Paint.
I clumsily pull on the shorts and run to James’s office as I hoist in the waist, setting up the ladder and mixing the white paint. I scan my work area. Climb to the top and start frantically swooping around the spotlights. Paint. Just paint.
A shell casing.
My other name.
You’re getting more than you asked for.
“Fuck!” The silence is too loud, my thoughts louder. I hurry down the ladder, rush downstairs, find my cell and my earbuds, and shove them in, returning to James’s office as I search my playlists. I find the perfect track, play it, and turn the volume up to max as I slip my buds into my ears.
Everyone You Know When The Sun Comes Up blares, and it fills my head perfectly. I climb back up the ladder, take my brush, and let the painting and music take me away. My shoulders sway. I sing along.
I forget.
Just for a moment. Just for now.
I lose myself, cutting in around the remaining spots, working my way closer to the door, not bothering to get down from the ladder to move it, but simply shifting my weight to cock it onto one leg and effectively walking it across the room, holding the ladder with one hand and the paint and brush in the other. The tracks shuffle, each one like it could have been perfectly selected to consume my senses.
By the time I’ve made it to the other side of the room to the door, I’m forced to get off the ladder to get to the final spotlight. I push the door closed, negotiating the ladder to sit square in front of it, and climb back up.
My brush doesn’t even make it to the ceiling again. The door flies open, smacking the side of my ladder. “Fuck!” I yell, not able to hear myself, wobbling precariously, trying to regain my balance. The can of paint topples, and I toss the brush aside to free a hand, wedging it into the ceiling above me in an attempt to hold myself in place. But the ladder’s already tilted too far, and before I can even think to plan my fall, I’m crashing down, the ground growing closer rapidly. I hit the floor with force.
The music is loud.
But I still hear the sound of my wrist cracking.
And the sharp flash of pain confirms it.
I hiss, and, like an idiot, push my weight into my hands on the floor to sit up, disorientated and dazed, creating more pain. “Fucking hell,” I cry, grabbing my wrist and applying pressure. I blink, forcing back the black mist that’s creeping into the sides of my vision. Shit, I think I’m going to faint.
James appears before me, crouching, panic emblazoned across his face. His mouth moves fast, and I squint, unable to figure out why I can’t hear him. The music. I reach up to my ears with my good hand in turn, pulling out the buds. He watches, confused.
And then he’s not confused. He’s angry. “For fuck’s sake, Beau,” he yells, stressed. I flinch. “I cannot believe you went up a ladder behind a fucking door.”
“Okay,” I yell. “Stop shouting at me.” I look at my wrist and cringe. Busted. “I think it’s broken.”
“No fucking shit.” He kneels and gathers me up, carrying me to his desk and setting me on the glass. “Let me see.” He takes my arm gently, and after he’s inspected it, I see the guilt that’s been masked by rage shift to the front of his emotions. “Fuck,” he whispers, his expression pained. “God damn it, Beau.”
“It’s my fault,” I say, trying to ease him. I won’t tell him why I was up the ladder. Or why the music was blasting so I couldn’t hear my thoughts. Now, as I look at James, all I can see is that shell casing.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
“No.”
“Adrenalin,” he concludes. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
I press my lips together, forcing my confession back. “It’s fine.”
He laughs, though it is not with humor. “Shut up,” he snaps, pulling his cell out of his pocket. He makes a call on loudspeaker. “I need you to take us to A&E. Beau’s broken her wrist.”
“You two are quite in the wars today, huh?” Goldie says, and her words make me take in James’s nose. It’s definitely swollen.
“We’ll meet you downstairs.” He helps me down from the desk. “Can you walk?” He takes in my clothes. “Are those my shorts?” He lifts my T-shirt, revealing the bunched material where I’ve rolled them so they’d cling to my waist.
I shrug. Why’s there a shell casing in your dressing room? “I needed to paint.” I shouldn’t have said that. “To finish.” I look away, avoiding his immediate worried expression. “I needed to finish the job.”
