“Tonight?”
Tonight? “I’m visiting my mother.”
There’s a long silence, and once again I’m checking to see if he’s still on the line. He is. “Tomorrow night?” he eventually says.
I nibble my lip, wondering how to approach this. Work is sparse. I’m not concerned, it’s not like I need the money. Just the distraction. The calm I find in painting. The closeness to my mom. “I’m a bit busy at the moment.” I’m being instinctively wary, naturally. This is all quite odd. His calls. The conversation. I should hang up.
“Is that a no?”
“No.” But instead I leave an opening, because my curiosity is raging. I damn the part of me that hasn’t yet got the memo that I’m no longer a cop.
“So when can you look?”
“Let me just check my calendar,” I say, pulling my cell away from my ear for a few seconds, rolling my eyes at myself. I look across to Mom. I know. Pathetic. “Monday evening?” I ask once I’ve left it long enough to check my empty schedule.
“Eight,” he says, but it isn’t a question. He’s not suggesting. He’s telling me.
And that gets my back up. “Seven. I’ll need your name and address.”
“Eight. I’ll text it to you.” He hangs up, and I stare at the screen of my phone, slightly stunned.
“Okay then,” I say to myself, frowning at the sky, ignoring the part of my brain that’s asking me what on earth I’m doing. The bigger part of my brain is too enthralled.
And distracted.
“Oh look,” I whisper, lifting my cell and pointing it at the sky. “That one looks like the shape of Britain.”
5
JAMES
Suicide it is, then. My skin tingles. I know what that means.
Danger.
Goldie wanders into my office and clocks my mobile resting on my cheek. “What the fuck are you playing at?”
She knows. Of course she knows. Since the moment I ripped a bloke off her at the back of a London boozer and battered the fucker, she’s not left my side. That was six years ago. She never went back into the Marines. Their loss. My gain.
I get up, tossing my mobile on the desk and rounding it, unbuttoning my shirt as I go. “Have you eaten?” I ask, my way of telling her that this isn’t up for debate. Because how the fuck am I going to explain it to her when I haven’t got a fucking clue what I’m doing myself?
“No. Answer me. That woman was the next exciting thing to come out of the academy. She fucking flew through her Phase One, for fuck’s sake, just like her mother. They called her—”
“Lara Croft,” I murmur. “I know.”
Goldie’s nostrils flare. “So what are you going to do? Kill her?” She snaps her mouth shut quickly, her eyes unusually wide. “Wait. Don’t tell me you’re worried about her?”
I scowl as I pick up my feet, passing her. “I don’t worry about people. I kill people.” But the truth is, if Beau Hayley doesn’t give up on her relentless need for justice, she could be opening a whole new can of worms I can’t be fucked to deal with. She could also end up dead. “I’m ensuring my immunity.” I need Beau Hayley to stop digging, and I haven’t a fucking clue how to achieve that.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.” I swipe up my car keys and march out of my office, willing myself to get my head on straight quickly before I send everything I’ve worked for to shit.
I get in my elevator, the doors close, and I stare at myself in the reflection. I see them clearly. The devil on one shoulder. An angel on the other.
The devil speaks louder. The angel never made it.
I blink, looking away from the man staring back at me.
The stranger.
Yet the person I know best in this world.
The doors open, and I see Otto look up from the desk in the lobby. As I pass, I glance at the bank of screens before him, footage from every angle of my building. Every empty floor, watched. Every entrance, watched. The roof, watched. “I’m expecting someone on Monday evening. Beau Hayley. Send her straight up.”
Yep. Straight-up suicide.
“Beau . . .” Otto fades off, catching his tongue. But the tone in which he spoke her name was loaded with concern. “No problem.”
By the time I’ve made it to the garage, I’ve still found no sense. I get in my car, start the engine, and tap in Beau Hayley’s address into the sat nav.
And by the time I pull into her street, still no fucking sense.
I park up across the road and turn off the engine, resting my elbow on the door, my eyes lasers on the house. An hour passes with no signs of life. Nothing. Not even a shred of sensibility for me.
