Jailbait (11 page)

I run my hand over my face, happy I decided to forgo makeup in exchange for a few extra minutes with Grayson. “We did go to the police, but only because he’s an overdramatic…what did you call him? McDouche’n? I like it. It’s his new name now.”
 

Savannah laughs and tosses her sunglasses and phone back in her bag. The car slowly navigates through busy New York City traffic on our way downtown. “My god, Pepper. I’m going to have gray hair by the time you tell me this fucking story. Spit it out. I’m dying!”
 

“You’re a little dramatic too, you know.”
 

She scrunches her nose. “A little? You’re too nice. Now come on!”
 

“Okay…remember how I said I thought someone had been following me? Well, I was right.” My heart flutters when I think of Grayson, and I get hit with desire when his face pops into my memory. I can feel his thick cock between my legs with every step. I hadn’t been fucked like that…since the last time we were together. “And do you remember my boyfriend freshman year of college?”
 

“Grayson?” she asks and I nod. “No! Oh my god, no! It was him? What the fuck, Pepper?”
 

“He said someone hired him to keep an eye on me, but he won’t tell me anything more than that.”
 

Wide eyed, Savannah brings her hands to her mouth and gasps. “That is so creepy, like horror movie creepy. He’s a fucking stalker!”
 

I press my lips together in a thin smile and shake my head “No. It was my dad. Gray won’t admit it, but that’s because I know my father and know he made Gray swear an oath on his first-born or something like that. And Gray is the kind of guy who keeps his word.” I go on, backing up to the gala and telling her everything.
 

“And?” she asks, leaning forward.
 

“There is no and. He went home and I’m here with you. That’s all there is.”
 

Savannah leans back, staring at me for a few seconds. “Pepper, that guy destroyed you. Do you not remember crying pretty much the entire next
year
after he left you with no explanation? You really want to do this to yourself again?”
 

“That was six years ago. We were both young.”
 

“So that’s it? You’re just going to accept him back into your life that easily? Where does he live? What does he do? What the hell was so important he couldn’t even call you and let you know he was alive?”
 

“I don’t know where he lives, or what he did before my father hired him to watch over me. And he said he’ll tell me when the time is right.”
 

“You know that’s bullshit, right? He was probably out fucking other women not caring about you, then got into a tough spot and needs money so he came back here.”
 

I tuck my hair behind my ear, not seeing any merit in Savannah’s words. “I don’t think so. I told you, my father—”

“Have you asked him?”
 

“I called and left a message, so…”
 

“So I think you should be careful—really careful—until you hear for sure that Grayson is back for the reasons you think and
not
some crazy stalker looking for money.”
 

Not wanting to argue, I nod. Savannah is one of the few people who knows just how deep the hurt ran when Grayson left and never came back. After being told over and over that I was too young to know what love was, I just stopped expressing the pain. But Savannah knew that my heart still belonged to Grayson, and for a good two years that heart was in bits and pieces.
 

And even when I finally rose from the ashes, I was still in love with Grayson. Which is crazy. I know. Years had passed and I hadn’t gotten over him. Even now, six years later, I was at the point where I would have told anyone who asked that I was finally over Grayson King.
 

But then he was right there in front of me, reminding me how easy it was to fall in love with him the first time.
 

“I will be careful. Promise. Is Kristoff still in town? Do you guys want to join us for dinner? And yes, you can grill Gray, just go easy.”
 

Savannah laughs. “You know me too well. And yeah, he’s in town. Let me text him. He was meeting with some literary agent about a book he’s interested in adapting to film.”
 

I smile, and reach inside my own bag for my cell to text Grayson and tell him about dinner. Before I can unlock my phone, an unknown number pops up. I debate not answering for a second, but do at the last moment. Not too many people have this number. I have a nagging feeling this is important.
 

“Hello?” I answer.

“Is this Pepper Davenwood?” a female asks.
 

