small cement room with an open vault door. There are a couple of guys inside the room, and a couple of guys standing in the doorway, their backs to me. I slip behind a weight machine and try to steady my breathing, so I can hear what they’re saying.
A sinister laugh cuts through the murkiness. “That’s right. Your perfect little girlfriend isn’t quite what she seems, is she?”
Is he still talking about me? My heart is literally lodged in my throat, and I can’t help it; I’m drawn forward. But I keep to the deep shadows, so they don’t see me.
“You don’t know shit about Ava,” Jackson growls.
Yes. Thank you, Jackson.
Another sinister laugh. “I guarantee I know more than you think I do.” A pause. “Release me, though, and maybe we can talk.”
From where I’m pressed against the wall, I can see Jackson standing over a man on a cot. The man’s face is bloodied, his lip split, but he’s smiling like he’s enjoying every second of Jackson’s rage. Two other guys—Lucas West and someone I don’t recognize—are watching.
“I don’t negotiate with liars,” Jackson snarls, his voice filled with contempt. “And if you think the Burning Crown can’t bury a body, maybe I should give you a live demonstration.”
Jackson draws his fist back, and the man on the cot laughs, a cold, taunting sound that makes my skin crawl. Then the man spots me peering out from the shadows, and our eyes connect for a brief second.
“That’s right,” the man says, his voice dripping with venom. “Show her what you really are, Jackson.”
Jackson’s fist connects with the man’s face,hard. Droplets of blood launch into the air and fleck the cement wall, instantly transporting me back to Missouri, to that early morning three years ago. His stepdad’s blood spattered across the white cabinets, dripping off the marble countertop…
The sound of bone crunching yanks me back to the present, and I gasp. The sound flies out of my mouth before I can call it back, and everyone turns to find the source of the sound, including Jackson.
Shit.
I take a slow step back, but it’s too late. Jackson’s hard gaze is locked on me. My heart is pounding, my palms sweaty. I squeeze them into fists.
His expression shifts quickly from annoyance to shock, then to alarm. “Ava?—”
With a shake of my head, I take one more step back, then I turn on the ball of my foot and run. Jackson’s heavy footsteps follow me up the staircase. My lungs are screaming by the time I reach the kitchen, and I pause briefly to catch my breath. Damn, I’m seriously out of shape.
That brief pause is enough to allow Jackson to catch up. His large frame appears in front of me, blocking any hope of escape. I straighten and take a step back.
Adrenaline is still pumping through my veins, even more so, actually, with Jackson standing in front of me, his bloodied hands balled into fists. I can see the tension in his shoulders. He’s keyed up, and I’m standing right in front of him.
“I told you not to leave the bedroom,” he says, angry.