“I’m so pissed off with you,” he mumbles, pulling his T-shirt up over his head and ripping it clean down the middle. A few folds and knots later, he’s putting it over my head, gently resting my arm in his makeshift sling.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask, and he falters, his eyes remaining on his task.
“Boy Scouts,” he says, bracing a hand on the edge of his desk on either side of my thighs. “What were you thinking?” He leans in, his head tilted, his expression annoyed.
I wasn’t thinking. That’s the whole fucking point, and yet I can’t share that with James. “It was an accident.”
“This body,” he whispers, his tone strained, his palm resting on my throat and dragging down my front, “is delicate. It’s delicate, it’s precious, and it’s fucking mine, Beau Hayley.” He gives me a look that dares me to question him, as I swallow down my surprise. “All I ask is that you be careful with it.”
“You’re annoyed with me,” I murmur, my eyes falling down his bare chest to his stomach.
He pushes away, standing tall, his jaw pulsing. “Annoyed is an understatement.”
My jaw starts to match his, twitching. “Are you done scorning me like a child?” I ask, slipping down and passing his imposing frame, keen to escape his annoyance and the vision of him bare-chested. Don’t lose your head, Beau.
I make it only a few paces before I get a severe head rush. “Shit.” I grapple for the wall, searching for something to cling on to, as the mist I managed to push back steams forward with a vengeance. “I’m going to pass out,” I say out loud, warning him, needing him to catch me, as I start plummeting forward, my body becoming light and cold, my arms coming up instinctively to save myself.
“Beau!”
That’s the last I hear. And James’s fierce, panic-stricken face is the last thing I see.
Along with a shell casing.
48
JAMES
“Goldie!” I bellow, catching Beau just before she hits the deck. “Fucking hell.” I get her onto her side, working around her arm, putting her into the recovery position. Goldie crashes into my office, finding us on the floor. “She’s passed out,” I say, assessing every inch of her, fraught with concern.
“Jesus, you two are a liability together,” she grumbles, joining me on the floor. “What happened to her arm?”
“She was up a ladder behind the fucking door.” I still can’t believe she did that. Fury and worry start to fight for poll position, and Beau starts mumbling nonsensical words.
“She’s coming around.”
I stroke at her cheeks. “Beau, baby, come on. Open your eyes.” I tap at her face, and she flinches, her eyes blinking open. “There you are,” I whisper, dipping and nuzzling her cheek.
“Bullet,” she rasps, and I freeze, letting that one word sink past the fog of my brain. I pull away slowly, and she looks me square in the eye. Then her head rolls, along with her eyes, and she passes out again.
“Did I hear that right?” Goldie asks, going to her phone, undoubtedly checking the CCTV. Then she stalks into my dressing room, reappearing seconds later holding up a shell casing. “Fancy leaving this around for her to find.”
I say nothing, gathering Beau into my arms and carrying her out of my office. “Get me a T-shirt and call her uncle.” It’s the right thing to do, though I don’t relish the thought of facing the condemnation. Because that’s what it’ll be. A trial. A judgment.
A persecution.
/> By the time we’ve made it to a hospital, Beau’s slipped in and out of consciousness endless times. I’m no doctor, but I know when a body is in protective mode, whether protecting itself from physical pain or mental trauma. I fear I’m dealing with a bit of both.
I carry her into the reception, and the lady behind the pane of glass immediately jumps up from her desk. “A broken wrist and six episodes of fainting. Low blood pressure.” I reel it off as she guides me down the hall into a room.
I settle Beau on the bed and make space for the doctor to move in and assess her. “Her name?”
“Beau. Beau Hayley.”
“Age?”
“Thirty.”
“And you are?”
I snap my mouth closed, looking across to Beau’s unconscious form. “Boyfriend,” I say quietly. My worry now, my pain seeing her like this? There’s only one explanation. It’s fucked up on every level for me to have allowed this to happen.
And yet here I am, falling for the fucking enemy.
“Mister . . .”
