Page 22 of Call It What You Want
God, how did things get so complicated so quickly?
Two days ago, I was just living my life—working, scraping by, paying bills with money I don’t have, then coming home to the people I love…
It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine. The life I built from nothing, piece by fragile piece. The life I fought tooth and nail to hold onto. And I’m not about to let Jackson storm in and knock it all down, just because he can.
I walk into the bathroom to clean up, then realize I have no clean clothes here. All I have is my Isca uniform, a bra, and a(now) drenched pair of panties. Jackson was clever enough to stalk and kidnap me, but as usual, he’s neglected the finer details of my captivity. Like clothes and toiletries.
So fucking typical.
Using a bar of soap I find in the shower, I strip off my clothes and wash up just enough to feel human again. Then I wander into Jackson’s massive walk-in closet. It’s stuffed to the brim with designer clothes. Seriously, justoneof his T-shirts probably costs more than I make in a week. I grab a pair of gray sweats, pull them on, and roll the waistband a few times to cinch them tight. For the shirt, I grab the priciest one I can find, find some scissors in the desk drawer, and hack the shirt into a crop top. Not perfect, but it’ll do.
At some point while I was knocked out, Jackson brought breakfast up. The eggs and bacon are cold now, so I avoid those, but I gulp down a small glass of orange juice. Then I pluck a blueberry muffin off the serving tray and pop bits of it into my mouth as I wander around the room, snooping through Jackson’s shit.
He has several academic books on history, and I wonder if he’s working toward a history degree at ExU. When we dated, he devoured any book he could on Julius Caesar and the Roman Empire. There was something about power, legacy, and control that seemed to fascinate him.
I’m rifling through his nightstand when something catches my eye. At first glance, it looks like trash, just a random coffee sleeve. Then I see it, my lipstick smeared across the cardboard, my name and number scrawled in my own handwriting. A week after his mom introduced us, he asked for it. I remember every detail of that moment. I’d just come home from school. I had a chai latte in one hand, a pen in my pocket, and no clue that giving him my number would change my entire life…
And he kept it.
I swallow past the emotion that rises in my throat, toss the sleeve back in the nightstand, and snap the drawer shut, like I’m shutting out the past.
Damn.I need to get out of this room.
If I try to escape a second time, Jackson will befurious,but honestly, at this point, who cares? Besides, I’m not escaping. I just need a distraction. So I slip out of the bedroom and head downstairs.
In the kitchen, people are swarming. People who weren’t here just a few minutes ago, during my first escape attempt. Several cases of soda, and every kind of beer and liquor imaginable.
I grab a bottle of root beer, twist the cap off, and take a swig. It tastes…weird. I glance at the label. No wonder. It’s an organic artisanal soda from a local company.Jesus.What’s wrong with regular soda?
Activity swirls around me, and I watch for a minute before finally catching the attention of someone walking by—a girl with dark, wavy hair and bright eyes.
“Hey, what’s all this for?” I ask.
“The beach party tomorrow night,” she says, like I should know what she’s talking about. And if I were a society member, I guess I would know.
“Oh. Right,” I say. “The beach party.”
The girl drifts away, and I wander down the hallway to explore the old mansion. I’ve only ever heard Jackson’s stories about Rush House. I’ve never been inside. But it’s every bit as ancient and ostentatious as I imagined it would be. Every wall, every polished surface, is absolutely dripping with old money.
I’m studying one of the giant portraits in the entryway when a burst of laughter drifts from a hallway to my right. I follow it and step into what looks like a normal living room. Well, normal is relative. The room is massive, all sleek modern art that’s astark contrast to the old Victorian vibe that’s spilling from every other corner of the mansion. A sprawling couch takes up the center, facing a wall-sized TV, and off to the side, there’s a pool table that probably costs more than my whole apartment.
And the space is packed, several people crammed onto the couch yelling at a game that’s playing on the TV, a couple of guys battling it out at the pool table, and others too busy shoving their tongues down each other’s throats to notice anything else. It’s the middle of the day, but whatever. No judgment. Get it when you can, I guess.
When I walk in, no one even glances at me, which is a good sign. It means they don’t know who I am, and that I shouldn’t be here. There’s no space on the couch, so I grab a beer from the coffee table, pop the tab, and lean against the wall.
I’m half-watching the soccer game on the TV when some guy sidles up next to me. He’s cute with brown hair, glasses, and a set of dimples that probably get him a lot of ass.
“Hey,” he says. “You’re new.”
Welp. Spotted already.
“You’re very observant,” I reply, taking a drink.
“I’m Brian.”
“Ava.”
“Oh, like Christian’s consort,” he says, then pauses, like he’s just realized something. “I mean, before Wyn…obviously.”
