Page 7 of Call It What You Want
First, I have to deal with the problem standing on my porch.
CHAPTER THREE
Jackson
The GHB hits Ava hard, and she’s out within seconds, her body soft and heavy in my arms. I carry her to the bed and drop her gently on top of the covers. My eyes linger on her breasts, and I’m tempted to sample them, see if they still taste sweet. But if I take a little, I won’t be able to stop myself from taking more, so I force myself to take a step back.
There’ll be plenty of time for that later.
My phone rings as I leave the room. It’s that blocked number again, for the third time today. I decline it without breaking my stride. Whatever it is, it can wait. Right now, I need to deal with Ember.
Downstairs, I open the front door and see her leaning against the banister, a duffel bag at her feet. Andre is standing over her with a scowl, arms crossed over his chest.
“She claims she’s your sister,” Andre says skeptically.
Em rolls her eyes. “Why are you saying it like that?Damn.I showed you my driver’s license.”
“Sheismy sister,” I tell Andre, my eyes never leaving Em. “What do you want?”
“I need somewhere to crash for a few days.”
Oh, fuck no.
There’s a reason I’ve never let my little sister anywhere near Rush House. This place is crawling with deviant motherfuckers. That’s on agoodday. They’d eat Ember for breakfast, and knowing her… she’d probably like it.
“Not happening,” I say firmly. “You can’t stay here.”
“Wow, you are such an asshole, Jackson.”
I can’t argue with that, so I don’t.
She steps toward me. “Aren’t you at least curious why I’m here?”
“No.”
Ember is fourteen months younger than me, and she lives with Mom in the hills of Calabassis. They’re constantly getting into it over dumb shit. I’m sure they had some kind of fight, and Em, being dramatic, probably packed her bags and stormed off to prove a point.
But Rush House isn’t a fucking resort.
“Mom kicked me out,” she says.
Fuck.
“Why?”
God, I really don’t need this right now. I’ve got random calls blowing up my phone, Ava unconscious upstairs, and the leader of a rival secret society bound and bleeding in my basement now, so this isn’t exactly the best time for a house guest.
“She’s drinking again, and I called her out on it,” Em says. “She didn’t like that.”
Mom has always had a drinking problem. When we were kids, she’d go through a bottle or two of wine every night like it was water. But after our stepfather died, she switched to vodka, and things got gnarly. We finally got her into rehab, but now, I guess she’s drinking again. Same shit, different day. It’s an endless cycle that never seems to break.
“You can’t stay here,” I say flatly.
Em pushes out a breath. “Then where am I supposed to go?”
“I’ll book you a hotel.”
She lifts a brow the same color as mine. When we were younger, people used to think we were twins until I outgrew her. We’ve always looked like our father.
