“Do people even have safety deposit boxes these days?”
“I do.”
I turn to face him. “And what do you keep in it?”
He raises his brows at my annoying curiosity. “Personal effects. You don’t have one?”
“A safety deposit box? No.” I have nothing sacred worth hiding in a safety deposit box. I pick up my feet and go to the sink, splashing my face and ruffing up my hair as I take in my reflection. I look . . . rested, which defies reason when my mind is racing with endless questions.
As I pat my face dry, James appears past me in the mirror, his coffee in his hand. He holds my eyes as he sips. I don’t like the assessment I’m under. The judgments being made. I feel like he’s taunting me. Goading me, tempting me. The air around us feels awkward, and that’s not what I’m here for. “I’ll leave you to your day,” I say, placing the towel on the unit and approaching him. He doesn’t move from the doorway, his big body filling it, blocking me. I stop before him, virtually toe to toe, and I tilt my head back to get him in my sights. “Excuse me.” I sound assertive. I feel anything but.
His gaze lingers on me for a while, until he slowly moves aside, letting me pass. I collect my shoes and hurry down the stairs, locating my dress and shimmying it on. I press the call button as I fasten the zip, and the doors open.
I step in.
Turn around.
He’s in the elevator with me, his naked, imposing frame crowding me.
I step back until my back meets the wall. I can feel the pounds of my heart in my stomach. Can feel my skin sizzling under his closeness. Dipping slowly, eyes glued to mine, he pushes our mouths together and moans. I give him immediate access, opening up to him, speaking in a language he understands. His warm tongue is soft, his lips firm. I taste coffee. I taste all man. This kiss has purpose. It has meaning. My body reacts, and just as I’m about to climb him and take it to the next level, beg him to take me back to his bed, he pulls away, panting, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving me stumbling back into the wall, dazed. This is what I crave. This freedom from pain, from thinking, from grieving.
This release.
“Call me later,” he orders softly, backing out of the elevator, tilting his head, waiting for my compliance.
He doesn’t need it.
The doors close, and I urgently pull air into my lungs. “I will,” I say to myself.
Of course I will.
* * *
I’ve never stood outside Lawrence’s house for so long, just staring at the door. Dreading what’s waiting for me inside. This house has always been a haven. Now? Now it feels like a cage of discrimination. On a needed injection of bravery, I slip my key into the lock and turn it tentatively, pushing my way inside. I hear them in the kitchen, knives and forks scraping their plates as they eat their breakfast. I glance up the stairs. I could go straight up. Hide. Delay facing their looks of disapproval.
No.
I drop my keys in the glass bowl on the table, making a loud clang, and the sounds of metal scraping on plates stops. I wander down the hallway into the kitchen and go straight to the fridge, and their eyes follow me the whole way. “Morning,” I say.
“Morning,” Dexter replies, sounding tentative. “Nice evening?”
I grab a bottle of water and twist the cap off as I turn to face them. “Lovely,” I reply simply. And mysterious. And curiosity inducing. And enlightening. Uncle Lawrence regards me for a few, uncomfortable moments, taking in my lace dress. Then he goes back to his breakfast without a word. The silent treatment. I give Dexter tired eyes, and he smiles tightly.
“You could have been civil,” I say, taking a seat at the table, my focus on Lawrence. If he wants to be a child, fine, but I won’t be a child with him. Dexter shifts on the chair, setting down his cutlery before standing. Lawrence pretends like I’m not even here. “Lawrence, come on.”
“Don’t ask me for my blessing.” He pushes his plate away. “I tried, but I cannot bless . . .” He fades off and turns his eyes onto my wrists.
“One of the things I love most about you is your open-mindedness.” I get up from the table, knowing I’m fighting a losing battle. He needs to pull his head out of his ass. “But right now, you’re behaving like my father.” I turn and walk out, just catching sight of his horrified expression and Dexter’s blank face.
“I am nothing like your father.”
