His eyes remain clear, his face straight, and he rests a hand on the wall behind my head, moving in until our noses are touching. My shakes are violent. “Take a bath,” he whispers. “Soak off the ache.” He kisses the corner of my mouth, and I close my eyes, breathing in deeply. “Because we’re doing it all again tomorrow.” He takes my hand and places something in it. A small box. He’s breathing in my ear, and it racks my body. “Goodnight, Beau.” He pushes away from the wall, backing out, eyes on my useless form. “Sleep well.”
The doors close.
And I slide down the wall until I hit the floor, in a complete state of shock, when I should really be angry. Angry by his persistence. He was so fucking insistent that I take a bath there, while he discussed business with his employees downstairs. So, where is that anger? Why am I not fuming?
I open the box and find a tube of cream and a small bottle of lavender oil. I laugh under my breath. Does he have these little care packages at the ready?
“Fuck.” I drop it to the floor and rest my head back. “What are you doing, Beau?” I ask myself, just as the doors slide open. Goldie looks down at me where I’m on my ass. “I don’t need a ride home,” I say before she offers. Her eyes fall to the box on the floor before slowly returning to me. “I used to be smart.”
“A handsome, fucked-up man can make any smart woman stupid.” She offers her hand, and I take it, letting her pull me to my feet. I don’t miss her taking in the welts on my wrists. “And a beautiful, fucked-up woman can make any smart man stupid.” She says it so quietly. But I hear her. Is James being stupid?
“Who are you to him, Goldie?” I ask, with no confidence she’ll answer me.
She steps inside and hits the buttons. “Take it easy, Beau.” The doors close, and I stare at myself in the mirror for too long. My cheeks are still flushed. My wrists red raw. My hair a crazy mess.
I swallow, turn, and walk through the lobby in a haze, a complete muddle, collecting my keys from Otto as I pass. “I brought your car up from the garage. It’s on the street.”
“Thanks.”
I make it outside and look up to the dark sky, gulping down air, trying to get my breathing under control.
God help me.
17
JAMES
The figures on the screen all blend and blur, my concentration shot, as the people in charge of my fortunes tell me where it’s stashed, invested, and how trading’s going. “Email me the reports,” I say, eager to get them out so I can resume the mindfuck that is Beau Hayley.
“Sure.” Michelle gathers up her things as Pierce shuts the laptop, and I see them to the elevator.
“Thanks for accommodating the late hour.” The doors open, revealing Goldie. Her laser stare tells me I’m about to cop it.
I turn and head to the drinks cabinet, seeking some backup from alcohol, as she sees off my guests. I take my vodka to the foot of the glass pane that spans the side of my apartment and stare out across the city, my mind in chaos.
“Otto is with her,” Goldie says from behind, and I nod, taking a swig of my drink.
“And the guy she saw last night?” I ask.
“Agent Oliver Burrows. FBI and ex-fiancé. They shared a hug outside the store. Obviously, I don’t know what they shared once they were at his place.”
I scowl at the window. “Thanks.” So the ex-fiancé is sniffing around again?
“Does she know yet that her appeal has been denied?” Goldie asks.
“No,” I answer with certainty, since Spittle confirmed the official letter has only just been sent.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” she goes on.
“Not a fucking clue.”
“Want some advice?”
I laugh under my breath. My answer won’t mean a thing. “No.”
“She doesn’t deserve to die.”
“I know.” I turn to face Goldie. “But I’m not the only one who needs her dead, am I?”
“So you fucked her?”
That wasn’t a fuck. That was an experience. “It seems like a better alternative to killing her.” I raise a sardonic eyebrow, and Goldie rolls her eyes. “It’s nothing,” I go on. “Get over it. I need to keep her close until I know I’m in the clear.” It wasn’t nothing. It was everything. Like our darkness and torture blended, melded, and the weight of it wasn’t so fucking heavy anymore. It was as if we shared each other’s agony, and in those moments, it wasn’t as painful. The hurt, shared. Pain, welcomed. Scars, meeting.
