“So, who is he?”
“No one you know,” I quip, looking at Nath in a way that suggests I’m not game for this conversation.”
“Name?”
“You going to run checks on him?”
“I don’t know. Do I need to?”
Nath’s question oddly spikes a few goosebumps, and I rub over the sleeve of my arm. I don’t know. Does he? Regardless, I’m not giving him his name, because he absolutely will run checks on James. Why does that bother me?
Because he might find something.
I fall into thought, staring at the silver fork on the napkin. The police database could shed light that Google can’t.
My other name.
My heart beats a little faster.
“Beau?”
I blink and look up, and Nath smiles, though it’s hesitant. “What?” I ask.
“Will you?” he asks, his smile turning into a grimace.
“Will I what?”
“Take me to the dealership.”
I’m lost. “Why do I need to take you to the dealership?”
“My car’s in for a service. I need you to drop me back at the dealership to collect it.”
The dealership.
It hits me like a brick. A memory. I stare at Nath across the table, my face blank, as I dig deep for every scrap of the moment in history I can find. My heart’s pounding now, it is way beyond my control, and my eyes dart across the table. “Her car was at the repair shop,” I murmur, the conversation coming back to me, all of it, every word spoken between Mom and me. Where has this memory been? Why is it only coming back to me now?
“What?”
I look up at Nath, and he moves back in his chair, obviously not liking the expression on my face. “They said Mom missed the routine service on her vehicle. She didn’t. I called her about an appointment we had the next day for my dress fitting. She sounded out of breath because she was walking to collect her car from the dealership.”
“She said that?”
“Yes.” It was a fleeting part of the conversation, forgettable, as proven, just a little joke made on the side of the subject at hand. My wedding. She said she needed to up her cardio game, but I remember it now like we had the conversation five minutes ago. “It was a couple of weeks before she died,” I whisper, my head about to explode. Nath is silent, pensive, looking at me like he’s unsure if I’m insane or a genius. They say there’s a fine line between the two. “It must be on the records.” I reach forward and seize Nath’s hand. “Her car was fine.”
“Beau, you must have your dates wrong.”
“I don’t.” I shake my head, adamant. “Nath, please. Just check the records. Maybe then I can convince them to reopen the case.” I can see he’s torn, and I hate putting him in the middle, but he’s my only hope. “Please.”
“Jesus,” he mumbles, closing his eyes briefly. “Okay. I’ll check.”
He thinks I’m mistaken. I’m not.
Mom’s car was fine. Which means I’m not going insane at all.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or afraid.
28
JAMES
Watching Beau go into the diner threw me. And those brochures she was looking at? I’m not so sure I like where that’s going. Neither did I like that she met Agent Nathan Butler. After learning of the news that they’re not entertaining Beau’s appeal, that could mean only one thing. Beau Hayley is about to dig.
Fuck, I wish she’d stop.
This is getting a bit too close for comfort. I laugh, mentally awarding myself with a medal for supreme idiocy. This got too close for comfort the moment I invited Beau Hayley into my world. Because the truth needs to remain buried if Beau is going to live and I’m going to remain hidden.
I sit idle by the curb and watch her leave the diner with Nathan Butler. They get in her old, battered Mustang. I shake my head to myself. She lives a simple life. Appears to have no desire for material things. She has the money—I know she has the money, not to mention a father who’s famously loaded. So why the fuck does she drive that old banger and risk her life?
The answer isn’t one I’m comfortable with.
I pull out and follow her at a distance, to a dealership a mile or so away. Nathan Butler gets out and smacks the roof of the car, and she drives away, the car chugging and spitting all over the place. I answer my mobile when Otto calls, keeping three cars back. “All okay for tonight?” I ask.
“Yeah. Where are you?”
“Surveillance.”
“You mean following the girl.”
“She’s business.”
“And you’re a tool.”
“She’s digging, Otto.”
“And there’s nothing that can be found. We’ve been over it a hundred times.”
“Someone knows something, and Beau’s suspicious. If she gets too close—”
“She’s already too close.”
She’d die.
I see the signal light of Beau’s car start blinking, and a quick scan of the area tells me she’s pulling into a Walmart. It’s early afternoon. The store will be packed. What the fuck is she thinking? “I’ve got to go.” I hang up and follow her into the car park, parking on the other side, out of sight. But I see her. She sits in the driver’s seat for an age, looking at the store. Then she makes a call. To whom?
I rest back, watching her closely, hoping she’ll change her mind and drive away. This is too much in one day. The diner, the store, the opera tonight.
But she gets out, pulls her bag onto her shoulder, and walks with purpose toward the entrance. I don’t know if my increasing heartbeat is because she’s exposed, or because I am.
What the fucking hell is she doing?
29
BEAU
After I drop Nath off at the dealership, I head for Walmart, trying desperately not to pin all my hopes on my newfound recollection. Nath has a point. I could have my dates wrong. I could be clutching at straws, making small things into big things, or even nothings into somethings. I’m driving myself wild going over the conversation that happened over two years ago, reciting it word for word, trying to iron out the sketchy parts. I keep coming back to the same thing. Mom’s breathlessness.