“Yes.” My heart speeds up, nerves prickling.
 

“This is Doctor Fisher, from Metropolitan Hospital. I’m calling in regard to your father, Alcott Davenwood.”
 

My stomach instantly churns. “Is he okay?”
 

“I’m so sorry to tell you this, but no, he’s not.”
 

Chapter Eight

Grayson
 

I leave the Davenwood estate with a weird feeling. It’s almost like my chest is tight from my heart pressing on it from the inside. But it’s not a bad feeling. It’s not the crippling anxiety that I’ve felt all too often, the kind that causes my heart to painfully speed up and skip a few beats, reminding me how close to a heart attack this fucking life is.
 

Used to be.

I’m not in it anymore. I won’t let it kill me the way it killed my father. I twist the throttle and straighten up, welcoming the warm breeze that’s rustling my hair. I turn off the private road, blinking in the bright sun. I still can’t figure out what this feeling is. Should I be concerned? Go fucking figure I finally get Pepper back and I keel over and die, right?
 

Or maybe this is the opposite of dying. Maybe I’m happy. Actually happy for the first time in…fuck…six years. Things are far from perfect, but hell, I’ll take it, since that means I get Pepper.
 

My good mood continues on the way home, but comes to a screeching halt when I see a shiny red Audi parked on the street in front of my house. I’ve seen that Audi a few times, and know the asshole who drives it.
 

“What the fuck do you want?” I shout over the rumbling engine of my Harley, slowing down next to Olson’s car. His window is rolled down, and he has his famous douchebag smirk stuck on his overly tanned face.
 

“Let’s just talk,” he shouts back. “Man to man. Well, assuming you’re capable of acting like a man.” His eyes narrow, thinking the insult actually hurt.
 

“Fine.” I rev the engine on my bike. “You got five minutes. I have shit to do.” I drive my bike up to the garage and park. I kill the ignition and turn around, waiting for Olson to scurry his way up the driveway.
 

“I assume Pepper is on your to-do list,” he sneers.
 

“You leave her out of this.” My blood instantly boils. Pepper has done nothing wrong. “What the fuck do you want?” I repeat and ball my fingers into fists. Solving issues through violence is second nature. I have to remind myself it’s not the only way to handle shit.
 

Olson chuckles, like he thinks he’s a real funny fuck. “I can’t leave Pepper out of it. She’s the reason I’m here.”
 

“She doesn’t like you the way you like her. No reason to get all butt-hurt over it.”
 

He laughs again and I notice he’s holding a folder. “You’re probably pretty familiar with that, aren’t you? Being
butt hurt
over and over in prison is normal, I hear.”
 

My heart drops into my stomach, and the tightness in my chest reverses. But instead of going away, it’s pressing from the outside in. Olson holds up the folder before opening it.
 

“You’ve got quite the interesting record. I’m honestly surprised they let you out early, even with your good behavior given your crimes. I can’t wait to hear Pepper’s take on this. I’m sure you told her.”
 

I spring forward and grab Olson, slamming him against the brick on the house. The folder falls from his hands and papers scatter across the lawn. “Listen here, you piece of shit. That’s my business and you need to stay the fuck out of it.”
 

His brown eyes hold back fear, and he turns his head, cowering away. He struggles against me but is no match for my strength. I step in close, putting my face right up to his. “If you tell Pepper anything I’ll—”

“Beat me up?” Olson spits out. He slowly turns his head back, keeping one eye closed. “According to the court documents, you’re one offense away from going right back to jail.”
 

I loosen my grip on Olson. Fuck. He’s right. “That’s assuming I get caught,” I growl. “You want to go crying to Pepper, go ahead. It won’t change how she feels. Wait, I take that back. It will change how she feels about you. You’re nothing but a spoiled asshole who’d have nothing if it wasn’t for your trust fund and daddy paying your way through life. Go home to your mansion and buy yourself a date for the night. It’s the only way you’re getting any.”
 

