Page 91 of Call It What You Want
In the basement, Chase and Yates are already restrained, zip-tied to chairs. Yates is still out of it, head lolling slightly. Chase’s eyes are pure terror.
Sin is on his cot, watching me without surprise. The faintest smirk tugs one corner of his mouth, like this is his evening entertainment. Maybe we have more in common than I’ve appreciated.
“Please—” Chase rasps. But I don’t indulge him. I give him a look that says there will be no bargains, no last-minute salvation.
I don’t speak. I don’t need to. My knife will do the talking.
It’s cold in my hand, and I move with the kind of calm that comes from years of practice. Yates goes first. Quick, precise. I cut him in ways that ensure the pain is sharp and lingering, but the struggle ends cleanly.
Then, I circle Chase—slow and methodical—as if I’m measuring the space between life and whatever comes after. When I cut him, it’s not neat. The blade finds the soft places under his ribs and severs vital organs. Blood soaks through his shirt and spills onto the concrete below. He pulls against the zipties, fingernails scraping the metal chair, face turning purple as the breath leaves him in ragged, desperate pulls. His eyes see me until they don’t; the light goes out in them, and his body folds inward, limbs slackening.
The floor is slick with blood, the air metallic. Two bodies hang uselessly in the chairs. Two names erased.
Zero apologies.
By the next evening, the world feels lighter, almost unreal, as if the horror of yesterday belongs on another timeline. For the first time since Jameson was born, we’re together. The three of us—Jameson, Ava, and me. Our little family.
After spending the day at Rush Beach, Jameson is exhausted, covered in sand, and fussy. In my bathroom, I run a shallow, lukewarm bath while Ava gets our son ready, peeling off his damp clothes and brushing the sand off his chubby little legs.
We settle on opposite sides of the tub, our knees almost touching. Jameson splashes in the tub, thrilled with the makeshift toys I’ve sourced from my bathroom—a sponge, a shower puff, and an empty shampoo bottle.
I guess I need to stock up on toddler stuff.
The thought spreads warmth through my chest. I’m already mentally cataloging what a toddler might need: rubber ducks, those foam letters, maybe one of those toys that stick to the tile…
I cup water in my hand and let it trickle over Jameson's shoulders. He giggles, slapping the surface of the water, sending droplets flying. I shrug out of my shirt, not worried about the sun this time—I didn’t do it at the beach earlier, because I didn’t want to fry the tattoo on my shoulder.
Ava catches sight of my tattoo for the first time. “What’s that on your shoulder?” she asks, leaning in to get a closer look. “Are those…teeth marks?”
“You left your mark on me,” I say. “So I decided to make it permanent.”
“What?” She laughs. “Oh, my God, Jackson. You’re insane.”
I lift a brow. “You like it.”
She glances back down at Jameson, her fingers trailing in the water. “I want this all the time,” she whispers, something soft and unguarded in her expression. “Jameson, you, me. Together.”
“I already have my team scouting houses in the area,” I say. “I texted them this morning.”
She smiles at me, and for a second, it feels like the whole damn world slows down. “Jameson would love a backyard.”
A quiet settles between us, comfortable, warm. Then her voice drops, almost to herself. “Sometimes I look at Jameson,” she says, “and I wonder how my mom could ever leave me and my sister. How anyone could walk away from this.” Her eyes flick to Jameson, who’s busy trying to drown the sponge.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I used to think the same thing about mine. How the hell do you look at your own kid and still choose yourself?”
She glances up, eyes glassy. “Guess some people are just wired to be selfish.”
“We’ll break the cycle. For him.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “For him,” she echoes.
I lean in and kiss her, my tongue slipping into her mouth. She tastes like cherry lip balm, and pure fucking heaven. I grab her by the shirt and tug her close, deepening the kiss. “What did I do to deserve you?” I whisper against her lips.
I’ve been blind and made so many mistakes. But somehow, it all led me here, toher.She sees me in a way no one else ever has, not the broken pieces I’ve tried to hide, not the man I pretend to be, butme.The real me, stripped bare of all the armor I’ve spent years building.
She pulls back, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw, and I lean into her touch like a man starving for it. Because I am. I’ve been starving for three years.
“You’re incredible,” she whispers, her voice tender.