“Kelly.”
“Any allergies?”
“None that I know of.”
“And is she or could she be pregnant?”
I recoil, surprised, shocked, and a whole heap of other things. “Pregnant?” I mimic like an idiot. “No.” I look across to Beau. “I don’t know.” Could she be? Is that why she’s passing out left and right? Fuck, I don’t know.
“This way, please, sir,” the nurse presses, and I look blankly at her, dazed. “I just need some details from you.”
“Yeah, sure,” I murmur, following her gesturing arm like a zombie.
Once we’re outside, I answer all the nurse’s questions, and it’s an achievement given my mind is a total haze. “That’s all,” she says, as Goldie comes barreling into the hospital after parking her car.
“Okay?” she asks, and I nod, bewildered. “Sure?”
I clear my throat. “I shouldn’t have left her.”
“You had no choice.”
I did have a choice. There would have been another opportunity to take out The Shark’s second-in-command. But like with any of the men I kill, I get another opportunity to discover who The Bear is. Will they be with him? Make a call to him? Lead me to him? It’s not happened yet, but I won’t give up. “Did you call her uncle?”
“On his way.”
“Good.”
“There’s something else.”
I look at her, hoping and praying she doesn’t hit me with another known location for one of The Bear’s men, because I’m going nowhere right now. “What?”
“Otto called. The tracker’s moving.”
“Keep me updated.”
“And Brad Black’s had an attempt on his life,” she says, and I recoil.
Brad Black? “But he’s lying low. Out of the game.” The guy’s been running a nightclub for over a year now. Totally legit.
“I guess they want all of Danny Black’s roots gone. Doesn’t sound like The Bear’s willing to risk any recourse.”
I don’t like where this is heading. Brad Black is of no consequence to The Bear and his web of power. Not unless . . . My mind goes back to Spittle’s clumsy words. Likes. “What happened?”
“Dodged a bullet.”
“Fuck,” I breathe, falling into thought. The roots of Danny Black.
“And Spittle’s been in touch.”
Jesus, anything else? “I haven’t got time for him right now.”
“You sure?” she asks, cocking her head, telling me there’s only one right answer.
Naturally, I’m immediately wary. “What is it?”
“He wants to meet you.”
“The fuck?” I hiss, looking at Goldie like she could have just sprung another head. And then . . . “Why would that be?” I ask quietly. Brad Black’s had an attempt on his life. Spittle wants to meet me. “The answer is no.” I turn and walk away. Spittle must have a fucking death wish.
49
BEAU
I open my eyes and instantly slam them shut again, shying away from the harsh glare of lighting. My head is banging. My wrist though? I can’t feel a thing. I gingerly lift it from the bed and peel one eye open. Bruising. Heavy. A bone that’s protruding. I wince.
“Beau?”
I let my head drop on the pillow, finding James sitting on the edge of the bed. He reaches for my arm and slowly lowers it back to my side.
“How do you feel?” he asks, and I sigh.
Sleepy. I feel so sleepy. “Fine.”
“I’ve called your uncle.”
“Great,” I murmur.
“It’s a clean break,” a man across the room says. The doctor. “A few weeks in a cast will fix it, and the cut on the back of your head is superficial. Mild concussion. A nurse will be along shortly to clean up the cut and we’ll get you fixed up with a temporary cast until the swelling settles.”
“Thank you.”
“Beau,” the doctor says. “Could you be pr—?”
“Is there any water?” My mouth feels parched, my throat rough.
“Here.” James reaches for a bottle on the unit beside the bed and unscrews the cap, and I start shuffling up the mattress. As soon as I’m sitting, he holds the bottle at my lips. He is not feeding me water.
I try to take the bottle and get nowhere. “I’m not an invalid, James.”
“You’re going to argue with me? Now? Just drink the damn water, Beau.”
I look at him incredulously as the doctor backs out of the room. “I’ll give you a moment.”
