The Morning After

I’m going to need a location,” Oren told Jameson. “Specifics. Names, if you have them.”

Jameson offered my head of security his most rakish, ne’er-do-well smile. “And I am going to need a shower.”

This was the Jameson who liked living on the edge, the one who didn’t bat an eye at going too fast or too far, the one capable of wielding every little smirk like a shield.

Oren might have bought the act, but I didn’t. I could practically feel Jameson’s heart pounding from where I stood. He had very few tells—none that I could pinpoint in words—but I knew him.

I knew him.

He went to brush past me, and I stopped him with a single word. “Jameson.”

He turned his head toward me, like he couldn’t help it, like I was his north.

“Avery.” Something about the sound of my given name on Jameson’s lips, combined with everything else, almost undid me. He said Avery like a plea and a curse and prayer.

He said it like he’d said it to himself while blood streamed down his chest.

I saw the rise and fall of his chest as Jameson considered his next words. “You could make me tell you,” he said quietly.

No smirks, no smiles, just truth. I knew exactly what Jameson was saying. One little word—Tahiti—and I could make him tell me anything. But…

“But I am asking you,” Jameson continued in that same low tone, “not to.”

I could make him tell me everything. That was the rule between us. It was too easy for him to don masks, too easy for me to lie to myself—but Tahiti meant no protection, no dancing around the truth, no hiding.

Tahiti meant baring it all.

You could make me tell you. But I am asking you not to.

Jameson Hawthorne didn’t ask for much. He tempted. He invited. He created. He gave. But he was asking me for this.

I swallowed. “You go shower,” I told him, my voice coming out hoarse. “I’ll get a bandage.”

On my way to find the first aid kit, I shot Oren a look. We aren’t going to push this, I telegraphed silently. Not yet.