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Claire: Okay
That’s it.
Okay.
I stare at my phone for a few seconds, trying to decipher the one-word text like it’s an encrypted military secret when another one comes through.
Claire: Go to
the kitchen
I fight my way through the house, pushing toward the back of it until I finally find the kitchen. Cabinet doors are hanging open. Cups and half-empty bottles scattered across the counter, despite the fact that there’s a 55-gallon trash can—the kind I imagine their gardener uses to collect lawn clippings—wedged into the corner. Fighting the urge to clear the clutter, I pull a red plastic cup from a random stack, filling it with water from the tap and drink it because my mouth is so dry I can hardly breathe. The police chief’s kid is doing a kegstand, his buddies holding his legs steady while he does a handstand on the rim of the keg, the operator giving the tap a few pups before, thumbing the nozzle to start the flow of beer from keg to kid.
My phone buzzes again.
Claire: Backstairs are
in the butler’s pantry.
Code for the door is 51597
What the fuck is a butler’s pantry?
Feeling like a dumbass, I look around the kitchen. Spotting a door that doesn’t look like it actually goes anywhere, I take a chance, shouldering my way through the tight knot of people clustered around the keg to squeeze myself through the door, barely refraining from tossing people out of my way like a deranged ogre.
I’m not really built for crowds.
I’m in a space about the size of my own bedroom. It looks like another kitchen, only smaller. Counters and cabinets on either side. A prep sink. A refrigerator.
And a door with a keypad with a red flashing light.
I key in the code, Claire sent me and the light goes green. Palming the knob I give it a turn, opening the door.
And run right into her.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh.” She lets out a breath, her hand still latched around the doorknob, jerking her across the short distance between us.
“Shit.” My hands come up, wrapping around her upper arms, holding on to her, so she doesn’t plow her face right into my chest. I get the impression of baggy clothes, possibly pajamas. Her hair is up. Face scrubbed clean.
It takes considerable effort to keep my hands on her shoulders, especially when all I can do is think about shoving her against the wall and my hand up her shirt.
I need space. Distance. I move her back, away from me. Her hand detaches from the knob, and the door bangs shut behind me, leaving us in the dark. “Jaxon?”
“Yeah?” My voice sounds like I swallowed a handful of hot asphalt. Rough. Too rough. I’m going to scare her if I don’t knock it off. When she doesn’t follow up, I think I’m already there. She’s already decided inviting me up to her room was a bad idea. Trying to figure out a way to get me—
“I didn’t think you were going to come.”
I have to grit my teeth, set her away even further because the way she said come goes straight to my dick. “I got...” Scared. Worried. A conscience. Instead of telling her the truth, I lie. “Held up. With Simon. I—”
“Is he okay?”
The concern in her voice nearly undoes me, and I have to swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “Yeah....” I close my eyes even though we’re standing in a dark stairwell because I can feel her breath on my neck like she’s tipped her face up to look at me. I don’t want to talk about Simon. I don’t want to talk about my mom or how fucked up my life really is. “I’m here now.”
She sighs, her shoulders softening under my hands, melting like warm butter. “I’m glad.”
Jesus.
I’m in trouble.