Jace, page 26
Officer Washington didn’t answer.
She paused. “He was close, too close, and I panicked. I started yelling for him to get out. And then, he put his hand over my mouth and I tried to get away.”
“I was there.” Sawyer shook his head. “I don’t know how it started, but I saw how it ended. He was on top of her. His hand was over her mouth and she was screaming to get away. Kicking, clawing, she fought—”
“I can’t do this.” Travis. Anger, sadness, and fury marred his normally carefree face. “I can’t.” He pushed through the hospital room, the echo of his boots rapid on the linoleum floor.
“Daddy.” Emmy stood. “He shouldn’t be alone. I’ve never seen him like that.”
Her daddy was torn. He didn’t want to leave her. But Travis was known to make poor decisions when he was upset. And he’d never been this upset before.
“Emmy’s right.” Krystal nodded.
“I’ll go.” Jace was up, jaw locked. “I’ll stay with him.” He looked at Emmy.
“I’ll stay with her.” Emmy nodded.
He nodded and stooped, pressing a kiss to Krystal’s forehead. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
It was hard to look him in the eye.
His thumb ran along her jaw. “You are. Believe me. I know.” Another kiss to her temple and then his footsteps were carrying him across the room.
She looked up once the hospital door swung shut, the weight of his absence making her hold on to her sister that much tighter.
“Miss King, let’s go over a few more things.” Officer Washington was talking again.
* * *
Jace was pretty sure that not being able to remember how he got here was one of the reasons he didn’t drink. Here, being here, facedown in a thick, fluffy white carpet. He turned his head, groaning, and hoped like hell the white fluffy carpet he was snoring on was located someplace familiar.
His first thought was Heather. His phone, near dead, was in his pocket. One text last night, saying she and Misumi were spending the night in the town house, another later, saying Emmy and Krystal were flying Brenna in this afternoon. A third saying she and Misumi were coming to the King house around nine this morning.
He had no idea what time it was. Or where he was. Or how the hell he’d get to where he needed to be, namely, wherever Krystal was.
It took far too much energy, and a hell of a lot of nausea-inducing movement, to roll from his stomach to his back. But he did it. He pressed the palms of his hands to his temples, providing enough counterpressure to offset the throb behind his eyes. A few blinks and he could see.
“You were snoring.” Krystal loomed over him, sitting in a large black-and-white chair, her legs curled beneath her, a laptop balanced on her knees.
He was at the Kings’.
And she wasn’t in the hospital. Maybe, here, she wouldn’t be so quick to shut him out. Her face was an angry train wreck of color, but she looked so damn beautiful to him. “I’m sorry.” He sat up and instantly regretted it, sliding back to his elbows until his head eased.
“Whoa there, cowboy.” She was fighting a smile. “You’re in for one hell of a hangover. You’re the color of my Aunt Linda’s pea soup. Meaning green. Bright, putrid green.”
“And this makes you happy?” If poking fun at his expense made her happy, bring it. Seeing her smiling was balm to his shaken soul. He managed, slowly, to push himself into a sitting position.
“As long as you don’t throw up all over Emmy’s rug, sure. She took a lot of time decorating our office.” She glanced at him. “I thought you didn’t drink?”
He leaned forward, laying his head on the edge of a nearby chair, staring around the large room. There was a large glass desk with computers on either side. A wall covered in family photos—photos of Clementine too. Books, lots of books, a large TV and stereo, massive speakers, and a floor-to-ceiling rack of CDs and records. “I don’t. Now I remember why.”
She laughed.
What headache? She was laughing. Beautiful. Close. Safe. That was all he needed.
He’d spent most of the night, what he remembered of it, trying not to think about what had happened to her. Not to erase it or pretend it hadn’t happened, but to give him time to process it without going after the man who embodied true evil. While Travis talked, fuming and raging and sharing details that cut deep, they’d polished off an entire bottle of Whiskey Honey-Jack.
Tig Whitman had done the unspeakable. And Krystal, according to Travis, had owned it, been shamed by it, for years.
