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“I appreciate what you did in that forest, Kingston. I really do. But I think my wariness is perfectly justified in this situation.”
He studies me for a moment. "Fine, I'll give you something. I saw the police report, but I know you didn’t tell them everything. What are you hiding, Jazz?”
I raise my brows. “How did you get a copy of the police report?”
“With those resources I mentioned earlier. Now, tell me what happened from your point of view. What didn’t you tell the police?”
“Nuh-uh. You first. Explain that conversation we overheard.” I glance in Bentley’s direction. “Do you know what I’m referring to?”
He and Kingston share a loaded look before Bentley gives me a single nod in reply.
Kingston shakes his head. “That isn’t something that I can just spit out, Jazz!”
“Why the hell not? Bentley knows!”
His jaw tics. “Because Bentley’s been with me every step of the way! It’s a lot of information that isn’t easy to swallow, especially for you. Ask me something else. Anything else.”
“Why did you have Bentley take me so far away from the house? What was so special about that spot?”
Kingston runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “It was the closest dock to the house, not counting the one that leads to the boathouse. I’m not sure if you noticed, but I had a small speedboat tethered to it. I was planning to take you out on the water.”
“Why not use the dock connected to the boathouse?”
He gives me a look as if I’m being dense. “Because the clearing under the dock leading up to the house is less than two feet at the deepest end. There’s a slip on the front end of the house, but you can only get to it from inside the house. I didn’t think you’d appreciate being dragged through an orgy, so I had my guy move it before anyone arrived.”
“Your guy?”
“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.”
