Page 23 of Twisted Desire
With a scowl, I throw my signal on and exit the highway, muttering under my breath, “Remind me to never go on a road trip with you guys ever again.”
Nikolai is the only one to hear it, and his response is a short laugh.
We eat lunch and then get back on the road. An hour later, I pull off the highway and follow the GPS through a neighborhood filled with manicured lawns so perfect they look fake, and rows of mansions on both sides of the road. It’s quite the contrast to the last contact we visited.
“Who is this guy?” I mutter under my breath.
“Uhh,” Monica says from the back. “Well, his profession is a little... controversial.”
I look at her through the rearview mirror. “What the hell does that mean?” My gaze shifts to Nikolai to find him trying to stifle a laugh. “What?” I demand.
“He sells contraband,” he says, “for the fae—to the fae.”
I shrug. “Okay? The guy sells drugs. So what?” Obviously, Tristan didn’t think it was important enough to deal with, or I would’ve heard about it before now.
Nik shakes his head. “Not drugs.”
The GPS tells me we’ve reached our destination, so I pull up to the curb at one of the larger mansions. After I shift the car into park, I turn to face him. “What does he sell?”
“Government-issued things. Photo identification, social insurance numbers, the whole lot. He also helps fae disappear if they need to.”
What the fuck?“Did Tristan know about this?”
“Who do you think got Tristan and Aurora new identities?” Nik says.
Well, shit.After I did my part in setting them up with their human lives, I sort of fell off the grid for a couple of weeks. I wasn’t sure how they had transitioned into their new life, just that it’d been successful. At the time, that’s all I cared about. In hindsight, it was a bit irresponsible of me to forgo asking for details, but I wasn’t exactly in a great place back then.
The lot of us climb out of the vehicle and cross the paved walkway toward the front door. It opens before any of us have a chance to knock. A tiny, middle-aged woman stands before us.
“Not Jackson,” I say with a smirk.
Allison snorts from behind me.
The woman offers a polite smile. “Good afternoon, ladies, gentlemen. Please, come in. Mr. Hawthorne has been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”
I look over at Nikolai with an arched brow to say,what the hell? but he shrugs.
We walk inside, and the woman I assume is Jackson’s housekeeper closes the door behind us. Oliver and Allison stand side by side, whispering about the grandeur of the entryway. Their eyes are sparkling with wonder. The urge to slap those looks off their faces makes my hand twitch, but I keep it at my side.
These ceilings are higher than the expectations of most women I know, and the floor is so shiny I can practically see my own damn reflection. I imagine the entire house—if you can call it that—is this ridiculously excessive.
“Damn,” Oliver breaks the silence, “this guy seems—”
“Brilliant, charming, absolutely spectacular?” a new voice echoes through the room, and my eyes land on who must be Jackson Hawthorne as he descends the marble staircase several feet away. Even from a distance, I can see the smirk on his lips. He swipes the black hair away from his face and shoves his hands into the pockets of his—
Hold the fuck on. This guy is wearing bright-green pajama pants. With some sort of cartoon frog printed all over them.
“Humble,” I call out dryly, crossing my arms over my chest as I take him in. At least he’s wearing a proper shirt. And—oh for the love of god, he didn’t even put on shoes. Did this guy just roll out of bed?
His golden eyes glimmer with humor as he gets closer, slowing on the last few steps before he reaches our level. “You must be Skylar,” he says in a smooth voice. “Your reputation precedes you.”
I scowl, turning my face to Nikolai. “What did you tell him?”
Jackson’s deep laugh fills the room. “Please don’t fret. Kol didn’t tell me anything.”Kol? Who the fu—Oh. Nikolai.So they hate each other, but Jackson has a nickname for him? There’s got to be something more there.
I regard him warily; he’s too charming. It’s a façade. It has to be.
He offers me his hand. “Forgive me,” he requests. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