A connection.
A fucked-up connection.
And I’m fucked if I know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with it. I need to keep her close. She has a purpose, but regardless, Beau Hayley is a dead woman walking.
Because if I can’t bring myself to kill her, someone else will.
18
BEAU
As I climb out of Dolly, I thank every god in existence that Lawrence and Dexter aren’t home. My arms are bare, showcasing my new collection of welts, my scar is, unusually, on full display, my hair wild, and I’m wearing a man’s T-shirt. I’m a walking box of guilty signs.
I slip my key into the lock, pushing the front door open and flicking on the lights in the hallway.
I come face to face with Lawrence.
My arms instinctively go behind my back. “What are you doing here?” I ask, sounding as alarmed as I know I must look. “You’re supposed to be on stage.” Although he’s Lawrence right now, he has the remnants of Zinnea’s lipstick smeared across his lips.
He looks me up and down, taking in the black T-shirt that isn’t mine. “Are you okay?” he asks, as Dexter appears in the kitchen doorway behind him, his glasses resting on the end of his nose. His eyebrows get gradually higher as he takes me in too.
“I’m fine.” I edge past my uncle and take the stairs. “I just need to get out of these clothes.”
“Why of course you do, Beau,” he calls. “Because half of them aren’t yours.”
“Lawrence,” Dexter warns quietly.
I stop at the top of the stairs and breathe in.
“Where have you been?” Lawrence implores, ignoring his husband’s warning.
“Did you come home especially so you could grill me?” I ask tiredly. “I’m a thirty-year-old woman, Lawrence.”
“And when we spoke earlier, you asked me if I ever wanted to escape. You can’t say things like that and not expect me to worry.”
“You don’t need to worry.” I lock myself inside my bedroom, perching on the edge of the bed, my hands joined, my mind racing.
We’ll do it all again tomorrow.
I bite down on my lip. Once was an experience. Twice? I’d be closer to it becoming a habit, and everyone knows habits are hard to quit. “Oh, God, Beau,” I breathe, getting up and going to my bathroom. I run a hot bath, adding a few drops of the oil James gave me, and I strip. Climb in. Sink down beneath the hot, soothing water. Close my eyes.
There are no flashbacks of my past assaulting me. There’re only memories of today. There’s no lingering, familiar pain. There’s only the intense, unfamiliar ache of my body and sting of my wrists. There’s him. Every word he said, every move he made, every look he gave me. I need another habit. One to replace my terrible habit of suffering, but I know that habit shouldn’t be James.
I sink deeper into the water, falling into a slumber. It’s been a long time since dread hasn’t monopolized my dreams. Too long. I feel my mind shutting down. My body becoming heavy, a deep sleep upon me.
Peace.
Calm.
James.
I got what I asked for.
Have you, though, Beau?
I shoot up, startled, water splashing everywhere, my breathing shot. I’m freezing and feel incredibly stiff. Reaching across to the vanity unit, I grab my cell. Midnight. I glance around my bathroom as I drop it, bewildered, my eyes heavy with tiredness.
I need to get out.
Lying back, I plunge my head under the water, enduring the co
ld for a little longer to wash my hair. “Jesus,” I gasp, my teeth chattering, my skin riddled with goosebumps. I lift out of the water as soon as the suds are rinsed from my hair and grab a towel, wrapping it tightly around my chilly form.
As I’m wiping my eye makeup off with a cleansing cloth in the mirror, my cell rings and my hand lowers slowly from my face as I see the screen. It’s past midnight. I breath in deeply, taking his call. I don’t speak. But he does.
“Hi,” he says, low and gravelly. “It’s me.”
I look at myself in the mirror. I’m smiling. “It’s late.”
“And you’re awake. Why?”
I can’t tell him that I fell asleep in the tub and fantasized about him. It sounds as sappy as it is, and though I don’t know much about James, sappy he’s not. “I don’t sleep well,” I admit.