The door closes. “Glad your mood’s improved since I last saw you,” I snap, and his jaw twitches wildly. He’s fucking rich. I’ve found a shell casing in his apartment, and he’s the one mad with me? Then I realize. He doesn’t know that I found that in his apartment. So I tell him. “I found a shel—”
“Beau!” Lawrence barrels into the room, overwrought, and shoots around the side of the bed, taking me in, feeling me everywhere. “Oh my goodness. What happened?”
“I fell,” I mutter, reaching for the water again, and this time James lets me take it. “I’m fine.”
“Fine? You’re in a hospital!”
James remains silent by the bedside, while my uncle fusses around me. “I’m fine, Lawrence,” I say. “Just a cut on my head and a broken wrist.”
“Just?” He looks up and glares at James, and I quickly realize why. It’s obvious James does too, judging by his mild head shake. Lawrence thinks James did this to me? For the love of God, has he lost his mind? But my uncle doesn’t say anything. And James doesn’t appear in the least bit surprised by his conclusion. Or offended.
The tension in the room is thick, to the point I can’t bear it, so when the nurse wanders in, I’m grateful. “Okay, then, missy. Let’s get you all sorted out so you can go home.” She pulls a bed tray over and goes to the sink to scrub her hands.
Lawrence moves in, crowding me, basically cutting off James’s access. I hate the genuine worry on his face. Hate it. Because he’s worrying over something he should not be worried about. “I’ll cancel my show,” he says, stroking my hair from my face. “We’ll order your favorite ice cream. Veg. We haven’t done that in ages, have we, sweetheart?”
Oh God, I wish everyone would stop panicking. “You shouldn’t cancel your show,” I murmur, glancing across to the nurse, mentally hurrying her along. I just want to get out of here, separate Lawrence and James, and be rid of this God-awful tension.
“But I must,” he insists. “So I can look after you.”
I flick my eyes to James. He’s standing a few feet away, keeping his distance, holding himself back. Not happy.
“Okay, can I get some room, please?” the nurse says, shooing Lawrence away from my bed.
“Why don’t you wait for me outside?” I suggest.
Lawrence recoils, looking injured. “And him?”
I turn my attention James’s way. He’s still glaring. Still tense. “He can wait outside too.”
With Lawrence panicking and James brooding, I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Add in the matter of a shell casing, my pounding head is spinning.
James says nothing, backing out of the room, his expression fierce, and Lawrence reluctantly follows, leaving me alone with the nurse. I flop back on the bed and hiss when my head brushes the pillow. I reach up and feel at the back, finding matted, damp hair.
“I think we’ll clean your head first.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, closing my eyes and turning onto my side as ordered, giving the nurse access. I feel like I could sleep for a year. The door opens again, and the doctor slips back into the room. I know it’s only because he deems it safe now James has left.
“I just have a few more questions,” he says, settling in a chair by the bed, facing me. “Your boyfriend said he didn’t know of any allergies.”
“My boyfriend?” I blurt without thought, and the doctor looks back over his shoulder, indicating the door.
“The man who just left with your . . . uncle?”
“Oh yes. Him.” I smile tightly. “No allergies.” Except James Kelly at this moment.
“And are you or could you be pregnant?”
“No,” I answer instinctively, but his question makes me pull up. Makes me think. Tomorrow. My period’s due tomorrow. “Why do you ask?”
He stands. “Just routine questions. We need to ensure the medication we prescribe is suitable.”
“Medication?” Something flares inside, my defenses flying up naturally. Do they think I need to be committed again? Has he read my records and assumed I’m a danger to myself?
“Painkillers.” He smiles, and there’s sympathy hidden within it. He’s definitely read all my records. “I’ll leave the nurse to finish.”
I swallow and close my eyes.
Half an hour later, the wound on my head is clean, a cast on, and a sling holds it in place. As I perch on the side of the bed looking at the wrist that’s covered from my fingernails to my elbow, I can’t help but feel slightly pissed off that I didn’t break my other wrist. My scarred one.
The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2 Page 27
