She slips into the driver’s seat. “I have instructions to take you to collect your equipment.” She looks up at the rearview mirror as I pull on my seatbelt.
“The old scrapyard by the docks,” I tell her. “I’ll guide you.”
“I know it,” she replies, pulling away.
“You do?” How could a pristine, suited woman driving a sparkly Tesla know of such a place? It’s dire, cars piled twenty high, old tires forming mountains, the stench of gas dripping in the air. And then there’s the landfill next door, which only adds to the ripe stench, turning it putrid. Every time I get into Reg’s truck, the smell hits me like a brick to the face.
Another glance in the mirror. “I do.”
I nod mildly. “Okay,” I say quietly, looking down at my cell when Nath replies.
Why? What are you doing?
I reply, adding a smiley face, just to ease his worry.
Going on an adventure :)
I click send and drop my cell into my lap, focusing on the woman in the seat before me. “What does Mr. James do?” I ask. She merely peeks up at the mirror on a small smile. “Okay. What do you do for Mr. James?” Another glance. No answer. “You’re not very talkative, are you, Goldie?”
“You seem like a smart woman, Miss Hayley.”
“Smart?” I question. “Then what am I doing in this car with you?”
“I was wondering that myself,” she says quietly, taking a left. My curiosity goes into record-breaking territory. But my fear? Where the fuck is that?
After collecting my painting gear from Reg, Goldie drives me to James’s apartment and has my equipment put onto a shiny gold trolly that wouldn’t look out of place in a five-star hotel. I don’t miss the wariness of the pierced, bearded guy who frequents the lobby as he eyes my paint-ridden equipment polluting the luggage trolley. He taps in a code, Goldie bids me farewell, and I ride up to James’s glass box with the guy in silence. I look up at him. Concierge? Security? There’s no rule book stating what a concierge should look like, but this dude here definitely doesn’t fit. So, security? Where’s his uniform?
He looks out the corner of his eye at me, obviously sensing me staring. And he smiles. It’s forced. A fake smile meant to assure me all is well. “What do you do for Mr. Kelly?” I ask.
Saved by the ding of the elevator arriving, he pushes the cart out, offloads my things a little heavy-handedly, as if he’s inconvenienced, and then leaves promptly before I can press him for an answer.
“Morning.” James appears at the top of the stairs, his fingers working the buttons of his shirt. His hair is wet. His facial hair the perfect length. He looks deadly gorgeous, even without a smile, and I find myself looking away, my chest thrumming with something I’m less than familiar with.
“Morning.” I turn my attention to my things, crouching to find what I need to get started. “Have you decided what color you want your walls?” Your two walls?
“White.”
I grab my pot of spackling, some drop cloths, and my filling knife. “And I assume the same for the ceiling?”
“Yes,” he answers. I hear the sound of his shoes meeting the stairs as he makes his way down, and with every step he gets closer, my body tenses more until his shoes are in my downcast vision. “Tea?”
“No, thanks.” I stand, a bit too abruptly, not appreciating just how close he is, and collide with his unfathomably rigid physique. “Shit,” I murmur, staggering a few paces, dropping my knife and spackling. He catches my arm and steadies me, and I look at his fingers gripping me over my shirt. Over my scar. It tingles, and I turn my eyes up to his, finding him staring down at me, his face straight. The atmosphere is thick. “How did you know where I live?”
He doesn’t answer, just stares at me, and I move back, out of his grip, rubbing at my arm. And I wait. Wait for an answer. Wait for a break in his expression. I get nothing—nothing except a laser stare that is so obviously meant to unease me.
“I should get on. Have a good day at work.” Doing whatever it is you do. What do you do? I dip, collect my tools, and move past him, my eyes wide, my heart in my throat.
Why?
Why does he make me feel like this?
It’s a contradictory mix of exciting—because I’m feeling something other than unrelenting despair—and anxiousness because I feel like I am way out of my depth.