And her parents? Her mother? Sending Krystal away… He hadn’t exactly been a fan of CiCi King. Now? Well, he hoped there was a special place in hell reserved for her—and Tig Whitman.
Staring at Krystal, even banged up, offered some comfort. The bruise darkening her upper cheek and eye wasn’t easy to look at, but it was still Krystal. Same bright green eyes, same sarcastic smile, same crazy, mussed blond hair he loved to run his fingers through.
“How’s your head?” he asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “Better than yours, I’d imagine.”
Clementine chose that moment to run across the room and hop into his lap, her paws on his chest as she panted in his face. “Morning,” he managed, rubbing the white poof on the top of the little dog’s head.
Krystal was watching them, looking strained. “Leave Jace alone, Clem.”
Now the dog was off-limits? She was playing hardball. “Travis said you had a concussion. Why’d they release you?”
“I’m fine.” She rolled her eyes, then winced—making him wince, too. “I couldn’t stand being there. And, yes, I worried Clementine would be missing me.” Her voice trailed off. “At five, the morning shift started and they discharged me. I came home to my dog, my work, and you snoring face-first into my sheepskin carpet.”
“Is that what it is?” he asked, pulling lint from his mouth.
She nodded, her smile wavering.
It was amazing what that did to him. That flash of vulnerability had him up, aching to hold her close. She didn’t have to be strong for him. Whatever she needed, he’d do it.
“Jace.” She held her hand up. “Stop.”
He stopped, running a hand over his face. “What changed? Why are you shutting me out?”
She stared at him. “I’m not sure we’re on the same page, Jace. After last night…” She tore her gaze from his. “I need space. My family and I have a lot going on. You and I both have a job to do, the final leg of the tour. And the single. Let’s focus on that.” No inflection, nothing. “The whole pretend relationship makes things complicated—”
“Complicated?” Was she serious? Last night had been hell. Traumatic. She was skittish for good reason. He’d accept that she needed space, but he wasn’t going to act like what he felt wasn’t real. The throb behind his eyes rivaling the throb in his chest. “It wasn’t complicated. It was…” Real. For him, anyway. But now definitely wasn’t the time for that.
She stood, crossing the room to a large couch. Travis was there, mouth open, passed out. Not that Jace cared. “We’re not going to talk about this?”
“I just did.” She glanced his way. “Drop it, Jace. We’re friends. I don’t have room for…more than that. Can you be my friend?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
He nodded, reeling.
“I’m hoping you two didn’t drive here?” she asked. “You smell like a liquor cabinet.”
That was it? Five minutes of some lame-ass explanation and he was supposed to accept that what they had, what he knew was real, wasn’t? No way. He wasn’t buying it.
“Can you two keep it down?” Travis groaned.
Jace frowned.
“Did I forget to mention my brother passed out, drooling, on my custom, hand-tooled leather love seat shaped after my favorite guitar?” She sighed.
“We had Jerome with us. Driving.” Travis’s words were muffled. “I’m not a complete moron.”
“Why do you have a love seat shaped like your favorite guitar?” Jace inspected the love seat, looking for something—anything—to lessen the ache in his chest.
“More inspired by it?” She shrugged.
He forced a smile. “Sure. Of course. Why not? I have a recliner designed around my grandmother’s favorite banjo.”
She laughed. “It was some sort of endorsement for a leather company. Momma used them to help outfit the Kings’ Coach II and Daddy’s man cave, and because the owner’s daughter liked me and Emmy, he made us each something one-of-a-kind.” For a minute, she was smiling at him. “Do you play the banjo?”
He nodded. Bruised or not, she was beautiful. Damn, but he loved her. Even when she was doing her best to drive a wedge between them.
“I didn’t get shit,” Travis added. “In case you were wondering. The girls both got stuff. Not me. Did you hear me? About Jerome? All of it? Don’t mind me—no one ever does.”
Jace laughed, then grabbed his head. “I am never drinking again.”
