Chapter 2: Scar Tissue and Secrets

“You stay home, we’ll talk outside.”

His tone left no room for argument. I glanced back at the girl, who looked even more confused now.

“Is it inconvenient? Did I bother Mrs. Whitfield?”

The girl’s face turned pink, and she waved her hands fast.

She ducked her head, cheeks pink. “No, I’m not Mrs. Whitfield, we’re not…”

“Not married yet? Well, it must be soon. When that happens, I’ll expect an invite to the wedding.”

I winked, letting the sarcasm drip just enough to make her blush deepen. She glanced at Jackson, as if hoping for some kind of rescue.

She blushed even deeper, glancing shyly at Jackson.

He didn’t say a word, just tightened his jaw. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

My smile widened.

I couldn’t help it. It was the kind of smile you give when you know you’re the villain in someone else’s story.

“By the way, my name’s Lauren Harper. What should I call you?”

I stuck out my hand, keeping my tone light and friendly. If I was going to play this part, I’d play it well.

“Emily Reyes. Nice to meet you!”

Her handshake was soft, almost shy. There was a sincerity in her eyes that made me pause—just for a moment. She was young. Too young for all this.

Emily Reyes. Nineteen. Lakeview University. Top of her class. Squeaky clean.

That’s all I could dig up.

The rest, Jackson kept under wraps.

I’d tried every trick in the book—called in favors, dug through social media. But Jackson had locked down her life tighter than a bank vault. The mystery only made me more determined.

In the end, I didn’t get inside their apartment.

Under Jackson’s icy stare, I followed him down the stairs.

The silence between us was heavy, almost suffocating.

Every step echoed off the concrete, each one taking us further from the girl upstairs—and from the people we used to be.

“How did you get here?”

His voice was low, clipped. I could hear the edge in it, the barely contained anger.

…

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?”

He didn’t look at me, just kept walking, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

…

“How long have you known?”

The words hung in the air, unanswered. I kept my face blank, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

…

He took a long drag. Exhaled slow.

The smoke curled around his head, catching the sunlight. It was a nervous habit—one he’d picked up when things got bad. I waited, letting the silence stretch.

“What do you want?”

Finally, the real question.

I sneered.

I let the bitterness show, just for a second. This was the part where we dropped the act, where the gloves finally came off.

“What do you expect me to do?”

My voice was sharp, almost mocking. I wanted him to say it—to admit what he wanted from me.

Jackson looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

His gaze was unreadable, but I saw something flicker there—regret, maybe, or just exhaustion.

“It’s not what you think between me and her.”

“She’s not well. I’m just looking out for her, that’s all.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, like he expected me to believe it. But I knew Jackson too well. He didn’t do anything out of pure kindness—not anymore.

I just said, “Oh.”

It was the kind of sound you make when you want to seem unimpressed, even if you’re not. I raised an eyebrow, daring him to elaborate.

“What if I don’t buy that?”

Jackson’s face darkened.

His jaw clenched, and the muscle in his cheek twitched. My stomach tightened.

Any warmth I had left vanished.

I felt myself go cold, shutting down the part of me that still cared. It was easier that way.

I stepped out and slammed the car door.

The sound echoed down the street, sharp and final. I didn’t look back.

“Lauren.”

His voice stopped me in my tracks. For a second, I almost turned around.

I hesitated, then turned around.

The next second, the engine roared.

Jackson gripped the wheel with one hand. As the car sped toward me, he stared me down, unblinking.

It all happened so fast—one moment I was standing in the street, the next, headlights were bearing down on me. My heart hammered in my chest. My feet were glued to the pavement.

I watched my pupils go wide, my body frozen.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The world narrowed to the sound of the engine and the look in Jackson’s eyes—cold, determined, dangerous.

The brakes screeched.

The bumper stopped right against my knees.

Stopped.

Time seemed to freeze with it. I stared at the hood of the car, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

My mind went blank. It was like thunder exploded in my ears.

For a moment, all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears. Everything else faded away.

The car reversed, turned, and pulled up next to me. Jackson looked up at me.

His face was unreadable—calm, almost bored. But his eyes were wild, burning with something I couldn’t name.

“Don’t go near her.”

It wasn’t a plea.

It was a warning.

The finality in his voice sent a chill down my spine. He wasn’t asking—he was telling. The line had been drawn.

“Miss Harper, are you okay?”

Mr. Turner stumbled over, face pale, eyes full of fear.

He reached for my arm, steadying me. His hands were shaking. I realized then how close I’d come to something irreversible.

The moment I fell, I realized—it wasn’t in my head. He really wanted to kill me.

It wasn’t just a threat, not some empty show of bravado. Jackson had meant it. I’d pushed him too far, and now there was no going back.

Jackson was never a good man or a good woman.

He didn’t even finish high school, could barely read, but clawed his way up—ruthless with others, even more so with himself.

He was the kind of guy who’d fight tooth and nail for a seat at the table, then flip the table just to see what you’d do.

At age six, my deadbeat dad used “taking me out” as an excuse to have a fling with his old flame.

We were supposed to go to the movies, but instead, he dropped me in the motel lobby with a coloring book and a pack of stale vending machine crackers. Jackson was already there, swinging his legs on a ratty old couch, eyes glued to the TV.

They were hooking up in the motel suite, while Jackson sat with me in the lobby, watching cartoons.

I didn’t get it then—why the adults disappeared, why the air smelled funny, why the front desk clerk kept giving us pitying looks. Jackson just kept the cartoons turned up loud, pretending we were anywhere else.