I make it to his office, albeit on annoyingly shaky legs, and glance around the impressive space, reacquainting myself with it. All of the screens on one wall have a different channel on, all news channels, and his desk is scattered with newspapers, his laptop open on the end. His chair looks like you could sleep in it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he does sleep in it.
I take in the walls and look up at the ceiling. It doesn’t look like he’s tried to paint anything. Frowning, I lay down the drop cloths in my working area and start stirring up the spackling until it’s smooth and consistent as I go to the wall. I locate the holes and take my loaded filling knife to the first, pausing halfway there when he strolls in. He doesn’t acknowledge me as he wanders to his desk, and my eyes follow him the whole way, my neck craning to see him. He moves a few things around and then tugs his trousers up at the knees and lowers to his chair, pulling his laptop forward.
What?
My arm starts to ache where it’s held in midair, and I slowly turn toward him, staring at him in question. Either he’s unaware or he doesn’t care. Something tells me it’s the latter. He eventually stops browsing his screen and looks across to me, tilting his head.
“What are you doing?” I ask, pointing my filling knife at him. His eyes switch from mine to the knife, an undetectable smile at risk of showing. But he won’t let it loose. He’ll control it.
“Working.” The fingertips of each hand meet, forming a steeple at his chin, and he rests back, looking comfortable. I’m anything but.
“Excuse me?”
His eyes dance. My fucking heart gallops. No. Please tell me . . .
“I work from home.”
I swallow.
“Every day,” he adds.
“Every day,” I murmur, scanning his office once again, for what reason I couldn’t tell you. “So you’re just going to . . . be here?” This close? All. The. Time.
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes.” It’s out fast, indignant and unstoppable. “I’ll need to put drop cloths over everything when I start painting,” I rush on.
“That wall is a good thirty feet away from me. If you manage to get paint on this table from there, I might question if I’ve got the right person doing the job.”
I can answer that for him. I’m the wrong person. He should have someone who can keep themselves together in his presence. I expect his options will be limited. “And the ceiling?” I ask, pointing up.
His head drops back, taking in the dozens of tiny spotlights, as if they’re new to him. His throat. The taut flesh of his throat. Fuck. This isn’t going to work. The resistance I’ll need not to admire him all day will kill me. “Why are you here, Beau?” he whispers.
“What?”
His laser eyes drop, but his head remains tilted back, as if he’s aware of my battle to keep my eyes from that place. As if he knows I’m at risk of sinking my teeth into him. I can only imagine what he must taste like. Intoxicating. So bad but so good. “Why are you here?” he repeats.
I blindly indicate his office, and his eyes cast around the space before returning to me.
“But I make you uncomfortable,” he murmurs quietly. “So I’m still wondering why you’re here.” He holds my wide eyes for a long, long time before going back to his screen, and the moment I’m free from his fire stare, my body starts to convulse uncontrollably. I need some air, and I’m not likely to find it in this box of tension.
I leave the room hastily, feeling his piercing eyes follow my fleeing form, and close the door behind me. And then I stand like an idiot on the other side, wondering which door I need.
“
Second on the left,” he says, and I jump, swinging around. The door is still shut, James on the other side.
I take backward steps, feeling his eyes on me, even with the frosted glass between us. “How did you know?”
“I can hear your heart hammering.”
I close my eyes and apply pressure on my chest, feeling the uncontrollable pound.
“I can still hear it,” he whispers, and I breathe out shakily.
“You didn’t try to paint at all, did you?” I ask.
“No.”
I don’t know what that means, and I haven’t the mental capacity to figure it out. Not now. Why am I here? Easy. Because as fucked up as it is, I’m riveted. Already addicted to the distraction. But why did James entice me here? Could it be for the same reasons?
I turn and hurry to the bathroom, shutting the door, locking it, and glancing around. More glass. The tub, the sink, the tiles. And not a waterdrop on any of it, every square inch sparkling. He’s one single man. How much space does he need?
