Hello loves, forgive me. I thought I was never going to write again, but I can't give up on these characters. Please have a read of the last part of the last chapter to refresh what has happened so far.

Sixteen

It looks heavy, but he carries it with ease.

He checks if it's loaded, then hides it away in the waistband of his trousers.

I'm sat still, shocked. Unable to move, unable to speak. He realises.

"I'm so sorry," he says, regretful.

I'm not sure why he said it that way, I'm not sure about what has even happened. Piecing two and two together, whoever that was on the phone gave Jake some bad news, and now he's as stiff as a statue, with a gun hiding under his t-shirt.

"About what? Jake what's going on?" I manage to choke up, not realising how shaky my voice has become.

"Flo," he turns to face me, pausing a moment.

His demeanour is stiff, like he's bracing himself for an impact.

"I need you to listen to me," he says, before pausing again.

He's taking the time to think, I can see him calculating as his eye dash between the floor between us and his bedroom door. He shakes his head as if he's having an internal battle with himself.

"I'm so sorry, you shouldn't be here," he mutters under his breath, thinking I won't catch it, but I do.

"Jake, what is going on?" I urge, my hand rests of his thigh.

He looks down towards my fingers, and takes them with his own.

"I will explain everything later," he finally says pointedly.

"First, we need to get out of here. We can't go downstairs, we have to take the back exit through my balcony," he gets up from the bed, guiding me up with him.

"Follow me closely, please," he whispers the last part, almost as if he's begging me.

I do as he says. He leads the way to the balcony, down the back-building stairs, past what looks like where the bins are kept before they're collected, then finally into the car park. All the while, I'm glued to this side, his hand firmly bonded with mine. He digs into his jean pocket but for a moment I thought he was grabbing his gun, and my heart almost sank. Instead, I see car keys.

He takes me to the passenger side of a low black BMW, and only closes the door once I'm safely strapped in. His eyes aren't on me though, they're scouring the car park, looking for something or someone.

Within mere seconds, I find ourselves swerving onto the main road, the apartment complex blurring into the distance behind us. Jake wastes no time, and is straight on the phone. The shrills of two rings come through the speakers of the car, before whoever is on the other line answers.

"Where are you?"

It's a much more mature voice, a gentleman in his fifties maybe.

"On my way, I'll be ten minutes," Jake replies, his voice calm and controlled.

"Come through the back," the man commands.

"Fine."

Before I think he's going to end the call, Jake says one last thing.

"Flo is with me," I turn to face him, and he looks back at me, his eyes show regret.

"Flo who?" The man asks, with a tone that is suspicious.

After a pause, Jake responds.

"Flo Brine,"

And with that, the line cuts.

***

The rest of the drive falls into silence.

These ten minutes seem a lot longer, but we eventually pull into what seems like the back entrance to a giant Manor House. It's dark, so the trees surrounding surrounding the grand house look like claws trying to grasp us as we drive beneath them.

It takes me a moment, but remember the house. It's Jake's parent's house.

I connect the dots - the man on the phone earlier was his father.

Why did he hang up the phone at the mention of my name?

The car comes to a halt, however I stay seated. For some reason, I don't dare even move. In swift motions, Jake is out of the driver's side and opening my door, even reaching over to unbuckle my seatbelt for me. I feel his warmth when he's close to me and I miss it when the cold air from outside steals it away.

We make for the back door of the house. It's an old style mansion, restored into greatness when the family bought it years ago. It is typically English country-side living. At a noisy twist of the door knob, Jake lets me into the mosaic-plaid flooring of the entryway where muddy rain boots and coats are kept. I wait for him to lead the way in, but it feels strange, knowing the that I used to let myself in through this door all time, and help myself to the house as if it were my own.

Winding through the maze of the house, we head for the grand staircase situated in the heart of the home. The steps squeak as we take them step by step. When we reach the landing, I can hear a low hum of voices coming from the left wing of the house - the part where I was never allowed to venture into all those years ago.

The mystery of the left wing slowly unveils itself as we walk down the hallway, past several closed doors, nearing a slightly wedged-open one at the very end. A ray of light filters through it, enticing us in its direction.

Jake brushes my arm, signalling for me to get behind him, just as soon as he pushes the door open.

The voice belongs to Jake's father, Phillip. His eyes dash towards us from behind a large mahogany desk; he's almost swallowed by the large arm chair that he's sat on. It seems as though we've interrupted a serious conversation between him and two monstrously large men dressed in black.

"Jacob," Phillip winds his fingers together before him on the desk.

"Flo," the way he says my name makes me uneasy.

"Lovely to see you again, how is your father?"

The sentence is tinged with a sharpness. They were friends, yes. Not close ones, as far as I'm aware.

"Well," I reply bluntly.

Jake places a hand on my waist and leads me deeper into the room.

"I see you've managed to find yourself in a pickle, again," Phillip's gaze now turns to Jake as he talks.

"I wonder why that is?" Jake shoots back.

The hostility within the air is so thick it can be cut.

Phillip ignores Jake, and turns back to me.

"What does she know of the situation?"

"Nothing, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time," Jake's words are masked with regret and annoyance all at once.

"Well you've winded an innocent girl up into this mess," Phillip says it dismissively, as if the topic bores him.

What the fuck have I walked into?

I want to open my mouth to ask exactly what I'm thinking, though I'm stopped by Phillip's next words.

"If you think I'm going to protect her as well, you're delusional," I feel a rush of heat up my neck and face at his words.

"First, you've winded everyone up in this mess, not me. And I suspected you wouldn't, but she's with me. If you want to protect me, you'll protect her."

"Oh please, stop thinking with your penis, she's just another one of your girls,"

If I could describe how a thousand blades felt as they tore through your chest, it would be that sentence. I feel his fingers tense at my waist a little; I think it was supposed to be comforting, but it felt anything but.

"Dad," his voice unexpectedly breaks.

"Dad," he says again, more assertive.

"It's Flo, Dad."

Phillip still doesn't look at him, but something in his demeanour changes. He purses his lips, looks towards the two men beside us, then swivels to look out the window, at the claw-like trees. Silence finds us once again.

When it feels as though my heart has been bleeding, his next words feel like resuscitation.

"You will go to Atwood together, then. Keep a fucking low profile, I'll speak to you when you get there."

***

Thank you for reading. It's a short chapter, I know, but I'm so excited to finish this story. I've missed Jake & Flo and their story together.

I've also made an Instagram: @indie.wattpad. I'd like to put some BTS's of writing up on there, to keep me motivated and you guys up to date!

Again, thank you for your patience. I won't keep you waiting so long for the next chapter. I hope you enjoy!

Indie xoxo