The parking lot is packed when I pull into it, the afternoon shoppers out in force. This has got to be on par with an opera house, hasn’t it? Or maybe worse. People at opera houses are considerate and dignified. There is nothing dignified about fighting your way around Walmart on a Saturday afternoon. It’s each person for themselves. Survival of the fittest.
I park and call Lawrence. “Do you need anything from the store?” I ask, my mind blank, even the essentials disappearing.
“Huh?”
“I’m at Walmart.”
“Why?”
Because I’m preparing myself for a trip to the opera. “I got my period. I need Tampax,” I mutter, and cringe immediately with it.
“Really, Beau? I know your cycle. It’s like clockwork, and you’re not due for a few days. Besides, you have a stash in your bathroom vanity.”
“You’ve been through my bathroom vanity?”
“I needed some tweezers.”
I sigh. “It’s all I could think of. Put Dexter on.”
“Fine,” he grunts, and the line muffles as Lawrence tells Dexter who it is and why I’m calling.
“Milk,” Dexter says softly, soothingly, when he comes onto the line. “We always need milk. And bread. And wine.”
“Keep going,” I order, putting him on loudspeaker and pulling up my notes, starting to compile my list.
“Coffee. Make sure it’s not decaffeinated.”
“Because what’s the point in that?” we chant in unison, and I laugh a little.
“Tea bags, eggs, and some lubricant.”
“Because that’s essential in our house,” we say together, both laughing again.
“Thanks, Dexter.”
“Block it all out, Beau. You can do it.” He’s not making a bi
g deal of it. God, I do love that man. He’s the calm to Lawrence’s chaos. The logical to Lawrence’s irrational. They balance each other perfectly, and their love? The richest kind. Lawrence’s favorite story always begins: Let me tell you about the time a cop walked into a drag bar . . .
I jump out of my car, mentally repeating Dexter’s mantra as I collect a cart. A basket would do, but I need some kind of armor. Some protection. On that thought, I pull out my earbuds and pop them in, finding my music app and putting on some . . . opera.
Perfect.
Pie Jesu starts to serenade me as I push my cart through the doors of the store. I immediately have to dodge a woman who’s stopped in the middle of the busy entrance. And then someone else who abandons their cart and dives across the aisle to grab something off an end display. And then a kid who spots the toy aisle. It’s bedlam, total chaos, and my lack of hearing the madness doesn’t lessen my building stress. “Jesus,” I breathe, taking it all in, alarmed, my muscles becoming tenser by the second. I walk in a zigzag, navigating the store carefully, stepping left and right to avoid crazy shoppers, constantly stopping and starting to avoid being knocked to my ass. Lord, what was I thinking?
I can’t do this.
I can’t do this.
I can’t handle the chaos.
It’s too much.
I turn up the volume and round a corner, finding a man racing toward me with arms full of groceries, looking harassed. I stop in the middle of the aisle, frozen, the shopper’s face morphing into fear rather than stress. And he’s suddenly not alone. He’s joined by a stampede of frantic people running scared.
I blink, shaking my head violently, clearing my vision and my flashback. I see the harassed shopper again. He’s alone. No stampede.
I really can’t do this.
I release the handle of my cart, trying to convince my legs to move. I need to get out. Leave. Go. I turn on the spot, my lungs tight, my heart tighter.
Get out. Get out.
I jump out of my skin when my phone screeches in my ear, and I reach up quickly to yank my earbuds out. I shouldn’t have. The bustling noise of the supermarket hits me hard, and I scan my surroundings frantically, searching for the one thing that might get me through the impending panic attack. A paper bag.
No paper bags.
“Fuck.” I look at the screen of my phone, starting to hyperventilate. “James,” I murmur, answering it quickly as I shove my buds back in. “Hello,” I yell, making an old lady startle as she passes.
“Hi, it’s me.” James’s deep voice sinks into my ears. “Why are you shouting?” I close my eyes for a moment and listen to his breathing. “Beau?” he says calmly, and for some extremely strange reason, his voice eliminates everything else. Everything. My heart slows. My breathing settles. I look at my hand that was trembling moments ago. Steady. “Where are you?” he asks.
I look around me at the unrelenting bedlam. “Shopping.” I locate my cart and seize the handle with both hands, anchoring myself. But it’s not the cart quietening my demons. It’s James, and that’s a frightening thing to admit to myself.
“Why, Beau?”
He’s right. Why would anyone tackle Walmart on a Saturday? Least of all me, with my phobia of chaos. “Because I wanted to make tonight easier,” I murmur, not holding back. I haven’t got the mental capacity to lie. “Anything has to be easier than this.” I chance a risky peek around me. God, it’s getting busier. Focus on James.
“You’re there because of me?” he asks, surprised.
“I’m not doing it for you.” I’m doing it for myself, although I’m wishing I hadn’t. Superstores at night are far nicer places to be.
“So you’ll come to the opera with me?”
I close my eyes. “What do you think?” I’m not braving Walmart in the middle of the day on a Saturday for my health.
“You stormed out Thursday night.”
“I’ve answered your call, haven’t I?” Even if it was a little selfish. Besides, his message insisted. Is he surprised I’m complying?
