Page 117 of Crimson Desires
Jack
As soon as we finished our set, I took off.
I changed into the sweatpants, black hoodie, and mask that Aster had bought for me—hoping it would keep me from being slowed down by fans that might recognize me as I made my way to the Cleveland Hopkins International Airport.
Ava had already chartered a private jet for me. She’d also informed the airport staff that I was coming immediately after the show. She’d arranged for a rental car, and she’d sent me Aster’s home address. She’d even booked a hotel room in case I needed one.
When I got to the Cleveland Airport, an airport guard immediately collected me and escorted me to my plane.
By midnight, the plane was in the air. If I was lucky, I’d find myself in Boston by two in the morning. Not the most ideal time to come barging in on Aster’s house—but I couldn’t bring myself to wait until the morning to see her. I had to make things right as soon as possible.
I didn’t sleep throughout the flight. I didn’t even kill time on my phone. I just stared out the window, watching as the plane crossed the invisible territory lines between Ohio and Pennsylvania, Pennsylvania and New York, and New York and Massachusetts.
When I finally landed in Boston, I headed to the car park to get my rental.
Ava had hooked me up with a Honda Odyssey. It was a chariot fit for a soccer mom, but it had four wheels, an engine, and a steering wheel—so I could fucking care less.
I shed my mask, tossing it in the backseat of the car.
I plugged Aster’s home address into the Odyssey’s GPS and drove like my life depended on it.
***
The lights were still on in Aster’s house when I pulled into the driveway.
Taking a deep breath, I killed the Odyssey’s engine, stepped out of the car, and walked to the front door of the house.
Only after I knocked did I remember that Aster lived with her chronically ill father—and that my arrival wouldn’t just be inconveniencing her, but him as well.
I didn’t have much time to beat myself up over my mistake, though.
The front door opened, revealing a middle-aged man. The man was sturdily built, with broad shoulders and a big gut. His eyes were blue, like Aster’s, and the scowl he gave me looked identical to hers.
“Who the hell do you think you are, knocking on my door at two in the morning?”
“Hi, Mr. Jennings. Sorry for the intrusion. My name is Jack Maverick. Your daughter, Aster, worked on my tour-,”
The man’s eyes widened in realization.
“Oh, Jesus. Come in, Mr. Maverick.” There was an odd lack of humor to him. He moved like a doctor about to deliver a terminal diagnosis as he sat me down at the kitchen table. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m alright. Thanks, though.”
Mr. Jennings leaned against the kitchen counter. He drew his lips into a grimace. “Look, I gotta tell you something about Aster-,”
“Sir, I don’t know what she’s told you, but this has all been one huge misunderstanding.”
“You’re telling me.”
I smiled, unsure. I couldn’t get a read on Mr. Jennings’ emotions.
At that moment, my phone rang. I cursed quietly, checking the caller ID. It was Ava. If it were anyone else in the world, I probably would’ve ignored the call—but ignoring Ava was like etching my own name into my gravestone.
I apologized to Mr. Jennings before answering.
“Ava? What is it?”
Ava’s voice was a mixture of exhaustion and relief. “Jack,” she said, “you are not going to fucking believe this.”