I press him into the wall once more before letting go. I grab a few of the papers that are in reach and crumple them up. Olson’s face is red from fear.
 

“I’ll make you a deal.”
 

“I don’t do deals,” I say flatly.
 

“Stay away from Pepper and she never has to know.” He holds up the folder containing the remaining papers. “I’ll burn this.”
 

“You can print off another, dipshit.”
 

“It’s a figure of speech, but maybe they didn’t teach you about that in prison. Those after-school programs you went to and called “classes” are a joke, after all. Stay away from Pepper, and she can keep thinking you’re the…whatever the hell she thinks you are.” Olson rolls his eyes. “You’re her hero right now. We both know when she learns the truth she will never speak to you again. It’s only a matter of time before she finds out. You know that’s true.”
 

I swallow bile that’s rising in my throat. It is true. If she hears the truth without me being able to explain everything, she’ll hate me. “Go fuck yourself,” I tell Olson and turn and walk away, digging my keys out of my pocket. I get into the house, close and lock the door, then pound my fist on the wall.
 

“Fuck!”
 

I take a deep breath in. Hold it. Let it out. I kick my boots off and get my phone, opening up a text message to Alcott.

Things have changed. You need to come clean.
 

I press send, and then consider calling Pepper. She’s probably still getting dressed, doing her hair and makeup or whatever, and then going out shopping with her friend. I calm the fuck down and play this out logically in my mind. That fucker Olson isn’t going to call her and give her this info over the phone. Pepper wouldn’t believe him without seeing the proof in person.
 

Losing Pepper—hell everything—almost killed me six years ago. But I survived. I can survive again if she decides she needs to walk away. I can’t blame her for it; my past is bloody and scarred and not something I’d run to. Her leaving me…that I can deal with.
 

Hurting her all over again. I can’t fucking do that.
 

I pace around the house, unease growing as each minute passes. I shower, throw on jeans and a t-shirt, and hit the road again to clear my head. So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours, that I almost forgot about those two dickweeds who tried to mug Pepper.
 

Before that, I had suspicions about them.
 

I ride into the city, angry I’m even thinking about this. I moved across the entire fucking country to get a new start. I left everything. Most of my life in California was shit, but I had friends and a job.
 

The closer I get to the city, the more pissed I become. Alcott is ignoring my texts, and he knows damn well this isn’t right. I have so many questions for him, with the most important being who the fuck does he think is going to go after Pepper. I can protect her a hell of a lot better if I had a goddamn clue to who I was protecting her from.
 

I go to the tavern I was at just last night. Was it really last night? It feels like an eternity ago. It’s too early to be open yet, so I slow as I ride past to get a look at the hours. I continue on, knowing I’ll find a bar that’s already open and has been serving drinks since the sun came up.
 

Not long after, I find another bar with bikes parked out front. It’s hot and I could use a drink. The air conditioning would be a bonus as I try to get some info. The bar is dim and smells like water-damaged floorboards and piss. A lone bartender leans against the wall, watching some daytime reality show about people’s court. The few patrons are the heavy drinkers, the ones who came here when the other bars shut for the night.
 

I take a seat at the bar and order a beer. The guy next to me is strung out, repeatedly taking sips from an empty glass. I keep my eyes down, not wanting to engage in conversation. Guys like that can be entertaining, but I’m not in the mood for a laugh. I can tell by his vest that he’s a patch-holder, but the way he’s wobbling about on the stool lets me know he’s not good for info.
 

I finish the beer, throw a few dollars down on the bar for a tip, and leave. As I’m walking back to my bike, a few younger guys are pulling in.
 

“Is that your bike?” they ask me as I approach.
 

“It is.” I look them up and down, making a judgment in just seconds. None have leather or club colors, and two of them came on sports bikes.
 

“That’s wicked, man,” one tells me. “Who did the paint job?”