“Good plan.” Hank King walked in, looking bone weary and…old. “Alcohol is the root of many a mistake. Glad everyone is up.”
Jace had a hard time looking at the man who had turned his back on his daughter. There was no excuse for it, none. And, as much as he’d like to deny it, it changed the way he saw the man.
“Krystal, you’ve got about two hours before Molly Harper gets here.”
“Wait, hold up.” Travis sat up, groaned, and flopped back onto the couch. “Why is she coming?”
“Morning,” Emmy singsonged, carrying in a large tray. “I made breakfast.”
Travis waved his hand. “Shh, you’re too frigging happy. And loud.”
She sat the tray she’d been carrying on the coffee table in front of Krystal’s love seat. Loudly. The thump and rattle of china made Travis scowl and moan. “You’re not getting any sympathy. Keep snapping and you’re not getting any muffins, either.”
“Emmy said she was doing your makeup?” Hank asked. “You sure?”
Krystal nodded. “I’m not really ready to face people, in my face and business. Not yet. But this way it’s only on TV. Even with hair and makeup, I look terrible.”
“You are beautiful.” Jace said it before he thought better of it. No, dammit, she needed to hear it, audience or not. She was beautiful.
Her gaze met his and held.
“I’m still lost.” Travis tried again to sit up. “Someone turn off the spin cycle in here. Hottie Harper is coming here, why?”
“Did you just call her Hottie?” Emmy Lou was horrified.
“Am I wrong?” Travis looked at him. “Back me up here.”
Jace held his hands up in mock surrender.
“Damage control. Misumi’s idea—and she set it up.” Krystal turned away, eyeing the muffins Emmy had brought with disinterest. “She’s kind of amazing. Like, needs-a-raise sort of amazing.”
“Fine. I’ll let you sort that out.” Hank nodded. “Gonna need all the damage control we can find since that son of a bitch already issued a statement saying Krystal invited him back to her bus, then attacked him in a fit of jealousy.”
“Are you kidding me? She’s got that.” Travis pointed at Jace. “Young and, according to the thousands of women screaming his name, a stud. And everyone is supposed to believe she’d rather have balding Santa? Who’s gonna buy that?”
Jace was too raw to find the humor in the situation. He was figuring Travis out, and like Krystal, Travis used humor to defuse awkward situations. Better than blowing up again… The hangover would probably keep him in check. Hard to get all fired up and hostile when any and all movement was a challenge.
“He brought up the past.” Krystal sat again, the oversized black-and-white love seat making her look tiny and, banged up like she was, fragile.
“Hold on.” Travis held up his pointer finger. “I need to down a cup of coffee before anyone says another word. Maybe two.”
Jace wanted to know. Sort of. If he was going to get his act together before Molly Harper arrived, he needed to know everything there was to know—no surprises.
“There’s a pot.” Emmy pointed. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m guessing Travis filled you in?” Krystal asked, that flat voice again. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like not being able to take her hand. “You can sit, if you want.” She was staring at him again, nibbling the inside of her lip.
Fine, if she wanted him to sit, he’d sit. Beside her. He sat close enough that their thighs were pressed together, touching. She stared down at their legs but didn’t move. Even though there was plenty of room to move. It helped him. Maybe, hopefully, it helped her, too.
Clementine, tail wagging, ran back and forth across their laps before flopping down and rolling over, belly exposed. That’s right, Clem, make your mommy smile.
She did. “Shameless.” Krystal gave her canine baby a good tummy rub.
“Okay.” Travis reached for a muffin. “Go.”
Between the throb behind his eyes and the tension rolling off Hank King, Jace braced himself. Until last night, he’d thought of Tig Whitman as a pioneer. An advocate for artists and musicians. Now his name stirred a visceral reaction he wasn’t quite comfortable with. He wasn’t normally quick to anger. Then again, there was nothing normal about this situation.
