Page 24 of Call It What You Want
I nod, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “I heard,” I say. When his questioning gaze lingers, I add, “Roman ran into Byron. He said the Senior Council is washing their hands of the whole thing.”
He runs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “I can’t shake the feeling that the Senior Council knows something we don’t,” he says.
“My dad is on the Senior Council,” I say. “I can call him, see what he knows.”
I’d rather chew glass than talk to my dad, but at this point, he might be our only option.
“Your dad is a cunt,” John spits. “Always has been, even when we were kids. He’d flash that thousand-watt smile, while at the same time, sinking a knife into your back.” His eyes narrow to slits. “You know what he did the day of our mother’s funeral? The cunt sent me a bill. He itemized every cent I ‘owed’ him fromyearsago. Shit, I don’t even remember. That’s who your father is—a selfish, cold-blooded cunt who turns everything, even grief, into a fucking transaction.”
He’s talking like I don’t know who Alexander McKnight is, like I haven’t lived with the man. But I get it. He’s just blowing off steam.
“Yeah, I know how my dad works. He won’t do shit unless it benefits him somehow,” I say. “Butmyimage affectshisimage, right?”
John pauses, like he doesn’t want to admit that I might be right.
“Fine,” he says. “If you want to call him, then call him. But don’t expect him to give a fuck unless it’s a headline on TMZ.”
He’s not wrong. My dad is the most self-absorbed person on the fucking planet.
“Listen,” John continues, raking a hand down his face. “I heard through one of my channels that the FBI is reopening the case. And, I’m telling you right now, if this goes public, it’ll be catastrophic. Your life will be—” He drops his hand and draws in a slow breath. He looks exhausted. “—gone. Destroyed.”
I know he’s worried. My uncle has always been more of a father to me than my own ever managed to be. My dad never wanted kids—he wanted props. Perfect replicas he could parade around to sell the illusion that he’s more than what he is: a selfish man addicted to appearances.
“It’s fine. The FBI doesn’t know a damn thing,” I say, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat.
His eyes narrow, latching onto the certainty in my tone. “Jackson, what aren’t you telling me?”
I know John is loyal to me, and to the Burning Crown, but I still find myself swallowing back the truth. Only one other person knows what happened the morning my stepfather died, and I plan to keep it that way. Because the truth would destroy more than just me. It would shatter the illusion I’ve worked so fucking hard to build.
“Nothing,” I say.
John studies me, scanning my face for the lie. Finally, he says, “Whoever is behind all this isn’t looking for justice. They want someone to fall. Publicly. They want blood. Do you understand that?”
I nod. I know what’s at stake better than anyone.
John leans forward, eyes hard. There’s a reason people call him the Shark of Malibu. “I’ll do what I can. But you owe me honesty, Jackson. I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s really going on.”
“Yeah, got it,” I say. “Thanks. I appreciate your help.”
I deliberately don’t mention Shadow and Ash, or Sin rotting in our basement, because the less he knows about how I’m handling things, the better. And I sure as hell can’t tell him about Ava’s pretty little ass waiting for me in my bedroom.
He turns to leave, but before he can, I stop him. “Hey, before you go, has your team managed to find anything on @AurumNoctis?”
Aurum Noctis.Latin for “Golden Night.”
I first saw that username the night the coroner hauled the senator away. It was on his laptop, the one he kept hidden in the secret drawer of his desk. The message still up on his screen was cold and precise?—
I want a video of you fucking that girl in your house, Ava.
Since that day, I’ve hunted the sick fuck behind that username. I’ve traced every lead, poured every resource into finding him. I even threw our best private investigator at it. But @AurumNoctis is a fucking ghost.
“Nothing,” my uncle says. “But, we’ll keep looking.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Once he’s gone, the head of our security team, Andre, corners me in the hallway. Wearing head-to-toe tactical gear, the guy radiates intimidation.
“Boss, we might have a problem,” he says.