“Then stop being so narrow-minded,” I call, taking the stairs. “I’m a big girl. I know how to say no.”
“Then say no!” he yells, sounding unusually frazzled. “There must be better ways to let loose.”
“Better?” I laugh. “I know where you keep your bondage gear, Lawrence.” I turn at the top of the stairs, hearing him scuttling down the hallway.
“I do not have bondage gear.”
“No?” I ask.
“No.”
I shake my head and make tracks to their bedroom, letting myself in and zooming in on the French cabinet I shifted not too long ago so I could decorate. I yank a drawer open and swipe up the leather crotchless panties. “No?” I ask again, waving them over my head. Then I grab the bra that sports more spikes than a porcupine. “No?”
He lands in the doorway and assesses my finds. “They’re Zinnea’s,” he barks, marching toward me and swiping them from my grasp, stuffing them back into the drawer and slamming it shut.
“I guess this is too?” I ask, seizing a whip. “Don’t tell me this doesn’t cause injuries.”
He gasps, his mouth falling open. “That’s Dexter’s.”
“Hey, leave me out of it,” he calls from downstairs.
“Don’t judge me,” I warn, sidestepping him and leaving the room. “Next time you see James, be nice,” I order, turning at the door, following up my words with a stern look. I’ve never seen my uncle shrink before. It’s a novelty.
“So you’ll be seeing him again?”
“Maybe.”
His nose wrinkles. “I don’t know why you can’t date a normal man.”
Like Ollie. Kind. Sweet. Normal. “Are any of us normal, Lawrence?” I ask. “Do you consider men who never dress as women and don’t have a stage name normal, Lawrence? Are you not a prime example of someone who can accept and enjoy things that others cannot?” He sighs, looking down, probably trying to find the perfect counter. “Everyone is a certain level of fucked up. Leave me to be blissfully fucked up, will you? Because you don’t understand what fucking someone who isn’t into missionary gives me. It might only be temporary, but I’m taking it because it gives me moments where I’m not lost or grieving or angry. And surely I deserve that. Surely.”
His entire being shrinks. “I’m hearing you, Beau. I just want you to be okay. I love you.”
“I love you too. And Dexter. I’d be lost without you both. You know that. But judging me or the men I see is not supporting me. It’s just making me feel like shit.”
He looks ashamed. “I’m sorry.”
I nod and carry on to my room, shutting the door, and start wrestling my way out of my dress, turning in circles to find the zip. My eyes land on the piles of apartment details.
I forget the zip and drop onto my bed, scooping up the stack and starting to flick through. And, weirdly, most of the properties I’d previously dismissed suddenly aren’t so bad anymore. One in particular is giving me good vibes, a lovely two-bed top-floor apartment in Biscayne Bay. I pout when my stomach performs a little flip. Excitement?
I grab my cell and call the agent. “Hi, my name’s Beau Hayley. I’m interested in viewing a property you’re marketing.”
“Sure,” the guy replies. “Can I ask what your position is? Anything to sell?”
“Nothing.”
“And are you financing through a bank? Mortgage?”
“I’m a cash buyer.”
“Available this afternoon?”
I smile and stand, reaching back for my zip again. “I’d prefer late evening.” And not only because
it’ll keep me busy while I try to avoid gravitating back toward James’s apartment. It’s time to take some positive steps.
On my own.
40
JAMES
“What is she doing there?” I ask Goldie as I scan the beach, watching the busy space as I sit, relaxed, sipping a coffee, my laptop before me.
“Right now, she’s admiring the water.”
She’s not at home. She’s not at the supermarket. She’s not at the diner or at my place. She’s out there, exposed, and that makes me feel immensely uncomfortable. “I don’t think Beau knows about a safety deposit box.”
“She must know,” Goldie says. “Her mother surely left everything to her.”
“Well, I pressed as best I could without rousing suspicion and got nothing.” What if Beau doesn’t know Jaz left a key for it? What if she’s completely unaware? “Watch her until I get there,” I order, my eyes falling to the two beach chairs not too far away, each with a beach towel laid across them and a suitcase nestled in between. “Closely.”
