My head snaps up when he barely chokes out that last sentence. The commanding tone I've come to associate with Kingston Davenport is nowhere to be found. His voice is shaky, unsure. My chest aches when I hear the agony bleeding through his words. I know it costs him a lot to have this conversation in front of Bentley. As close as these two are, I don't get the impression they like showing vulnerability to anyone.
I think about Bentley asking me whether or not I was raped. How relieved he was when I refuted it. The last time I saw Bent was before my attack, so the only way he could’ve known it was a possibility was if Kingston had mentioned it. Is that what Kingston is so worried about? Does he think I lied to cops about it for some reason? The way he’s looking at me right now—waiting on bated breath—tells me it might be.
“Tell him, baby girl,” Bentley says softly. “He needs to know.”
“I wasn’t raped.”
Kingston closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, muttering something under his breath. When he opens them again, he asks, “What did happen?”
"Everything that's on the report is what actually happened, Kingston. I didn't lie about anything if that's what you're thinking. I just didn't give them all the information.”
Kingston frowns. “So, what—”
I hold my hand up. "It's late, and I'm fucking exhausted. I'd really like to go back to sleep now."
Bentley kisses me on the cheek and gets off the bed. “I guess that’s my cue to bounce. Text if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Bentley.”
Bentley pauses in the doorway. “You coming, man?”
Kingston barely spares him a glance. “In a minute.”
Bentley nods. “I’ll wait out front. We need to talk. Bye, Jazzy Jazz.”
Kingston waits until Bentley shuts the door behind him before speaking again. “Why are you hiding something from me? Withholding vital information could prevent us from catching the fuckheads who did this to you.”
Because I can’t ignore the doubt those men have instilled in me. If I tell you what they said, I have to face the fact that it might be true.
I try shaking off the memory, but it doesn’t work.
Your precious boyfriend doesn't give a shit about you...sweet-talking you out of your panties was all part of the plan.
I suppress a shiver. "I don't think it's relevant information. I just spoke with the detective this afternoon. The police are actively working the case. I'm sure they'll figure it out."
“Oh, really? And how many leads do they have so far?”
I bite my bottom lip. “Well, none. Yet. But you already know that, don’t you?”
“C’mon, Jazz. Deep down, you know you can trust me. You know I can help. You don’t have to do this alone.”
He seems so sincere, and I desperately want to believe this man had nothing to do with my attack, but I’m scared. I don’t ever want to be that vulnerable again, and Kingston Davenport is probably the one person on Earth who has the power to obliterate every one of my walls.
“Kingston...” I rub at the kink in my neck. “I need more time to process my thoughts.”
His Cavill-esque jaw tics as he considers that for a few moments. “How was your follow up with the doctor this morning?”
I blink rapidly from the sudden change in topic. “How did you know I had a doctor’s appointment this morning?”
He gives me a wry look. “Really?”
I shake my head. “Ah, your stalker tendencies. How could I forget?”
/>
“I’m not stalking you; I’m trying to keep you safe.”
I raise my brows. “Sounds like something a stalkery stalker would say.”