And then there’s something. A taxi pulls into the street, and I sink lower in my seat. Lower still when it pulls into the space directly in front of me. She’s in the back, literally meters away. She could look into my car and see me clearly. Seen.
I watch her, tense, once again wondering what the fuck I’m playing at, as she stares at the house for what seems like days. What is she doing?
Eventually, she gets out and stands motionless by the side of the cab for a few minutes. Then she gets back in, and the taxi pulls out quickly. I breathe for the first time in minutes, scrubbing my hands down my face. “Don’t follow her,” I warn myself, starting the engine, looking in the rearview mirror at the taillights getting farther away. A quick three-point turn has me facing the wrong direction. And only seconds after that, I’m two cars behind the cab.
I follow it to the supermarket where it drops her at the store entrance. I get out and jog across the car park. Stop. Turn around to go back to my car. Turn back. “Fuck,” I breathe, following her in. I take a basket and tail her as she wanders aimlessly up and down every aisle in the quiet supermarket. But I keep a safe distance.
Safe? Being in the same country as this woman isn’t safe. “Leave,” I order myself, studying her browsing the aisles. But she puts nothing in her basket. She doesn’t seem to be here for anything in particular.
Unlike me.
I’m here for something.
Damage control.
And yet I feel like I’m losing my grip on all control.
6
BEAU
On Monday evening at eight, I push my way through the glass doors into the lobby of James House, a space-age, ultra-modern twenty-story building on the east side of town. I’m immediately alarmed by the number of mirrors I’m confronted with. Every wall, every door, even the elevator.
The concierge glances up. “Can I help you?” He’s a giant, with a startling number of piercings on his face and an impressive beard. Is he the concierge? Security? None of the above?
“I’m here to see James Kelly. My name’s Beau.”
“He said to send you straight up.” He heads toward the elevator as I follow, avoiding all of the mirrors, and I peek at the desk as I pass, seeing dozens of screens. Security cameras. Everywhere. It isn’t odd. But so many?
He swipes a card through a reader and the doors ping open. I’m faced with more mirrors. Stepping inside, he punches a few buttons on the panel. “It goes straight to the top floor.” He holds the doors for me to enter.
“Thank you.”
He nods pensively, the doors close, and I’m confronted by my reflection. I squint, stepping forward, looking closely at my eyes. Usually empty eyes that are now overflowing with curiosity. “What are you doing, Beau?” I ask quietly. “Leave.” I rake a hand through my loose, dark blonde hair, combing through the long ends with my fingers, pulling the masses over one shoulder. It’s wavy. Unmanageable. I sigh and pull it up into a messy ponytail, pulling the sleeves of my oversized shirt down and tying the tails into a knot.
The doors of the elevator open, along with my mouth. “Jesus,” I whisper, staring at the wall of glass across the room. The skyline of Miami lies beyond, majestic as the sun sets. It’s breathtaking. Mesmerizing. I step out and look around, fascinated by how the glass stretches around three walls. I’m in a
giant glass box. One huge room. Literally every wall is glass . . . so what the heck is there to paint?
“Hello?” I call, hovering by the elevator. A staircase lines the far-right wall. That’s glass too, with white treads on each floating step. There are candles everywhere, all lit, all flickering, intensifying the already intense space. I shudder and look down at my cell. Eight on the dot. “Hello,” I call again, this time louder. Nothing. I dial him, rather than venture any farther into his glass box, and it rings and rings until it eventually goes to an automated voicemail. “Um . . . hi. It’s me. I’m here, and you’re not. I’m standing outside your elevator on the threshold of your glass box.” I feel . . . uneasy.
I hang up and stand there, a little lost, waiting for him to appear, while I run through everything I know about James Kelly, which isn’t much. He’s not on any social media, and this address threw up nothing on Google, except an old real estate advertisement marketing it for sale five years ago.
