The Brit

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  Making my way into the bathroom, I take only a second to look at myself, turning away from the mess that reflects back at me. My skin still smells salty, my hair is matted, and my eyes look more haunted than ever before. I close the door and lock it, going to the drawer and feeling around the back for my cell. I pull it free and stare down at the screen, torn. The guns run circles in my head, the information I’ve learned tormenting me. But not for long. The consequences of withholding information soon supersedes my doubt to betray Danny.

  I turn on the phone and dial Nox, turning on the shower to create some background noise. It’s time to tell him about the guns. It’s time for me to be out of this conflicting space of heaven and hell. I need to go back to what I know, familiarity, and Danny Black isn’t familiar to me.

  It rings and rings before clicking to voicemail. It’s not his voice. It’s the standard automated voicemail message. I hang up, knowing the rules when it comes to leaving voice messages. Then I dial again, my hands beginning to tremble a little. I need to offload the information before I do something stupid like change my mind. It’s not like there’s any going back. I’ve already given Nox information on Danny’s movements, resulting in the carnage last night at the boatyard. Does Nox know yet? Does he know I was there? Once again, it goes to voicemail, and I cut the call, staring at the cell.

  My head snaps up when I hear a thud from beyond the door, and a second later, the door handle is rattling. I shoot toward the vanity unit and push the phone into its hiding place. “Coming,” I call, quickly composing myself before breathing in and opening. His hands are braced on the doorframe, his body leaning forward. He’s holding himself up. He looks like shit. With a cold stare, he takes me in, up and down. “What?” I ask, short and curt. He’s set the standard, and it makes what I’m going to do a little more bearable. At least, it should do.

  “I’m going out of town.” His biceps flex as he pushes into the frame, straightening himself up. “I’ll be back this evening.” He turns and walks away. Just like that.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, pacing after him.

  “Out of town,” he says without turning back, keeping up his stride to the door. “Esther and some of the men are here if you need anything.”

  “What might I need?” I spit, getting angrier as I follow him.

  “Well, it’s not me, obviously.” He stops abruptly in his tracks the second he’s spat out his statement, forcing me to stop too, or crash into his back. There was hurt in his tone. He didn’t mean to say that, or sound so indignant. But he’s wrong. I feel like I do need him, but I can’t have him. This is for the best.

  “Obviously,” I confirm, taking one step back. “When can I leave?”

  Danny turns, slowly revealing his hard, cut face. “Now.”

  I recoil, his answer unexpected. Now? I can go now? His face tells me I heard him right, his eyes drilling into me with ferocity. “I want you gone before I get back.” He walks backward toward the door, never severing our eye contact. A horrible pain pinches at my heart. A nasty ache turns my stomach. This is it, and though I’ve begged for it, I’m all in a muddle now. And it has nothing to do with what Nox will do. Besides, I’m pretty sure I have the information he wants, anyway. My boy is safe. But Danny Black is not. No more rattling cages.

  Next time . . .

  I swallow down more lumps in my throat, feeling them hit my stomach hard. “Okay,” I say simply, ripping my eyes away from him as I turn and head for the shower. With every step, the pain intensifies, until I reach the bathroom door and look back.

  He’s gone.

  * * *

  An hour later, I’m still sitting on the shower floor, bunched up neatly in the corner, hugging my knees. My skin is wrinkled, my body squeaky clean. Forcing myself to my feet, I turn off the shower and dry myself, pulling my wet hair up into a high knot. I can’t be bothered to dry it. I should just go.

  Call Nox and have his men collect me. Not that I have an address, but I have no doubt Nox will know.

  I leave the bathroom tidy and find my red dress, the one I wore the night Danny found me. I slip it on, grab my purse, and head for the bathroom to get the cell phone, turning it on. As I look down at the screen, I dawdle, my thumb hovering over the dial icon. An image of a boy is what has me pressing down and taking the cell to my ear. Every picture I’ve ever seen of him flashes through my mind, serving as the best reminder. It rings twice. Then I hear his voice, and before I think better of it, I hang up and start hyperventilating, having to take a seat on the toilet to gather myself.

