The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2

by Malpas, Jodi Ellen

  I also came to terms with the reason I can’t stay away. Why I’m here. Why I’m enduring these constant episodes of unbearable intensity.

  Escape.

  When I’m here, when I’m in his orbit, there is no darkness. Not mine, anyway, because I don’t have to pretend here. No veil. I’m fine. It’s all his darkness, and it is addictive. So if he wants to play this game, I’m willing. He won’t find a better opponent than me.

  My eyes begin to burn they’re so focused on him, but I refuse to blink. To look away. And I will endure the torture and thrill of his presence all day. I’m armored up. My war paint is on. “I won’t submit,” I say evenly.

  His expression doesn’t waver, and he settles back in his chair, getting comfortable. Talking without talking. That is, until he speaks. “Why are you here, Beau?” he asks again. “I’ve spent all night wondering, and I’ve come up blank.”

  “You tell me,” I say quietly, held prisoner on the spot, his icy eyes darkening by the second.

  He hums, blinking slowly. My pulse quickens. “You’re here to paint my office. Why else would you be here?” He stands and rounds his desk, passing me. “So get on with it.”

  My head turns, following him to the door. “Asshole,” I breathe quietly.

  “You have no idea,” he replies without looking back, shutting the door loudly.

  I bite my lip and approach the glass on light feet, coming to a stop only a foot away from the door. “I can hear you breathing,” I say, my voice throaty, as I reach for the frosted pane and lay a palm on it. “And I feel your heat.” My eyes dart before me, my mouth spewing words before my brain is engaging.

  “Does that mean you want to fuck me?” he asks, and suddenly the door isn’t frosted anymore, but crystal clear. And James is on the other side, a whisper away.

  I inhale and pull my hand back, truly feeling the burn. And I retreat. Away from the door. Away from the temptation.

  Away from the danger.

  I don’t need to answer him. I’ve never wanted anything more, and judging by his wicked, half-smile as the glass frosts again, it’s clearly written all over me.

  My body aches perfectly by the time I’m done undercoating the baseboards, and it feels so good. I rub the back of my neck as I look at the ceiling, studying the endless tiny, awkward spotlights. I set up my ladder and take the steps, reaching for one of the spotlight encasements and wriggling it. It pops out, giving me just enough room to swipe my brush around it. I nod, satisfied, and lift one foot from the ladder, leaning back, pulling three of the four legs off the floor. And I spin it, letting the legs lower back down slowly by counter-balancing the weight with my body. I come to rest under the next spotlight and reach up to pop the encasement off before performing the same move to get me to the next spotlight. In just ten minutes, I remove a quarter of the spotlight encasements ready to paint around tomorrow.

  I descend the ladder and fold it up, propping it against the wall before crouching to tidy up, setting everything in the corner out of his way and folding up the sheets. I dust my hands off and stand, finding James perched on the edge of his desk, his palms wedged into the glass, his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. When did he come back? “What?” I ask. “What are you looking at, James?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” he murmurs, sounding truly perplexed. “What was all that?” He motions to the ladder and then the ceiling.

  Oh . . .

  He must have felt like he’d stepped into a circus. “I didn’t realize you were in here.” It’s all I have.

  “Very Lara Croft,” he whispers, and my eyes undeniably widen. “I’ll be downstairs.” He pushes away from the desk and slowly wanders out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

  I stare at the glass, my brain bending. Lara Croft? I go after him, fueled by irritation, and find him in the kitchen. “What was that?” I ask, sounding hostile and uptight.

  He slowly lowers a glass of water to the countertop. “What?”

  I swallow, biting my lip. Do I even want to get into this? Explain? Could it be a coincidence? “Nothing.” I’m not risking it. I force my eyes from his and collect my handheld vac so I can clear up the last few bits of dust and debris.

  “What are you doing?”

  I hold up the vac, like, what on earth do you think I could be doing? “I haven’t got the same level of sucking power as my friend here.” I recoil in an instant. Where the fucking hell did that come from? “I mean . . .” I’m at a loss.