Ten minutes pass, no sight, no sound. “Come on,” I say to myself, checking my cell again. I look back at the elevator doors, which are now closed. At the panel on the wall that requires a keycard. And I mentally see the collection of buttons inside that require a code. I’m stuck. “Amazing,” I whisper, turning and facing the glass box again. I didn’t get the name of the guy downstairs. He wasn’t in uniform, therefore there was no company shirt to enlighten me on who he works for. Shit. Real smart, Beau.
I venture farther in, cautious, slow, gazing around. “Mr. Kelly?” I call, still getting no reply. “It’s Beau Hayley. I’m here to look at your bedroom.” I reach the bottom of the staircase and gaze up. “Mr. Kelly?” I hear something. Music. That would explain why he can’t hear me. Wherever he is. Where is he?
I kick off my flip-flops without thought and start taking the steps slowly, one by one, finding a whole new space at the top. A large space, with a round table in the center, and more glass walls, although these are frosted glass with frosted glass doors leading off, six in total. And still no walls to paint.
The music is louder now, coming from one of the rooms to the right. Paradise Circle. Massive Attack. A few chills glide up my spine as I approach the door. Knock it. “Mr. Kelly?” I call through the glass.
Nothing.
I don’t know what possesses me—I should turn and leave—but, instead, my body takes on a mind of its own. I grip the handle, turn it gently, and push the door open a fraction. “Hel—”
Holy fuck!
My ability to speak is stripped from me, and I suck back my words as I squeeze the handle, my body becoming a statue. I’m wide-eyed. Open-mouthed. My tangled, shocked mind is trying to piece together the scene in the colossal room before me.
There’s so much to take in, but the one thing that holds me completely rapt?
His profile.
I stare. I just stare. I stare at him as he smashes into her from behind, his fist clenched in her hair, holding her head back, stretching her throat. I allow my gaze to drift. She’s chained to a frame that’s anchored to the wall, extending into the room. She’s blindfolded. Gagged. Bound.
They’re lost.
I flex my hand on the door handle, screaming at myself to go. Close the door. Leave. But then something else catches my attention, tucked away in the corner of the room.
A man.
Slumped in a chair.
Naked.
Masturbating.
He’s lost too, his drowsy eyes rooted to the couple before him.
Fuck.
I step back and pull the door closed, struggling to breathe. Struggling to find instruction. I stare at the frosted glass, bringing my cell to my mouth and nibbling on the edge, glancing over my shoulder to the stairs. What the hell am I supposed to do? He’s obviously forgotten about our meeting.
I pull up on that thought. No. The guy in the lobby—occupation to be determined—said he was expecting me. My head starts to ache, my eyes going back and forth between the door and the stairs. He was expecting me. He didn’t forget. Of course he wouldn’t anticipate me snooping around his apartment, because I can’t even comprehend the possibility that he wouldn’t care if I saw that. So I’m left to reach the only other explanation. He’s got carried away. Lost himself in ecstasy. But then our telephone conversation is suddenly trampling through my mind.
Sex party.
Jesus Christ.
I head downstairs to the elevator, slipping my flip-flops back on. “Oh my God, this is horrific.” I squeeze my eyes closed, struggling to rid my mind of what I saw. Struggling to clear my ears of the sounds. The music. Which is still playing.
I go to the keypad and stare at it for a few seconds. The building. Call the building. I pull up Google, type in the name of the building, and search for a phone number. There’s nothing. I’m going nowhere.
I close my eyes, breathing in, and accept my fate—my unthinkable, awful fate—sliding down to my ass by the elevator. He looked nowhere near done. It’s all I can see in my mind. That scene. I reach up to my forehead and press my palm into it, trying in vain to suppress my thoughts.
Her moans. The sounds. The music.
His power.
I look to the ceiling, my cheeks inflating from my exhale. And I cringe, thinking back to our telephone conversation again. “Oh, Beau,” I breathe, squirming harder. I can still hear the damn music. It’s not helping, my brain off on a tangent, wondering what’s happening up there. The man in the chair. Has he joined them?
My cell rings, and I jump out of my skin. “Fuck.” I swipe to answer, grateful for the distraction. Any distraction. “Hello.”
