Page 63 of Call It What You Want
“Careful,” he chides, his eyes locked on my breasts, which I purposely didn’t cover with the towel. Is that devious? Maybe. But he deserves to suffer.
He helps me out of the tub, and I sink against him, pulling in that scent that’s uniquely Jackson. My God, it yanks me right back to being seventeen, when my whole world revolved around him and only him. We were so wrapped up in each other that nothing else mattered. It was wild and exciting. A brief moment in time when absolutely anything was possible.
Until it wasn’t.
I pull in a hit of that nostalgia and pause, like holding that smell in my lungs will transport me back to Missouri, three years ago, before everything got royally fucked.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he says, though I can see the tension in his jaw, the way he has to tear his gaze away from my breasts, like it pains him to do it. Good. Mission accomplished.
In the bedroom, I climb up onto the bed, while he disappears into his closet, reemerging with a navy blue ExU T-shirt. He tosses it onto the bed. “Get some rest.”
I lift a brow. “I’m not tired.”
Almost dying has a way of making things crystal clear, and pretending I don’t want him? Yeah, that’s not working. So maybe it’s time to stop fighting it.
I’m on the mattress, on my knees, the towel clutched in one fist, while I wait for him to either storm off in a moody huff orsay “fuck it,” and strip his clothes off. Instead, he just stands there, a noticeable bulge in his pants, hands clenched into fists, like it’s taking every last bit of strength to keep himself in place.
“You don’t want this, Ava. Trust me,” he says through gritted teeth.
Is he actually trying to talk me out of this? What the fuck? Is this a glitch in the matrix or something? Am I on the wrong timeline?
Confusion shifts to annoyance, then anger. It’s a whole emotional journey in the span of a split second.
“You know what, you’re right,” I say, reaching for a response I know will piss him off. “Maybe I should call Chase over for a quick fuck.”
The fury in his eyes is instantaneous, and my throat is in his hand before I can even blink. He squeezes—not enough to inflict pain, just enough to immobilize me. “I swear to God, Ava…”
He’s angry, but at least he’s reacting. It’s better than the stiff, impassive vibe he was giving off earlier. Whatever the fuck that was.
“What?” I ask, unblinking. “You swearwhat?”
Everyone is so afraid of Jackson, and for good reason. He’s a wall of muscle, and violence is his therapy. But I know he would never hurt me. I know it like I know the sun will rise tomorrow. I wasn’t always so confident in his restraint, but there’s just something in the way he’s looking at me now, and I can’t shake the thought. He won’t hurt me.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me like he’s lost at sea, trying to find his way back to shore…
“Fuck,Ava,” he says finally, before releasing me and taking a measured step back.
“What the hell is going on with you?” I ask.
On the heels of a deep breath, his gaze catches mine. “I’ve spent so long trying to keep you safe,” he says, but the words arefaint, like he can’t draw enough air into his lungs. “And today, you were attacked. In my own damn house.”
Wait, hold up.
“You’ve spentso longkeeping me safe?” I shake my head. “What does that mean?”
Silence.
When he doesn’t say anything, I slide off the bed and grab the T-shirt with my free hand. “See, that’s the thing with you, Jackson. You can never just tell me what’s going on. You’re always so damn secretive.”
“And you don’t have secrets?” he asks evenly—not quite a challenge, but his words still send a trickle of fear down my spine. Because, yeah, I do. And this is the second time he’s brought it up, so I can’t help but wonder if he knows something…
But even as the thought crosses my mind, I dismiss it. Jackson may have money and connections, but there’s some information that even he doesn’t have access to.
I grab the T-shirt and take it into the closet, pull it over my head, toss the damp towel into the hamper, then return to the bedroom. “All I want to know is what you meant by ‘keeping you safe for so long,’” I say flatly. “Safe fromwhat?I deserve to know that much, don’t you think?”
Jackson is leaning against the bedpost, hands in his pockets, watching me. “Some things are better left in the shadows. Trust me.”
“And who gets to decide that for me? You?”