“Got it. How’s it going?”
“I’m watching.” I look up when a man approaches my table, his feet shuffling, his face overgrown, his clothes tattered. “I’ve got to go.” I set my mobile on the table, scanning the area.
“Got a spare smoke?” he asks, motioning to my full packet of Marlboros on the table.
“No,” I answer flatly, going to my laptop. I feel tense, and it isn’t because of this exchange with my new contact.
“You have, right there, look.”
I glance up at him. “You want a cigarette?” I ask, picking up the packet, passing it from hand to hand.
“Yeah.”
I hold them out. “Here.”
He falters, unsure, and slowly takes them as I cast my eyes across the sand. I reach into my pocket and drag out some notes, slapping them on the table and setting my lighter on top. “You want this too?”
He slips the smokes in the pocket of his tatty coat. “What are you, my guardian angel?”
I smile. “One good deed deserves another. There’s two beach chairs down there with yellow towels. Bring me the suitcase that’s in between them. Simple.”
His greedy eyes rest on the pile of money. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He shrugs and leaves, ambling down to the beach, and I rest back, collecting my coffee and sipping, watching him. He plods through the sand, moves in on the case, and starts to drag it away from the chairs.
And as I predicted, two guys nearby abandon their volleyball game and move in, flanking the down-and-out on either side, escorting him from the beach.
My lip naturally curls, I snap my laptop shut, swipe up my cash and lighter, and leave the café casually, dialing Goldie. “Trap,” I say, not looking back.
“Surprised?”
“Not at all.” A criminal that’s not in The Bear’s pocket seems to be a rarity.
So I’m rare, but, frankly, the Russian, Sandy, is the least of my worries right now. Knowing Beau’s out there is making me uneasy. Her predictability has been a comfort. And while a sense of pride fills me, because she’s getting braver, more like her old self, I never considered how that might make me feel.
Nervous.
I have a purpose to rid Miami of the sewer rats. I don’t feel like control has ever slipped from my fingers, and yet, as Beau stirs back to life, I feel like I’m dancing on a double-edged sword.
Either way I fall, it’ll be the end of me.
41
BEAU
I stand on the edge of the bay at seven fifteen, leaning against one of the railings, taking in the magnificent sight. The walkway lining the water at the foot of the apartment block is wide and spacious, the people still milling having plenty of room to hurry to wherever they’re going. Little cafés and a few restaurants spill out onto the pedestrianized area, and benches are dotted sporadically along the route. The water is peaceful, boats chugging up and down, and the chaos of the city seems so far away. It’s more perfect than I thought.
Finishing my latte, I toss my cup in a trash can, fishing my cell out of my purse when it rings, as I wander to the apartment block entrance. I inhale and answer. “James.”
“Where are you?” he snaps.
I recoil, slowing to a stop, taken aback. “I didn’t realize I needed to run every move I make past you,” I retort, hanging up on him, outraged. “Asshole,” I grumble, forcing my feet into moving, trying to locate my earlier excitement. I only make it a few paces before he’s calling me again. I lift my palm to my forehead, rubbing, squeezing my eyes closed. God damn him. And God damn me. I answer with silence.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I didn’t mean to sound so curt.”
“Bad day?” What did he do? What were those errands?
“Had better,” he says, only making those questions circle faster. “So where are you?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see you.”
“What about what I want?” I retort. It’s stupid, but I won’t let him believe I’m at his beck and call, however much I’d love to be his cure for everything. But nothing could cure those scars.
“Stop it, Beau,” he says tiredly. “Where are you?”
“Biscayne Bay.”
“Why?”
“I’m viewing an apartment.” My declaration receives silence in reply. “I thought it was about time I moved on from Lawrence and Dexter’s.” I don’t want to even imagine the reaction I’ll get from my uncle. He won’t see this as a good thing. Not now that he’s met James.