“Beau?”
“Hi, Reg.” My eyes glue themselves to the top of the stairs. “How’s Dolly?”
“Dead.”
I recoil. “Break it to me gently, why don’t you?”
He laughs. “You and I both know she’s been on her deathbed for a while, Beau. I’m surprised you haven’t come to terms with it.”
I pout. “Is there nothing we can do?”
“Aside from replacing the engine, no.”
“Why can’t we do that?”
Reg falters. “It’ll cost more than replacing the car, Beau. What with parts and labor. We’re talking thousands of dollars.”
“I don’t mind how much it costs.” I really don’t. Truth be told, with all the money I’ve spent on Dolly over the years, I probably could have bought myself a shiny new, reliable, top-of-the-range Mercedes. But I don’t want a shiny, new Mercedes. I want Dolly. “She’s sentimental, Reg,” I say, but he already knows that.
I hear him sigh. “I’ll see if I can find a bargain engine somewhere.”
I’d smile if I could. It’s a struggle to have this simple conversation with Reg. “Thanks, Reg.” He doesn’t say goodbye, just hangs up, and I blink, my eyes burning from staring at the same spot at the top of the staircase for so long. What on earth shall I say when he finally finds me here?
I don’t have time to ponder that. I hear a door open, and my back straightens. The music stops. I hear voices.
Oh God.
I scramble to my feet and mess with the thread of a rip in the thigh of my jeans as he rounds the corner at the top of the stairs, pulling on a T-shirt as he takes the steps. “Oh my God,” I whisper, my eyes following him down the stairs.
Don’t choke, Beau.
His face. He’s brutally handsome, and yet almost callous. His dark hair is falling around his ears and across his eyes, wet and wavy, his rough, square jaw is tense. His body looks powerful. Hard and powerful, every muscle on his tall physique sharp.
I rip my eyes away from his bare chest, seeing the woman, now fully dressed in a business suit, following him. And behind her, the man from the chair. My mind blesses me with a quick, detailed recap of what I walked in on, although the people heading down the stairs toward me now look . . . different. Composed.
Dressed.
I wait to be spotted, feeling so fucking awkward.
“It was nice to see you, James,” the woman says.
“Sure.” His reply is simple and flat and with absolutely no hint that he feels the same.
“Yeah, really nice,” the man adds.
James halts pulling his T-shirt down his torso, coming to an abrupt stop halfway down the stairs, forcing the man and woman to stop too. His hands remain motionless, still holding on to the material around his chest, his eyes laser beams.
On me.
I swallow.
“Beau Hayley,” he murmurs, as the man and woman regard me with interest. My ability to talk has escaped me. Gone. I swallow, shift, and look away from him, needing a break from his penetrating eyes.
I eventually locate some words. They’re not the words I need, but all the words I can find. “James Kelly,” I whisper, willing myself to look at him. Face him. It’s a task.
I exhale, my shoulders dropping with the air that leaves me.
“Thanks for waiting,” he says quietly, his tone flat.
I dig deep for the woman who always remained cool and unaffected in the face of uncertainty. “No problem.” I look past him to the two silent people in the background, and he glances over his shoulder.
“I’ll see you out.” He continues down the stairs, his naked feet padding toward me, the hem of his frayed jeans dragging the floor. He hits the call button on the wall and the doors open. I move back, out of their way, managing a small, awkward smile to the man and woman as they pass me and enter.
“Beth, Darren, good evening,” James says. The doors close.
And . . . silence.
A horrible, screaming silence.
I look up at him. He’s biting the corner of his lip, his chiseled jaw ticking. He’s thinking. What is he thinking?
He steps back, away from me. His eyes are crystal clear pits of blue. Sharp, like his jaw, intense, like his persona, and his eyebrows are heavy, making him appear as unfriendly as he feels. His wavy hair’s darkened by sweat. He’s stupidly stunning. “I ran over on my meeting.” His words are quiet. Rough.
The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2 Page 5