I go to the sink and wash my hands, reluctantly assessing myself in the mirror. I know what I must look like—I don’t need my reflection to confirm it—but the mirrored tile spanning all three walls isn’t avoidable. My cheeks are pink. My eyes bright, if a little round.
I glance back at the door.
Who are you, James Kelly?
And how can you hold me captive with curiosity I know is dangerous?
I feel like every cop sense I have is dulling. And senses I never knew existed are heightening. I brace my hands on the sink and take some time to get my breathing under control. Then I retie my hair, use the toilet for the sake of it, and spend a good five minutes rubbing the sink clean with one of the luxury towels to rid it of water splashes.
I finish. Swallow. Stare at the door that’ll lead me back to the unknown. I leave the bathroom feeling no more settled than when I entered, making it back to his office in no time. I take a deep breath as my hand grips the handle hard, and I enter on my exhale. He looks up, pointing a remote control at one of the giant TVs on the wall. The screen goes blank, and I look from him to the TV a few times. “Would you like me to leave?” I ask.
“No.”
Then why is he looking at me like I’ve just intruded?
I wipe my palms down the front of my jeans and collect my filling knife, carrying on with what I’m here to do. Painting has been an unexpected savior over the past two years. Something I get so into, I forget everything else. Right now, I need to forget James Kelly is sitting behind me. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Yes.
No.
I’m debating that for the next hour as I work my way across the wall, filling in the holes and imperfections as I go. I finish up, replace the lid of the spackling, and leave the room for a welcomed break from him, heading downstairs to collect everything else I need. I gather my box of brushes, my pot of undercoat for the woodwork, some sugar soap, and my sandpaper. With my arms full, I turn to head back upstairs.
And crash right into something.
Him.
Everything falls from my arms. “Shit,” I murmur, stepping back, catching sight of something in his hand as he reaches behind his back. But when his hand appears again, it’s empty. I look up at him. He looks pissed off. He has a nerve. My veins are throbbing, both in fright and because of his proximity.
His eyes clear in a moment. “Let me help you,” he says, crouching and gathering up my things.
Taking a deep, needed breath, I join him on the floor. “You know, I’ll get this finished much faster if you give me some space,” I say, taking everything from his hands. Space to work, but also more space to breathe.
I stand, my arms full, and he slowly unfolds his body from the floor. “Space,” he says quietly. “I was just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.” I rip my stare from his and will my feet into action, and he lazily turns his body as I pass him. Goosebumps. Jesus, my skin is alive with them, every hair standing on end.
The crazy pace of my heart isn’t helping me as I take the stairs, the sheer bangs threatening to knock everything out of my hold. I make it to his office and take a few needed inhales. I’m all over the place. Rickety. Unstable. But it’s a different variation of unstable. I’m more warped than I ever thought possible to endure this. To tolerate the tense atmosphere. And, worse, welcome it? It’s a whole new level of fucked up.
I hold my foot out and release the roll of sandpaper from my grip, catching it on the toe of my Converse and lowering it to the floor. Then I lift my foot higher, releasing the pot of undercoat so it rests perfectly on the top of my foot. I lower that to the floor too, my balance, as always, faultless. With my hands now less crowded, I’m able to crouch and set everything else down. Focus on work. I collect another drop cloth and flap it out, and it wafts into the air, before drifting down and coming to rest on the floor. He’s at the door. Watching. This is getting plain uncomfortable. Did he just invite me here to make me feel awkward? “What?”
He blinks. “Nothing.” Heading for his desk, he slides a palm onto his nape, rubbing a little. “I’ll leave you to get on.”
Yes. Please do. And leave the room too.
But he doesn’t, and I’m left to do my thing, feeling like I’m in a glass display cabinet, which is ironic, because I am.