“Me neither.”
“Why?”
“Too much on my mind.”
“Like?”
“Many things,” he replies as I lower to the edge of the tub. “One of those things today is you.”
Today. Perhaps not tomorrow or the next day. Just today. “Why?” I ask.
“Because I never imagined I would meet someone as fucked up as me,” he says honestly. “And yet here I am, living the dream.”
It’s probably inappropriate, but I laugh to myself. He’s being straightforward, and I appreciate it. I’m glad he’s confirmed he’s fucked up, because I was silently beating myself up about reaching that conclusion. His kink shouldn’t make him fucked up. His scar shouldn’t either. But his broodiness and apparent lack of emotion certainly pointed to it. “Why are you fucked up, James?”
“Maybe you’ll find out in time. And perhaps in time you’ll feel comfortable enough to share your demons with me.”
My eyes dart across my bare knees. In time. How much time is that? “Maybe,” I murmur, quite certain that all the time in the world wouldn’t be enough for me to be comfortable.
“But in the meantime,” he continues, his voice rough, “let’s just carry on dodging our reality.”
“Isn’t it unhealthy to bury your head?”
“What’s the alternative?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. I’ve done therapy, seen shrink after shrink, taken medication, become a zombie because of it. Nothing worked. Nothing saved me from myself.
“Or maybe we just accept it,” he says.
“I accepted it long ago.”
“Me too.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?” I ask, a bit bemused.
“Because I wanted to hear your voice.”
I recoil, so much so, I nearly fall back into the bath. That just doesn’t sound like something James would say, and I’m thrown by it. His voice has been like ice—brittle, angry, cold. Arousing. He has elicited so many different responses from me. But I can’t deny, hearing his voice is settling. Because I wanted to hear your voice. Like I needed to hear his.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, probably sensing that I don’t know what to say to that.
“I feel fine.”
“Did you use the oil and cream I gave you?”
“Do you give a recovery package to every woman you fuck?” I get up and go to the mirror, placing my cell on loudspeaker and setting it behind the faucet. I take the cream and squeeze a little onto each wrist.
“No.”
“Then why me?” I ask, starting to rub it into the angry welts.
“It’s more for my benefit than yours.”
“Why?”
“To ease my guilt for hurting you.”
“Why would you feel guilty?” I ask, my broken skin seeming to get redder with each word he speaks. “I’m a grown woman, James. I knew what I was getting myself into.” That’s a complete and utter lie. I had no idea of the places James could take me to. No idea at all. But I do now. And, God, I want to go there again.
“Beau,” he breathes. “You have no clue what you’re getting yourself into.”
My massaging fingers falter, my mind struggling for how to respond. He keeps alluding to this. It’s like he needs to share something but can’t. “Then tell me.”
There’s a brief silence before he speaks again. “Sleep well.” He hangs up, and I stare at myself in the mirror for an eternity, coming to terms with the fact that I’m as much in the dark about him as he is about me. Treading murky waters.
But will I drown in them?
Or just drown in James?
19
JAMES
She’s home. That eases me, but I know I’d feel a fuck load better if she was in my bed. I place my mobile down and try to focus on the spreadsheet Michelle’s sent over. I can’t focus. Not on anything, and that’s fucking dangerous. I click out of my current screen and pull up Google. Type in a name.
The results show me a good-looking guy, early thirties, well built. Oliver Burrows.
I sit back and study him, for the first time in my life considering killing a man for reasons less than worthy.
He wants Beau back.
And if he doesn’t stop pursuing her, I can’t promise I won’t end him.
I snap my laptop closed as Otto strolls in, Goldie on his tail. “You’re gonna get a call,” he says, slumping down in a chair and helping himself to the remote control on my desk. He aims it at the screens and pulls up ABC News. A reporter is standing outside the scrapyard on the docks, a swarm of police cars and forensic vans behind her.