“He says Krystal was infatuated with him when she was young—that’s why her mother and I sent her away. To get help for her unhealthy attachment to him.” Hank crossed the room and stared out one of the windows overlooking their sprawling ranch. “He’s the biggest chickenshit I’ve ever met in my life, but he’s not stupid.”
Just when Jace thought his headache was easing, it did a full one eighty, leaving him worse off than before.
“That shit.” Travis paused, shocked. “Mother fu—”
“Enough with that word.” Emmy shoved a muffin in his mouth. “You have a vocabulary. Use it. After you’ve swallowed.”
Jace laughed, thrown by Emmy’s outburst. For Emmy, shoving a muffin in her brother’s mouth counted as an outburst. Her efforts to be her normal chipper self were valiant, but no one was fooled. None of them were okay. How could they be? Last night changed the world for them. Today would change everyone else’s. And it was just beginning.
Jace shook his head. “What you’re doing? It’s the right thing. That’s all you need to remember. Not everyone is going to be able to accept it—but you know the truth.”
“He’s right.” Her father turned. “No matter what, Krystal, we’re seeing this to the end. No more hiding.”
“Glad to see you’ve finally figured that out.” Travis stood, stretching, shoving another muffin in his mouth.
Hank’s posture dropped. “What I did—”
“What you didn’t do,” Travis corrected.
Hank nodded. “It was wrong.”
“Wrong?” Travis shook his head. “Daddy, you and Momma and Tig? Might as well have done the same thing. Betraying her.” He was getting angry now, his cheeks going red. “How she could stand to look at you, every day, smile and hug you and act like you loved her when you knew what happened. Knew and did nothing.”
Jace was heartbroken for Hank King, but Travis was right.
“Travis.” Krystal was up, standing between her father and her brother. “If we fall apart, our family, that’s on me. Whether or not that makes sense to you, it’s true. This is on me. My fault.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m the reason this is happening. Don’t make me regret coming forward with this, please. Don’t make me the bad guy here.”
Her words were enough to break Hank King. He moved quickly, grabbing his daughter and pulling her into his arms, cradling her against him. “No, baby girl. None of this is your fault, you hear me? This is on me and your mother. We didn’t listen—sent you away. And then you stopped talking. We did that to you. Left you alone when you needed us most.” His voice broke then, and he was crying.
Krystal was sobbing. “Daddy.”
Emmy grabbed Travis’s arm and started tugging him to the door.
“Can you forgive me?” Hank said. “I know I can’t.”
Jace followed Emmy and Travis, closing the office door behind them.
The three of them looked at each other, wearing a range of expressions. None good. The only thing Jace could do now was be there for Krystal. So he would. No matter what. Even if she’d made it clear that that wasn’t what she wanted.
“We all agree this is fu—” Travis stopped. “Messed up? And Momma’s not even here yet.”
Emmy sighed. “No, this time your words are right. This is all totally fucked up.”
It didn’t matter how bad Jace’s head was hurting, they were all three laughing then.
Chapter 17
The interview wouldn’t end. Krystal did her best to stay calm without being distant, something Misumi said she had problems with. This was all about connecting with the audience and appealing to their emotions. Empathy. Sympathy. All that crap that made her want to run and hide.
What good was being emotional? It made it easier to attack, to tear people down, when they showed their weakness.
Krystal wasn’t prepared for Molly Harper to cry. On camera. Not a single dramatic tear, either. It was more a “someone get her a box of tissues” sort of thing. Why that made Krystal cry was an even greater mystery. Maybe having her daddy sobbing in her arms had flipped some sort of crying switch, and now it was stuck in the on position? And Misumi’s whole “be human and emote” thing wasn’t helping. Whatever, it sucked—all of it. Big-time.
“You have your diary with you?” Molly asked.
“After Tig’s statement, I found it. I wrote down everything, processing, trying to make sense of what was happening. I was almost relieved to see what I’d written—because I needed confirmation of what really happened. Even now, he has the ability to make me doubt myself and what I know is true.” She tapped the book. “It was horrible. He is a liar. A liar who is playing on the persona the media has cultivated and enforced about me.”
