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I follow the man's lead and scratch behind her floppy ears, which she loves. Kingston kneels down and joins in, laughing when Gretta's giant tongue paints his cheek with dog drool. This moment is so ordinary—just some people playing with a cute dog in a park—but at the same time, it's surreal. Two months ago, if you would've asked me if I thought Kingston Davenport was an animal lover or was into taking cheesy selfies, I'd scream, “Hell no." The man is an enigma. The more I get to know him, the more complicated he becomes.
Kingston and I step back and watch the dog and her owner resume their game of fetch. Wordlessly, Kingston takes my hand as we make our way down the road to where he parked the Range Rover. I climb into the vehicle and buckle my belt as Kingston gets behind the wheel and starts the ignition.
He releases a heavy sigh once we pull onto the road. “I really don’t want to take you back to that house, Jazz. Is there anything I can say that would convince you to stay with me?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Stubborn ass woman.”
I throw my head back and groan. “Kingston, please don’t ruin the perfectly good morning we’ve had. I’ll be fine. I’m scheduled to return to school on Tuesday if the doctor gives me the all-clear tomorrow, so I won’t be there much anyway. Besides, if Peyton is a suspect, isn’t it better to pretend that everything is normal to draw her out? I can’t do that if I’m shacking up with you.”
“I fucking hate it when you’re right,” he grumbles.
“Yeah, well, get used to it, buddy.”
He glares at me out of the corner of his eye. “Wiseass.”
I stick my tongue out because I'm mature like that. At least it gets a smile out of him.
“You’re never going to stop pushing my buttons, are you?”
I shrug. “Why would I do that when you make it so fun?”
Kingston shakes his head. “Like I said, fucking trouble.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
KINGSTON
“Don’t you think you’re being paranoid?”
I close the door to Jazz's bedroom and flip the lock. "No, I'm diligent. If you insist on staying here, I insist on doing this."
Jazz sits on the end of her bed, rolling her eyes at me. I loathe the fact that she's here right now. We may not know who did this to her, but I'm with Jazz; I do think someone hired them, and I do believe that person knows us. Nothing else makes sense, and John thinks so, too. The lake house is in a small mountain community; it's not the kind of place where you'd randomly end up or go looking for trouble. All of the locals know each other. There's only one vacation rental, which was occupied by people at the homecoming party.
It's entirely possible Peyton, or any of the people living in this house, are innocent. At least in the case of Jazz's assault. But I'm not willing to risk Jazz's safety by slacking off or not using every possible resource at my disposal. I know she still has doubts about me, even though I'm no longer keeping secrets from her. Sure, I've given her reason to distrust me in the past, but I thought we've moved past that. Hell, I thought we moved past that the night we slept together.
I know being brutally attacked would make anyone wary, but I also know Jazz feels this connection we have. She isn’t the type of girl who’d fuck someone without at least a small emotional attachment. No matter how crazy our chemistry is, she’s too mindful to allow a physical attraction to rule her actions. Being with her that night was...different than it's ever been for me before. I've had some great sex in my life, but this was...more. I wasn’t blowing smoke up Jazz’s ass when I said I had no interest in fucking anyone but her. Since the moment we met, that woman is all I see, and I’m done pretending otherwise.
I was dead serious when I said I’d kill any motherfucker who tried taking her away from me. I know this thing started because I had an ulterior motive, but that’s not the case anymore. Jasmine Rivera will be right by my side when I take down our fathers and the assholes who hurt her.
I fish the small device John gave me out of my pocket and surreptitiously scan her bedroom for bugs. Something immediately triggers the sensors, so I walk around a bit until the signal gets stronger. Jazz's eyes widen when I approach the walk-in closet, and the green light quickly turns to red, indicating there's a surveillance device nearby.
“Paranoid, my ass,” I whisper, giving her an I told you so look.
My jaw clenches, knowing someone has been spying on Jazz. One thing's for damn sure; now, the people living in this house are definitely high on my suspect list. I carefully run my hand over the trim above the door until my fingertip snags on a slight dip in the wood. Sure enough, right on the upper corner of the doorframe, is a pinhole camera that could easily be mistaken for a finishing nail.
Fuck.
My eyes travel over the room as I stand beneath the camera. Depending on how wide the angle is, whoever is on the other end of that thing, can likely see the entire room. Her bed is directly in front of the closet door, so at the very least, the camera has a perfect view of that. I take deep breaths, trying to calm the rage brewing inside of me. If someone has been watching Jazz the entire time she’s lived here, who knows what they’ve seen when she was under the illusion of privacy.
I think back to the day we overheard our fathers talking. Thank fuck I had the sense to cover our voices with loud music when we spoke about it, but there was some dry humping that occurred right on that bed afterward. My fists clench, and my nostrils flare as I figure out my next move. I don't want to tip anyone off by removing the camera until I can talk to John and see if we can trace it, but I definitely don't want this fucker watching my girl.
Sadly, if I covered it, the person on the other end would know they’ve been made. I finish scanning the room and move on to her attached bathroom, carefully cupping my hand over my detection device so it can’t be seen. I leave the ensuite, where thankfully, there were no additional devices and approach Jazz's bed.
She eyes me carefully when I kneel onto the California King, moving closer until I’m hovering right above her. I’m careful not to put any weight on her—the last thing I want to do is cause her more discomfort. It doesn’t go unnoticed she’s not uttering a single word of protest. Nor does the fact that her nipples could probably cut through glass right now. Christ.
Her breath hitches when I lean into her ear and whisper, "There's a micro-camera lens embedded into the upper right corner of the doorframe to your closet. I'm guessing it has audio, too. Everything you do or say is probably being recorded or watched on a live feed. It's the only recording device my scanner detected, so your bathroom is still a safe place to talk. Blink twice if you heard me.”