  I start to rock myself back and forth, my torso folding in over my knees. I can’t think clearly here.

  I jump up and head out, jogging through his mansion until I reach the stairs. A man is standing at the bottom. I recognize him. Watson.

  “Danny said I could leave.” I drop my shoes to the floor and slip them on.

  “Yeah, I know.” Watson slides his hands into his pockets, tilting his head, looking me up and down. I should laugh. He wouldn’t have dared do that in Danny’s company. “Want a ride?” There’s a sinister edge to his question that puts me on my guard.

  I straighten and pull down the veil of hardness. “I can take a cab.”

  His dirty brown eyes take a quick scope of the entrance hall. He’s checking we’re alone. I back up and immediately damn myself for it. So I stop, pushing my shoulders back. In this dress, I should feel at home. My armor on and my hardness ready to take anything thrown at me. But I’m in Danny’s house, and I’m feeling like I’ve never felt until I met The Brit. Vulnerable.

  “How about a parting gift?” he suggests, advancing toward me.

  “You want me to fuck you?” I ask, looking him up and down, a curl to my lip. “No thanks. Even a whore like me can do better.” I see it coming. The slap that’ll put me on my ass. He wallops me with a force I’ve dealt with more than once, but now it hurts. I stagger back, tumbling to my backside. “I still don’t want to fuck you,” I sneer, throwing my hair back and looking up at him.

  “You little whore.” He grabs my injured arm and yanks me to my feet, shoving me into a nearby wall. I hit it with force. That hurts too. Why the hell is everything hurting all of a sudden? I go to dart to his left, but my path is quickly blocked by a big arm braced against the wall. I pin myself to the plaster and hold my breath, fighting to find the shield that’ll protect me. Watson leans in, breathing all over me, his palm slipping up my inside thigh under my dress.

  “No,” I murmur before I can stop myself, trying to slap his hand away. I feel dirty. Wrong. This situation isn’t unusual—assholes taking advantage, and usually I would oblige, knowing it was for the greater good. Knowing I got to keep my life if I just let it happen. Not now. Now, I can’t think of anything worse than another man’s hands on me.

  “Oh, you’re shy?” He nuzzles my nose, and my stomach churns, my face turning away. “I’ve seen that fine body of yours. In Black’s office. You weren’t shy then, were you?” His fingers slip past the seam of my panties, and I tighten my thighs, trying to make access as difficult as possible. “You’re not wet,” he hums. “We’ll soon see to that.”

  My dress is quickly yanked up to my waist, and I cry out. “Stop!”

  “I’ll stop when I’ve got what you’ve been teasing every man in this house with since you arrived.” He yanks at my panties, and the move brings last night flooding back. Danny was rough, but he didn’t make me feel like a whore. He didn’t make me feel this cheap. But I am. This is all I am. I just forgot for a few hours.

  No!

  I muster strength from somewhere and shove him back, darting for the front door. Watson yells and throws himself in my path, blocking me. So I swing around and retreat up the stairs, running as fast as my heeled feet will carry me. I fall into my room and rush to the bathroom, locking myself inside.

  I can hear him on the other side of the door. He tries it once, jiggling the handle. Then he laughs and leaves.

  I curl u
p in the corner on the floor, pulling my dress back into place.

  And . . . I cry.

  Chapter 17

  DANNY

  * * *

  I step out of the car, Brad and Ringo in tow, and look up at the face of the building, pulling off my shades. I’ve felt off all morning, and while I’d love to put it down to the bottle of Scotch I sank last night . . .

  I want you gone before I get back.

  Her surprise. The hard, determined look in her eyes. Her . . . acceptance.

  I pause at the door of the hospital in Fort Lauderdale, my hands clammy. Just do it. Get this shit sorted and the deal wrapped up.

  The electric doors open, and I scan the entrance hall.

  “You sure about this?” Brad asks, speaking up for the first time since we left Miami.

  “No.”

  “Danny, the woman.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s distracting you. Affecting you. You’re making stupid decisions.”

  “What, like killing the boy?” I get moving, striding through the hospital. “Where’s his room?”