  His lip quirks as he turns, opening the fridge, and I roll my shoulders to rid them of the lingering goosebumps, my focus rooted on his shirt-covered back.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asks.

  “No, thank you.”

  He ignores me again and slides a bottle of beer toward me. “Have one.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  I could give him a million reasons why not. My brain just won’t enlighten me as to what those reasons are right now. I’m blank. Mute. Melting under the pressure of his stare once again. I’ve never seen such sharp eyes before. They’re hard. Icy. Piercing.

  Completely fucking captivating.

  So, he’s finished work for the day? “You must have plans.”

  “Like what?” he tosses back, his face willing me to go there. The more time I spend with him, the more I’m convinced he knows that I saw him in his bedroom with that man and woman. I will not go there.

  I retreat before my mind can convince me to accept. “Good night, James.” I turn and walk away, and the elevator opens before I press the call button. Goldie steps out.

  “Goldie,” James says from the kitchen. “Can you drive Beau home?”

  “No,” I pipe up, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button. “I’ll walk.” I need the air.

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.” The doors close and I collapse, exhausted by another day battling enticement and curiosity. I can’t believe I’m willingly putting myself through this. But the alternative is putting myself through something else. I’m beginning to wonder which is more torturous.

  I dial Reg. “Please tell me Dolly’s ready,” I plead, needing my car back, if only so I don’t have to endure more silent rides with Goldie.

  “She’ll be ready to collect in the morning. I’ve a few hours left on her.”

  “Thanks, Reg. I’ll be there at eight.” I hang up and head for Walmart. It’s a long walk—two hours, at least—so when I finally make it there, it’s suitably empty.

  I roam up and down the aisles tugging along the basket, tossing in random things. By the time the speakers announce my five-minute warning, I have a mango, six rolls of toilet paper, a foot scrub, a nail file, and a nail polish in a new shade of gunmetal gray. I head for the checkout and unload.

  “Beau?”

  I freeze mid-lift of the nail file, my heart sinking, and I instinctively pull my shirtsleeve down to the palm of my hand. It takes every ounce of strength in me to turn and face him. “Ollie,” I breathe, coming face to face with my ex-fiancé. I haven’t seen him since he visited me in hospital when I explicitly told him not to. He looks just as I remember. Clean-cut. Shaven. On the bulkier side of muscular. He’s in plain clothes. Like me, Ollie aced his Phase 1 Test. Unlike me, he made it into the FBI.

  He takes me in for a long while, and I hate it. I hate that he’s assessing me, both physically and mentally. “How are you?” I ask for the sake of it. I know because Nath takes it upon himself to tell me. I take no pleasure in single-handedly humiliating this man by leaving him at the altar, not to mention breaking his heart. Guilt. So much fucking guilt.

  “Working,” he replies. “A lot.”

  I knew that too. He’s buried himself in his career since I left him, while I’ve buried myself in loneliness. I smile, it’s awkward, but I have no words for him. What do you say to the man you jilted? To a man you know loved you? To a man who promised to hold you up through your turmoil? He deserved more
than I could offer. It’s what I told myself to ease my guilt. Truth was, I had no energy to love. Still don’t. And I couldn’t marry a cop. I couldn’t commit myself to a man who worked for a cause I didn’t believe in anymore. “It was good to see you,” I say, turning and walking away.

  “Beau, you don’t have your shopping,” Ollie calls.

  I walk faster, away from him, away from the memories, away from my past.

  “Beau!”

  I make it to the door, to the fresh air, and drink in as much as I can, trying to keep the impending panic attack at bay.

  “Beau.” Ollie appears in front of me, and I look up through my watery eyes. “Jesus, Beau,” he whispers, stepping into me, and before I know what’s happened, I’m in his arms sobbing relentlessly, the onslaught of memories, of guilt, of sorrow, all too much.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble mindlessly. “I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry.” I should have apologized before. I should have found some strength through my self-pity to give Ollie the apologies he deserved.