“Interesting.”
“Why’s that interesting?” I ask, scowling at the ground.
“What time’s your viewing?”
“In ten minutes.”
“I’ll be there. Send me the address.”
“What?” I blurt. “But it’ll take you over half an hour to get here from your place.”
“Who said I’m at my place?”
My shoulders straighten, and I start circling on the spot, my eyes scoping the space around me. It wouldn’t be the first time James has followed me. “Where are you?” I ask, suddenly feeling like I’m being watched, the hairs on my neck standing on end.
“Just dealing with some business.”
I laugh under my breath. “That didn’t answer my question.” And it sounds very dubious.
“Send me the address, Beau,” he orders before hanging up.
I slowly, reluctantly, tap out a message to him, all the while wondering . . . what the hell is going on here? Not the weird stuff, the curiosity, the mysterious happenings. But between James and me? I’m looking at an apartment to buy, and he wants to come. Why?
I ponder that while I wait outside the foyer of the block, my mind turning in circles. Does he want to give his approval? Check everything is in order? I spin my cell in my grasp, checking left and right, keeping an eye out for him.
“Miss Hayley?”
I swing around toward the doors, finding a young hip guy in a suit so tight it’s got to be uncomfortable. “You must be Dean.”
His eyes light up. “Pleasure to meet you.” He takes my extended hand and holds it for too long for my liking, the dollar signs virtually pinging into his eyes. I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking young cash buyer, and I’m here alone. I’m not being presumptuous. “Likewise,” I say without thinking, flexing my fingers for him to release me.
“Oh.” He drops my hold, and I smile awkwardly. “Shall we?” He swoops his arm out toward the door, and I look over my shoulder, searching for James.
“Actually, I’m just waiting for my . . .” I snap my mouth closed. My what? “Friend,” I finish, finding no sign of James.
“We can let her up when she arrives,” Dean suggests, encouraging me into the lobby. His smile is going to break his face if he doesn’t ease it a bit. “So there’s a twenty-four-hour concierge,” he says, indicating the desk, where a middle-aged guy sits, looking utterly bored. Now
that is a concierge. Otto is definitely no concierge. Dean pushes the button for an elevator and stands back, giving me a cheesy grin. “I’m assuming security is important.”
“Why?” I ask, stepping in when it arrives, Dean joining me.
He falters, looking incredibly awkward. “Well.” He coughs. “Isn’t it for everyone?” Another cheesy grin. He dug himself out of that one quite speedily.
“Oh,” I say, looking up at the panel that’s ticking up through the floors. “I assumed you meant because I’m a single female.”
“God, no.” He laughs. “I’m a modern man, Miss Hayley.”
I smile to myself, wondering what the hell a modern man is. I won’t ask. I can’t bear to see him squirming.
The doors open, and I step out, looking up and down the corridor. It’s clean. Tidy. A bit soulless, but it’s just a corridor.
“Last door on the right.” Dean lets me lead on, and I expect it’s all part of his modern-man philosophy.
We reach a solid wooden door, and the number 7 on a plaque on the wall to the side sparkles.
“Lucky for some,” he says as he slips the key into the lock and pushes it open, entering first. He’s taking this modern man thing too far now. “The owner is away on business, so we have the place all to ourselves.” Another cheesy grin.
“Great.” I step inside and gaze around, my eyes naturally falling to the floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. It’s not quite the level of James’s floating glass box, but it’s probably about as much as I can expect for my budget. “Amazing view,” I say, approaching the glass and taking in the skyline.
Dean joins me, holding out an envelope. “The details.”
I accept, despite already having them. “What’s the owner’s position?” I ask, backing up and heading to the kitchen space across the room.
“He’s not in a rush to sell.”
I smile, opening a few cupboards. Translated: don’t try to knock him down on the price. “But I’m a cash buyer and ready to move quickly,” I point out, running the tap. “That carries some appeal, right, Dean?”
The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2 Page 22