And everyone knows, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
The rest of the day passes by in a haze of constant and consistent unease as I prep—sanding, soaping, and wiping, ensuring all the surfaces are smooth and free from debris. I fight the urge to respond to him each time I feel him staring. And fail. Which leaves endless occasions when we catch each other’s eye. I always look away first, struggling with the intensity that he seems to laugh in the face of.
By the end of the day, I’m mentally exhausted by his behavior, and also by the relentless questions circling my head. What does he do, why all the security, who the hell is he? I haven’t achieved half as much work as I should have.
I turn to face him where he’s sitting at his glass desk, and he looks across to me. He appears as perfect now as he did first thing this morning. He reaches for the lid of his laptop and slowly shuts it. Eyes on mine. I tilt my head, studying him. I’m a grown woman, and yet James is making me feel like a clueless little girl. I shake my head in despair and break our eye contact, pushing my things into the corner. “Do you want me to move all this out of the room overnight?”
“Leave them,” he says, getting up, rising to his full, intimidating height, regarding me closely. “Have you decided whether you hate me or want to fuck me?”
“No, not yet,” I lie, heading for the door.
“Oh. Do you think you’ll figure it out anytime soon?”
“Why, am I driving you as insane as you’re driving me?” I look back over my shoulder.
“You have no idea,” he says quietly, his eyes dropping down the full length of my body. My skin beneath my clothes heats. “Goldie will drive you home.”
“I would rather walk.” I tilt my head. “Clear my mind. Warm up for my run tonight. Have a good evening, James.”
“I will,” he says quietly.
I leave his glass paradise not certain of much, except James will certainly have a good evening.
And I will spend mine wrestling with my sensibility.
12
JAMES
I watch her leave, reaching to the back of my trousers and pulling out my Beretta, laying it on my desk. What the fuck am I getting myself into? I grab the remote control and bring up all the cameras on the screens, and I study her closely making her escape from my apartment. I release air, inflating my cheeks, and rake a hand through my hair. I’ve done zero research today. At least, I’ve researched nothing I should be researching. Instead, I’ve trawled the Internet and various restricted case files to find out anything I could about Beau Hayley. Yes, she was in the vicinity when her mum’s car exploded. No, I didn’t feel particularly good abo
ut that. But in my world, there’s no room for guilt or attachment. I only find out what I need to know. I didn’t need to know much about Jaz Hayley’s daughter, just enough to make Jaz believe I knew a lot. But now I do know a lot. I know she’s haunted, lonely, bereft.
All because of her mother’s death.
The letter breaking the news of Beau Hayley’s failed appeal will land on her doorstep soon. And then what? What will she do? Who will she talk to? How deep will she dig? Like her mother, I get the feeling Beau Hayley is like a dog with a bone. And like her mother, she will end up dead as a result. So why the fuck is she still breathing? She knows there is more to her mother’s demise. It’s that sixth sense in her. The same sixth sense her mother had. I don’t need Beau Hayley getting in my fucking way. I don’t need complications in my simple life.
So end it.
I growl to myself and head downstairs to get a beer, pulling up my contacts as I go. I need something to take my mind off things. Something to relax. I down a straight vodka and stare at the screen of my mobile where Beth’s number glows.
Then toss it on the worktop, head back to my office, and locate the footage from today.
I stare at the moment I had my gun aimed at the back of Beau Hayley’s head.
And the moment I bailed.
I can’t kill her.
Don’t want to kill her.
Fuck.
13
BEAU
Tuesday plays out the same as Monday. I’m collected by Goldie and when I arrive at James’s, he hasn’t found somewhere else to work. He looks up from his laptop when I enter his colossal office. Stares at me.
I stare right back, unable and unwilling to be the first to break our eye contact. What James Kelly should know is that I’ve faced demons far greater and scarier than him. I realized that last night while tossing and turning in bed. He’s dark. But I’m darker. I bet he doesn’t wrestle with black thoughts each day. I bet he doesn’t have to spend every minute of his life correcting himself. Reminding himself. Pulling himself away from the easy way out. Not needing to control his urges.
The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2 Page 8