  “He’s in the gardens getting some fresh air,” Ringo says, pointing the way. “I have eyes on him.” We round the corner and find a set of automatic doors leading out into a vast green landscaped garden, where dozens of people mill around. I put out my arm, stopping Brad and Ringo at the door. There’s too many people. “Cameras?”

  “Off.” Brad practically sighs as I turn to Ringo.

  “I’ll text you your command. Meet us back at the car.”

  “Got it,” Ringo confirms, and I make off down a brick path, ambling casually, looking discreetly around the area. It doesn’t take me long to find the boy. He’s by the pond in a wheelchair, the nurse handing him bread to toss to the ducks. I come to a stop, watching them, the boy expressionless, the nurse trying to coax a smile. She’s trying in vain. The kid has woken up and been told that his parents are dead. He probably wants to be dead himself. I can put him out of his misery. End this for him. Do us both a favor.

  Something tugs in my heart, something unwanted.

  “You got any family?”

  I took the notes and shook my head. “No, sir.”

  “Two fifties aren’t going to get you very far in life, are they?”

  “I suppose not, Mister. Wanna gimme some more?”

  “Get in the car.”

  “In your car?”

  “Yes, in my car. Get in.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re coming home with me.”

  And he did exactly that. Gave me a home. I was saved from my misery. And I realize in this moment the kid has everything to live for. I look at him and see me. A boy with no hope. No future. No love.

  Fuck, what the hell is wrong with me?

  I pull my phone from my pocket when it vibrates and answer Ringo. “I see him. I have a clear shot,” he tells me, and I whip my eyes across the pond to see my man up on the roof. His gun is poised, aimed and ready to fire. My eyes cast back to the boy. He’s smiling. It’s faint, but he’s smiling.

  “Stand down,” I order, shaking my head at the same time.

  “What?” Ringo sounds confused.

  “I said, stand down. Don’t fire. Mission aborted. Understand?” I turn my body toward Brad and find his eyes. “Stand. Down.”

  He smiles mildly, nodding. Yes, I’ve come to my fucking senses. Let’s not make a big deal of it. I shake my head to myself, hanging up. The boy is out of the equation. And now I’ve told Rose to get out, so is she. I’ll think of another way to get the marina. I’ll find out who the power of attorney is and convince them to sell it to me in the best way I know how. Threats. Blackmail. Death.

  I stand for a while, just watching the kid. I don’t know how long for, but it’s enough time for Ringo to make it down off the roof, and just when I’m about to tell them the new plan, one that involves Brad’s suggestion, torturing Adams, a sharp bang sounds out, followed by a high-pitched scream. I jump, as does Ringo and Brad, all of us ducking, the sound familiar to us.

  Gunfire.

  “No,” a female voice screams, anarchy breaking out around us. Everyone starts running for the doors into the hospital, causing a stampede of panicked people.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Brad asks, scoping the area, his hand automatically going to the back of his trousers. Ringo does what’s natural to him and grabs me, pulling me out of the open, but I shake him off, rising to my full height, my eyes shooting toward the pond. The boy is alone, a sitting duck in his wheelchair.

  “Fucking hell.” I break into a sprint toward the kid, hearing Brad yelling at me. When I reach him, I scoop him up out of the chair, flinching when the sound of a bullet ricochets off the metal of his chair. What the fuck?

  “Danny, you stupid fuck,” Brad roars, and I look over to him as I cuddle the kid close to my chest, finding him frantically searching around the garden, his gun ready to fire. “Run!”

  My brain engages, and I sprint across the garden with the kid, wincing when I hear him cry out a few times, his healing body jerking in my arms, hurting him.

  I make it into the hospital, Ringo and Brad close behind, guarding us, and pace toward the nearby desk. “Some assistance,” I yell, stopping a nurse and pretty much dragging her over. The boy’s staring at me in shock as I lay him on a nearby gurney. “Take care of him,” I order before I walk away, passing between Ringo and Brad, their eyes everywhere.

  Brad stops me just shy of the door, his hand in my chest. “Ringo will get the car and meet us out back.”

