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What is Bentley doing here? Did Kingston send him? I look down at the tank top and pajama shorts I’m wearing. It’s not covering any less skin than I would show on a warm day, but I still feel exposed.
"Give me a few minutes, and you can send him here. I need to change first.”
Ms. Williams nods. “Very well.”
I head into my walk-in closet and shut the door. Changing entirely is going to take too much effort, so I settle for grabbing an old hoodie. I quickly peek in the full-length mirror, and I'm pleased to see that my bruises are almost entirely faded. I cringe when my eyes move up to the giant bird's nest at the top of my head. I haven't washed my hair in almost a week, and it's greasy and tangled as fuck.
Something so simple shouldn't be so challenging, but with a fucked-up wrist, it is. I can take my splint off when I shower, but I'm still not supposed to move my wrist, and trying to wash my hair with only one hand is a bitch. I may actually have to suck it up and take advantage of Madeline's in-house salon. That doesn't help me right now, though. Oh, well. It's not like I need to worry about impressing Bentley, right?
“Jazzy Jazz, you in here?”
I finish pulling up the zipper and open the door, stepping out of my closet. Bentley is standing in my doorway, his eyes shooting in my direction when I clear my throat.
“Hey. What are you doing here?”
He rushes me before I have a chance to react, pulling me into a giant bear hug, lifting me off my toes. “Thank God you’re okay. I’m sorry for coming over unannounced, but I couldn’t wait any longer to see you. ”
I suck in a breath when he squeezes too tightly. Fuck, that hurts. “Bent...ease up.”
“Shit. Sorry.” He immediately releases me and looks me over. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay, all things considered.” I shrug. “What are you doing here? Did Kingston send you?”
“Naw, baby. I just needed to see you were alive with my own eyes. Davenport would probably be pissed if he knew I came.” Bentley clears his throat nervously. “Can we talk?”
My eyes are boring into his, searching. I decide there’s no harm in hearing him out since the odds of Bentley trying something shady with my bedroom door open are slim to none.
I nod. "Yeah, we can talk. I need to sit down, though."
He lifts a dark eyebrow. “You need help?”
“No, I got it.” I climb onto my bed, reclining against the padded headboard. “What do you want to talk about?”
Bentley grabs the chair from my desk and straddles it backward. “I wanted to apologize. If I had known your boy was held up, I would’ve never left. I swear to fucking God, Jazz, I would’ve never put you at risk like that.”
I think about that for a moment. How am I supposed to trust this guy when leaving me alone was the perfect setup? How do I know he didn’t walk away, knowing what was about to happen, so he had an alibi?
I sit up straighter when I think of a way to test his loyalty. If Bentley wants me to believe him, he needs to meet me halfway. “I have some questions.”
He tilts his head to the side. “You can ask me anything.”
“What really happened at Donovan’s party? And no dodging the details this time. Did you guys drug me?”
"Fuck, no." He shakes his head vehemently. "I would never...we would never.”
“You need to give me more than that, Bent, because my memory is really fuzzy from that night, which makes no sense after only two drinks.”
He exhales harshly. “Baby girl, you should be asking Kingston these questions.”
“I’m asking you, Bentley. C'mon, after what happened, I think I deserve some damn answers. How am I supposed to ever trust you if you can't answer a few measly questions? I don't even know how I got to the pool house. I remember hanging out with that guy from UCLA, and next thing I know, I'm thinking about how good you smell."
It takes him a moment to reply. "We paid Lawson—AKA, the UCLA guy—to chat you up over drinks and bring you to the pool house once you were nice and sloppy, ready to pass out."
Wow...so this Lawson guy was in on it. Yet another person to put on my watch list. I stare at Bentley for a moment, trying to read him. Well, at least he seems contrite. Or maybe he’s pretending?
I frown. “Go on.”
“And...you got a second wind or something, so we had to improvise.” Bentley gives me a sheepish smile.