  “I forgave you long ago, Beau,” he whispers. “It’s time to forgive yourself. For everything.” He pulls away and holds me by the tops of my arms as I wipe at my soaked face. I don’t know where that came from. I haven’t cried for a long time; I’m all out of tears. “Come on.” He smiles, his thumb stroking under each eye. “Let’s get a coffee. Where’s your car?”

  “She’s in the repair shop. I’m walking.”

  His arm goes around my shoulders, and he leads me to his car. I don’t stop him. I probably should.

  But I don’t.

  He helps me in and drives, and I don’t question where. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, more peaceful. It’s only when Ollie pulls off a main street that I seem to wake up and realize where we’re heading.

  Our apartment. The apartment we shared.

  My heart starts beating double time.

  “I know you don’t like busy spaces,” he says, pulling into the parking lot. “So I thought this would be better.”

  I look at the door. The door I passed through millions of times. I see myself, coming and going, in uniform, dressed up, in my gym gear. Happy.

  Gathering all the strength I can muster, I unclip my seatbelt and get out, forcing myself to face this. Because the alternative is to cause worry. To spike concerns. I’m stable. I’m okay.

  I approach the apartment block slowly, hearing the jingle of Ollie’s keys. I step aside to let him pass, watching as he opens the door and gestures the way. I make it to the apartment and stare at the wood as he opens the door and the way for me. I swallow, bracing myself, and the moment I’m inside, my stomach starts twisting and rolling violently.

  “I’ll make us coffee,” Ollie says, dropping his keys in the bowl on the table before heading to the kitchen. I stare at the bowl. Just one set of keys. Not two. Not my keys and his keys. Just his. I pass the living room and glance inside. I see Ollie and me curled up on the couch on one of our rare nights off together. I see Mom in the chair by the fireplace where she always sat when visiting. Oh God.

  I shake my head and follow Ollie, entering the kitchen. It’s spotless. “Do you have a housekeeper?” I ask, lowering to a chair at the table. My eyes root to the faded red wine stain in the center from the glass that was knocked over during a passionate after-dinner moment. This table. We’ve eaten at it, laughed at it, done the deed on it.

  He laughs as he prepares two cups of coffee. He doesn’t ask me how I like it. He wouldn’t have forgotten that. Is it terrible that I have forgotten how he takes his? Sugar? No sugar? Cream? No cream? Self-preservation has meant trying to eradicate everything from my past, limiting the amount of things to feel sorry about.

  “No housekeeper.” He sets the mug on the table. The mug Mom bought me. The mug with a picture of Lara Croft on it.

  “My mug,” I say, my heart clenching. Very Lara Croft. There’s a massive chip on the rim. This mug was the only thing that survived the explosion with minor injuries. Everything else? Ruined. Dead.

  “Well, I didn’t want to throw it away, and you didn’t take anything when you left.” His words and tone aren’t accusing, it’s just Ollie being Ollie. Factual. “Maybe I thought you’d come back.” He shrugs and joins me at the table. “So how have you been?”

  “You mean Nath hasn’t given you every detail of each of our coffee dates?”

  “I don’t see him much lately. He’s working like a madman.”

  “Like you?”

  “There’s a lot of dead bodies cropping up recently.” He takes a sip of his coffee, and I have a fleeting moment of missing my old job. The adrenalin. The thrill. The brilliant people I used to work with. But that was destroyed. “So . . . how are you?” he presses again, as if he needs to ask.

  I blink myself back into the room. “Good,” I say, sounding as convincing as I meant. “Really good, actually.”

  “And the new job?”

  “I enjoy it.” I shrug, knowing many find it hard to understand. Although my current project isn’t exactly enjoyable. More compulsory.

  He motions around the room. “Anytime you feel like it, help yourself.”

  I gaze around, seeing Mom up the ladder when we moved in, coating the kitchen walls with a vivid blue. It’s no longer blue. It’s an insipid shade of taupe. I see me at the counter making coffee. Mom at the table chatting to me as I did. Ollie tossing pasta in a pan. My friends drinking wine while I sat on the countertop fastening the straps of my heels. “I’ll bear that in mind,” I say quietly, swallowing, blinking back the memories. All happy memories.

