Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 202770 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1014(@200wpm)___ 811(@250wpm)___ 676(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 202770 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1014(@200wpm)___ 811(@250wpm)___ 676(@300wpm)
Things I haven’t told Jax, but if I do, he might destroy my family business and me with it.
Chapter thirty
Jax
On the walk back to the room, I remember what shouldn’t have been forgotten. Emma swearing to York she would hold onto a secret, one with Marion at the core. I know Marion. I know she’s related to York. If York is involved in whatever this is with my brother—and his showing up when he did, his timing right as I arrived on scene, tells me he is—maybe Marion and her husband are as well. I need to know what that was about. By the time I reach the room, I’ve decided that has to happen now.
Entering, I scan the living area, Emma is not in easy view. The man in me, the one who can’t get enough of this woman, would be more than happy to find her naked on top of the bed, waiting with open legs and arms. I’d forget questions about York and Marion for at least a good hour or two. I’d forget a lot to have Emma all to myself and naked right now.
I round the corner to the bedroom and quickly discover that I’m not that lucky tonight.
Emma’s on the bed all right, her head on the pillow, her long dark hair draped over her shoulders, but she’s also fully dressed, on her back, her eyes shut. Adding to my certainty that this scene doesn’t play out how it had in my head are two empty mini bottles of whiskey beside the bed. At least it’s North Whiskey, which would lead me to believe she had me on her mind, but she also has that damn journal laying on top of her stomach and thanks to Savage, I really want a damn look inside.
I step to the foot of the bed, staring at that damn thing where it lays open on top of Emma, and I know that no matter how valiant Emma might be on this topic, I have to make a choice: the journal or the woman, and the answer comes easier than I expect. For once in my life, when given the choice between a woman and something else, the woman wins. Rounding the bed, I gently pick up the journal and lay it on the nightstand.
“You could have looked at it,” Emma says, surprising me by scooting to a sitting position and leaning against the headboard.
“You’re awake,” I say, sitting on the mattress next to her, leaning over her, and pressing my hand on the other side of her hip.
“Read it, Jax.” She overemphasizes her words, speaking slower than usual but more precisely, clearly feeling the whiskey. “Oh God,” she presses her hand to her face, “I’m a horrible drinker.” She drops her hand. “Really bad.”
“A lightweight is more like it,” I tease, motioning to the two-mini bottles that might be small but straight up pack a bunch for a little think like Emma. I don’t fault her for drinking. She’s trying to process her father’s words in that journal, the way I was trying to process what I had to tell Savage. “Liquid courage to read the journal.”
“He doesn’t name names when he writes out all his vile thoughts,” she says, “but it might mean something to you, something that I can’t see for the disappointment in my father.”
“We’ll read it together tomorrow.”
“There are things you need to know, Jax.”
My eyes narrow. “I thought he didn’t name names.”
“Other things. Other things that you need to know.”
“What do you think I need to know, Emma?”
“Who some of the players in my father’s sick games are, players he doesn’t have to name. I know who they are. But telling you could ruin the Knight empire and I don’t know you well enough yet to trust you with that.”
It’s hard to argue the smartness of that statement. It’s impossible not to push her for more. “Then tell me something else. What secret are you keeping for York?”
Her fingers brush my jaw, her eyes searching my face. “I think I might really like you, Jax.”
I want her to really like me and drunk people tend to say what they might not otherwise, and it’s usually honest. I catch her hand. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“You’re addicted to me, you said.”
“Obsessed was the word, but addicted works, too. I am addicted to you. Is that a problem?”
“To fucking me. You’re addicted to fucking me. We have this sex thing, but when that’s over—”
“That’s the whiskey talking. We had this conversation. We’re not just sex.”
“Do you want to have sex right now?”
“I always want to have sex with you, Emma, but that’s not the point.”
“Yes,” she assures me. “It is. It means this is a sex thing.”
“I don’t want to have sex every time a woman laughs a certain way or looks at me. Not unless it’s you.”