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Reed gets out of his chair at the same time I do and holds his arms out to both sides. “Seriously, guys, you’re drawing attention. Sit the fuck down.”
I'm too wired to sit, so I resume my pacing. "So, you left her alone in the woods in the middle of the night because you can't handle being second best? Are you seriously telling me your ego is the reason this happened?"
“You’re the idiot who thought it’d be a good idea to drag her out there in the first place!” he counters.
“That’s where the boat was docked!”
He rolls his eyes. “I still don’t understand why you wanted to take it out in the middle of the night.”
“I’ve already explained this. I wanted privacy.”
“Yeah, well, you succeeded,” Bentley scoffs. “My question is, why the fuck couldn’t you just do the whole cake and champagne thing inside the big empty cabin?”
I slam my fist into the wall, hissing from the pain. Like I haven’t asked myself that question a thousand times over the last few hours.
“Kingston, stop it!” Ainsley grabs my clenched fist, examining it.
I drop back into a chair, clutching my hand. Reed sits right next to me, likely to restrain me if I try beating Bentley’s face in.
“I’ll go find some ice,” Ainsley offers.
I take a few moments to breathe, willing the images out of my head. I don’t scare easily, but finding Jazz like that...so bloody and beaten, was terrifying. I thought she was dead. I had a brief moment of relief when I felt her shallow breaths, but when I really took in her appearance, realizing she may have been raped on top of everything else, I damn near lost my shit. If I wasn’t so busy trying to stop her from bleeding out, I would’ve raised hell.
When we first arrived at the hospital, a nurse informed me they wouldn't perform a sexual assault exam without the patient's consent because it's a fairly invasive process. So, we've been waiting until Jazz was coherent enough to tell us what happened. Not knowing what went down...whether or not someone violated her like that...it's killing me.
I hang my head, feeling dejected. “You didn’t see her, man. She’s black and blue with little scratches all over her body. Her arm is in a splint, her eye is half swollen shut. Even worse...when I found her...whatever sick fuck did that to her may have done even more damage that I couldn’t see.”
“What do you mean?” Reed asks.
I look Bentley right in the eye, knowing he'll understand how I'm feeling more than anyone. "She was practically naked when I found her. Her dress was cut up, and her underwear was missing."
Bentley blanches before falling into a chair. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
His eyes lift to mine. “Was she...”
I shake my head. "I don't know. She's only been awake a couple of times, and she was pretty out of it from the drugs they're giving her. The police are still waiting to interview her."
How did I go from having one of the best nights of my life to this? I planned on spending the evening christening my new boat, worshipping Jazz’s tight little body, but instead, I’m sitting in a goddamn hospital, waiting for the chance to see her again.
Ainsley returns with a cold pack. “I got this from the nurses’ station.”
I place the compress on my knuckles. “Thanks.”
The four of us sit silently, stewing on everything that's happened, until a throat clears, causing me to look up. Charles Callahan is standing in the doorway, taking in the scene. I'm sure we're quite the sight. We've been here for six hours now, and none of us have slept in over twenty-four hours. All of our clothes are rumpled—my jeans are muddy and stained with Jazz’s blood.
"Peyton called," he explains. "Said Jasmine was taken by ambulance to a hospital. This one was the closest to the lake house, so I took an educated guess." He frowns. "They said she's not accepting visitors. They won't tell me anything about her condition since she's legally an adult now. Have any of you seen her?"
Fuck. I am not in the mood to deal with this man. I don’t know if I can conc
eal my hatred for him right now. I sure as shit don’t trust him, especially with Jazz’s life. For all I know, he was responsible, and he's here, pretending to be a concerned father, simply to cover his ass.
“How did Peyton know?” I ask.
Charles lifts a shoulder. “You’d have to ask her.”
“I was still with her when you called from the ambulance,” Reed offers. “I called Bent as soon as I hung up. Peyton could’ve easily overheard our conversation.”