  Ollie’s phone rings, and he audibly sighs. “Agent Burrows.” He stands and takes his cup to the sink, tipping the rest away. “On my way.” He hangs up and turns an apologetic smile my way. He doesn’t have to. I know the job, and I imagine it has only intensified since he joined the FBI. “I’ve got to go.”

  I stand. “I never did congratulate you.” I walk to him, reaching on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I’m proud of you. I know you always dreamed of joining the Bureau.”

  Before I know it, I’m enveloped in his arms, being squeezed to his body. It’s warm. It’s Ollie. He inhales and exhales, and I deflate with him. “Yes, pulling severed limbs out of a crushing machine is everything I dreamed of.”

  I smile weakly and step back. “Enjoy.”

  “You want a ride?” he asks. “I’m heading to the old scrapyard by the docks so I’m passing Lawrence’s. Or is he Zinnea today?” He checks his watch.

  “The scrapyard by the docks? That’s Reg’s place.”

  “Who’s Reg?”

  “He’s saved me and Dolly a few times. That’s where Dolly is now. New engine. He said to collect her in the morning, but he should be done by now. I’ll come with you.”

  “Afraid not, Beau.” He rolls his eyes. “You should know I can’t take guests to a crime scene.”

  I pout and he shakes his head. “I only want my car.”

  “I’ll tell Reg you’ll be there to collect it tomorrow, if it doesn’t interfere with the investigation.” He slips an arm around me and leads us toward the door, something he’s probably done hundreds of times before. His presence is calming, but it doesn’t feel right for him to offer me comfort. “Anyone would think you’ve forgotten how to be a cop.”

  “I’ve tried,” I admit, and immediately regret it. I can feel Ollie looking down at me with concern. I always noticed things other people wouldn’t notice. Saw things other people didn’t see. Unraveled irrelevant things and made them relevant. I achieved 98% in my Phase 1 Test. That would have made me a pretty sharp agent. I’ve always prided myself on reading characters well, knowing when to trust and when not to. When to avoid danger.

  And yet I’ve just spent two days with a man who seems dangerous.

  Oh how the mighty—the once wise— have fallen.

  14

  BEAU

  For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t jump out of my skin when I star
t Dolly. “She purrs,” I say, smiling, and Reg laughs.

  “She’ll never purr, Beau. And it’s only a secondhand engine, so don’t expect any miracles.” He walks off, his coveralls blending nicely with the oil-covered scrapyard.

  “I heard you had company last night,” I call.

  “Swarming with cops,” he yells back, throwing an arm in the air toward the end of the yard, where police tape seals off the back end. “Turned the crusher on yesterday and the damn thing spat half an arm out. An arm!”

  Don’t do it, Beau.

  But before I can stop myself, I’m out of Dolly, leaving her running, and walking across the uneven ground toward the back of Reg’s scrapyard. I duck under the tape and round the corner, coming to a grinding halt when I’m intercepted by a uniformed officer. He doesn’t get a chance to warn me away. He recognizes me, and his stern police face softens. “Beau? Fuck me, it’s Lara Croft.”

  “Hi, Jed,” I say on a forced smile, looking past him.

  A forensics van and endless police cars—marked and unmarked—swarm the area. “How have you been?” I ask mindlessly.

  “Yeah, great. You?”

  “Good.” I stare up at a hydraulic arm of a machine, where blood stains the metal, my brain beginning to whirl, my old eyes searching for more.

  No.

  God, no.

  I turn and walk away. “Great to see you, Jed,” I say to the ground, refusing to relent to my curious mind. Refusing to go there. Refusing to be lured back by a damn good mystery. It used to fuel me. Inspire me. The unknown. My curiosity. But that’s not where I can allow my head to go. I’m no longer a cop. No longer an upcoming FBI agent. I’m just a painter, and James Kelly is today’s mystery. He’s a safe bet for my attention. The FBI is not.

  I get out of Dolly and admire her for a few moments. Good old Reg. He’s even polished her rusty paintwork. “If I could take your keys,” the pierced, bearded guy says as he joins me on the sidewalk.