“It made the news,” I muse.
“The owner clearly has dollar signs in his eyes,” Goldie says, joining Otto. A phone rings, and all our eyes fall to the top drawer of my desk. My skin prickles as I slowly reach for the handle and calmly pull it open, swiping up the ringing phone, clicking to answer and putting it on loudspeaker. I rest it on my desk. “Your men are dropping like flies,” I say quietly.
“Who the fuck are you?” he breathes, and I smile.
“You sound agitated.” Well and truly pissed, actually. His nifty voice distorter can’t disguise that.
“You’re hindering my business activities.”
“Maybe you should move out of Miami,” I say, kicking my feet up on the desk. “I hear Hell is nice at this time of year.” Translated: you’re a dead man.
“Fuck you. This ends now.”
I smile. “Is the big bad bear afraid?” Most definitely not. But certainly pissed off. Apparently, he saw the demise of The Brit as an opportunity. Thought he could swoop on in and mop up in Miami. It was rich pickings. The Russians out. The Romanians out. The Brit out.
Shame The Enigma is in.
“I will find out who you are.” His words are a threat, and I roll my eyes.
“Good luck with that. In the meantime, I look forward to picking off your men one by one.” I hang up and flick the phone away.
“Ever thought about what you’ll do once they’re all dead?” Otto asks, and Goldie settles back for the show, obviously wanting an answer to this question too.
“Why’s it always about me?” I ask tiredly. “What would you two do?”
“I’m going to walk in the park eating an ice cream,” Goldie declares, and Otto laughs.
I smile across at her. Goldie doesn’t talk much about her childhood. I have minimal details. She was unwanted. Was in foster care. Jumped from one children’s home to another. Her childhood was stolen. She’s never strolled in a park for pleasure, relished the sunshine, listened to the birds tweet. And to eat an ice cream while doing it? For her, that’s bliss. She joined the Royal Marines at eighteen and seemed to find her place in the world. Until some fucker gave her a stark, brutal reality check. She’s a woman. And women are targets for rapists. “Don’t be greedy,” I say, thoroughly enjoying the look of pure exhilaration on her face, just at the thought.
Her nose wrinkles, and she looks to Otto. “What about you?”
“I’ll buy a ten-bedroom villa on an island and fill it with women.”
“Pig,” Goldie mutters, and Otto ch
uckles. They both deserve those simple things and more. I’ll make sure they have them. Otto served my father loyally for years before he served me. He knows only this life. He claims it’s enough, yet I know his loyalty to my father won’t allow him to walk away from me. I’m not the young man he knew. My father wanted my sister and me to build a life away from the crime that gave him his name and money. I’m more of a criminal than my dad ever was, and while I know Otto struggles with that at times, I also know he seeks vengeance for my family as much as I do. But he dreams of more.
“And you?” they ask in unison, returning their attention to me.
I think.
Revenge. Peace. Death.
“There’ll always be people to kill.” I get up and leave them to fantasize about ice creams and endless women, calling Spittle as I go. “I need the report on Jaz Hayley’s death. I want to know who was on the scene, who filed it, who approved it.”
“I can’t access that information.”
Can’t or won’t? I know the file has been compromised. I know what’s in there is a pack of lies, which means The Bear has someone on the inside. What seems to be im-fucking-possible is getting the file to determine who has tampered with it. “Try,” I order, hanging up. There’s a bright side here. If Spittle can’t access it, then Beau Hayley hasn’t a cat in hell’s chance. But there’s always someone else who can. This should be dead and buried. God damn you, Beau.
20
BEAU
When I walk into the kitchen the following morning, the silence is excruciating. Dexter is nervously spooning Cheerios into his mouth, his face tired after his night shift, and Lawrence is wiping down the countertop with fast, furious swipes. Dexter shrugs when I throw him a questioning glance. I imagine he’s had earache since he got in from work. “Morning,” I say, flicking on the coffee machine.
The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2 Page 13