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“Yeah, Jazz, come talk to me.”
She gets out of the car and slams the door shut. Ainsley wastes no time shifting into gear and pulling into the garage, leaving Jazz standing in front of the house with me.
“Where’s your bag?” I ask.
She parks a hand on her hip. “I didn’t bring one.”
“Suit yourself.” I shrug. “You won’t hear me complaining if you want to sleep naked.”
I can see her bronzed cheeks pinken under the outdoor lighting. “I won’t be sleeping here at all. Ainsley offered to drive me home when we’re done.”
I slant my head to the le
ft, ignoring her comment. We can save that argument for later. “There’s a path to my place along the side of the house. Can you walk on uneven ground?”
Jazz straightens her shoulders. “I’m fine.”
As we start walking, I can tell she's doing her best to hide her discomfort. This girl won't let anything hold her down, and it's hot as fuck. I rub a hand over my mouth to hide my smile because I suspect Jazz will take it the wrong way and give me even more attitude. Even though her feistiness turns me on, I need to deescalate the situation because what I'm about to tell her is likely going to birth a whole plethora of messy emotions.
Jazz looks around when we enter the pool house, making me realize she's never been here before. It's nothing special—just a standard guest house you'd find on any property around here—but every square inch is mine to do as I please, and that's important to me. Having my own security system is a nice perk, especially considering all the digging I'm doing into our fathers' activities. I moved out here right before my freshman year, and I haven't missed the luxuries of the main house one bit.
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."