“Are you saying we should never hold grudges?”
I smile, and it’s unstoppable. If he only knew of the grudges I hold. But with him? He’s offering me too much respite. “I have a list,” I say, changing the subject.
“What’s on your list, Beau?”
My mind blank, I locate my notes and reel off my list.
“And what have you got so far?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Shall we start with milk? Nice and easy.”
“What?”
“I’m coming shopping with you.”
“What?”
“Turn around.”
I slowly pivot and lose my breath for all the right reasons when I see him at the end of the aisle. My lip wobbles. Why is my lip wobbling? My heart gallops. I don’t need to ask why that is. I disconnect the call and pull my buds from my ears, my focus on James and James alone. The store and all its crazy disappears. He looks perfectly rugged and unshaven, his messy hair poking out of a baseball cap, his body casually covered in some sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie. He’s perfectly calm. Perfectly impassive. It’s James on a weekend, and I like it.
I force a smile, as if to assure him I’m okay, and he shakes his head, looking almost angry. It’s me who should be angry. I know he must have followed me, but it doesn’t weird me out. I’m too relieved he’s here.
He strides toward me, and once he makes it to me, he takes the handle of the cart with one hand and tucks me into his side with the other. He walks us to the milk aisle without a word, while I gaze at him in wonder. He’s like a shot of valium. A balm for my tortured soul. Does he know that? Part of me hopes so. Another part of me hopes not, because I shouldn’t offer him more ammo to use against me.
I collect a gallon of 2% milk. “A mango. Eggs. Coffee. Bread,” I say quietly.
He hears me, and that’s where we head, collecting each thing one by one. He’s quiet and patient. His presence is powerful, attention falling on him from all directions, and yet he’s unassuming. Oblivious. It’s as if he’s walking in a world where nothing else exists to him. Surroundings. People. Sounds. I’m envious. So envious of his ability to blank out everything.
He looks down at me nestled into his side and pulls me in tighter.
I exist.
And I’m in so much trouble. Yet denying myself this feeling is impossible. It would be cruel. Almost barbaric. I’m done punishing myself.
At the checkout, I unload while James packs, and I discreetly watch him, unable to stop my small smile. “Is me packing groceries amusing?” he asks without looking up, his focus set on his task.
I pay, joining him at the other end. “You following me is amusing.”
“You weren’t supposed to know I was following you.”
“Then you need to work on your stealth skills.”
He smiles lightly as he slips the milk into a bag, and it’s a vision to behold. “Clearly.” He collects my shopping and we head for the exit, and when we make it outside, I stop and look back at the store doors, where the chaos continues inside. Chaos that I was apparently immune to with James by my side. I mustn’t read too much into that, and I can’t be proud of myself, because those kind of shopping trips—ones only with James—aren’t viable.
“Beau?”
I pull my eyes from the crowds and notice he’s stopped a few feet away. His casual form renders me unable to move for a moment, my eyes happy to admire him, my heart hammering for the right reasons.
So. Much. Trouble.
I swallow and join him, beating back the swirling questions, because I promised myself I wouldn’t ask. And beating back my awe because darkness shouldn’t be admired.
We make it to my car and James slips the bags onto the passenger seat. “You don’t lock your car?”
“I don’t think anyone would steal it,” I say on an ironic smile.
He looks up and down the battered length of Dolly a few times. “You
should lock it.” His eyebrows slowly rise, a clear sign of him wanting my agreement. I think if James asked me to walk on hot coals mixed with broken glass in this moment, I would do it.
“I’ll lock her,” I confirm, falling into the driver’s seat. James is crouching by me in a second, assessing the inside of Dolly. The threadbare seats, the worn carpet, the ripped cloth of the roof lining. “She’s sentimental,” I tell him. “My mother bought her for me.”
His eyes soften, and I quickly look away, quite stunned by my openness. “Her?” he asks.
“Dolly,” I say on a shrug. “We named her after my uncle. His stage name. Zinnea Dolly Daydream.” I expect an unsure smile from him, but instead his heavy brows become heavier. Something comes to me, something that’s been playing on my mind in between all the other shit I’m dealing with. “James, the video you sent me. Of us.” How many are there? How are they stored? How do I express my concern? Ask these quest—
“Just for you and me,” he says, not needing me to ask. “You have my word, Beau.”
It’s all I can expect or ask for, I suppose, so I nod, oddly trusting him on that, and start Dolly’s engine.
Bang!
I jump, alarmed, but my fright is forgotten when James all but dives on me. His arms are wrapped around me like ivy, so tightly, my face buried in his chest. A few seconds pass, me wondering what the hell just happened and James breathing heavily. “Shit,” he whispers, gingerly releasing me and breaking away, refusing to look at me. Is he embarrassed?
“She shouldn’t do that anymore,” I say quietly, studying his profile, his cut jaw buzzing from the force of his bite. “Reg replaced her engine.” But Dolly’s returned shouting habits are not my main concern right now. “Are you okay?”
“She’s loud.” He seems to shake his head to himself, once again assessing the exterior.
The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2 Page 18