  I can’t argue with sensibility, and since I seem to be short of it recently, I’m listening, no matter how eager I am to get out of here and finally fix this shit. “Fine.” I back off and let them do their thing while I wonder what the fuck just happened.

  When we pull up outside the mansion, I remain in my seat, staring ahead at nothing in particular. I have not a fucking clue what’s going on, and not for the first time, I wish Pops was here to help me figure this shit out. I pull the lever of the door and step out, my mind homing in on my office and a brand-new bottle of Scotch. I need peace. Quiet. Alcohol. It’ll help me untangle all this shit.

  Esther appears, stopping me in the hallway. Her face. It’s not an expression I’ve seen on her before, though I’ll be damned if I know what it is.

  “What?” I ask, as short as ever, my patience diminished.

  “It’s Miss Rose.” She flicks her eyes to Brad and Ringo behind me, and it’s now I realize that her expression harbors fear. Esther has been here for ten years. For ten years, she’s accepted my brusqueness without a word. For ten years, she’s watched me become more like my father every day, and she’s accepted it, no questions. I know she hates what we do here, and it begs the question why she sticks around to watch. Why she indulges my every demand. Why she watches me with a mixture of admiration and disappointment.

  “What about her?” I ask, steering away from the direction of those thoughts. I’m angry enough already. “If she’s still here, I’ll throw her out myself.”

  “She’s still here.” Her lips purse. “In her suite.”

  A rage like no other consumes me. “It’s not her fucking suite.”

  “I delivered tea to her a while ago.”

  What? “Is this a hotel?” I bark, taking the stairs fast and stalking down the corridor to her suite. My suite. I can smell her, the sweetness of her scent stuck to every wall, every door, every fucking piece of me. It would be sensible of me to stop for a moment and calm down before I do something I truly regret. Unfortunately for Rose, I’ve had a bad day, and she’s just made it a whole lot fucking worse. I steam through the door and find the suite empty. The bed is made. The terrace doors are closed. My eyes fall to the bathroom. The door’s shut. The ten paces it takes me to reach it doesn’t give me the chance to cool my temper. Nothing could. I take the handle and push, meeting the resistance of the lock. With my teeth clenched, I pull back and ram
my shoulder into the wood, and the door flies open, hitting the wall behind.

  “I told you to get the fuck—” My scathing words die on my lips when I see her huddled in the corner, her face tear-stained, black trails of mascara painting her cheeks. She’s in the red dress she wore the night I met her, her feet bare, her purse and shoes in a pile by her side. When I find her gaze, her eyes well and overflow, and she buries her face in her knees, hiding from me.

  My anger is dowsed in a second. Her shoulders jerk from her suppressed sobs, her fingers and toes curling, like she can’t make herself small enough. I approach her quietly, as if sneaking up on a wild animal, scared it’ll bolt. I drop to my haunches before her balled body and rest my palms on her shoulders. I expect her to flinch. She doesn’t. I expect her to shrug me off. She doesn’t. What she does instead is move her hands and lay them over mine, a silent message that she’s glad I’m here. And, God help me, I am too. I drop to my arse and bend my legs, spreading them and shuffling forward so I frame her body, and she crawls into me, entwining every limb around me, holding me with a force like I’ve never been held before. And she settles. And for the first time today, for the first time in my life, I feel that too. Settled. My arms hold her to me as I sit on the hard floor with her wrapped around me, and I let her be, holding back my questions until my arse starts to go numb.

  I push one hand into the floor and get myself to my feet, not disturbing Rose who remains clung to my front. I take us to her bed and settle against the headboard, and she never leaves my neck the whole time.

  “You want to talk about it?” I ask, drawing circles across her back with my palms, feeling her shake her head into me. “How about if I don’t give you a choice?” Another shake of her head, and I think, wondering what my next move should be. With anyone else, usually a gun to the temple will fix the problem. But not with Rose. “Tell me.” I decide to ask nicely, nudging her. “Please.” She doesn’t move, remaining quiet and still against me. I can’t deny that she feels good there. Warm, soft, and calming. But I need to know what’s wrong. She was fine when I left—resolute with my order to leave, her usual spitfire self. This isn’t the Rose I know and love.