“You cornered yourself when you opened your big, fat fucking mouth.”
“I’ve got murderers coming at me from all fucking directions.”
“You were trying to cover your corrupt, stupid fucking ass, you piece of shit.” Brad waves an impatient hand. “Get him the fuck out of here before I stab the fucker in the throat.”
I smile. Brad won’t kill him. He hasn’t had the order.
Flicking my eyes across to Goldie and Otto, I see they’re both looking like fish out of water, confused as fuck, their stares following Spittle’s fat body as it’s dragged with little effort out of the office. I’m a fish out of water too. How I do things. My ways. I’m no showman. I get the job done and move out.
I stall for a moment, thinking. I’m lying to myself. I’m really no different to Brad Black. I’m the biggest showman of them all. How I kill. How I taunt them. How I maintain my illusiveness until that very last second before I end them. The pleasure I take when they realize who I am.
Brad pours himself another drink and sits on the edge of the desk. “So what’s your plan?”
“Kill.”
“What do you need from me? Men?” Brad cocks an eyebrow at Goldie, and she growls.
“Say one word,” she warns lowly, threateningly. “I’ll break your dick off and floss with it.”
“Ooh, she’s a feisty one. Does she bite?”
“She doesn’t bite, she eats whole.”
He smiles, and it’s a smile that could tip Goldie over the edge. “For now, I just need a safe place for Beau to recuperate.” While I plot. “And we need to find this guy,” I say, as Otto slaps a photo of Dexter in front of Brad.
“Dexter Haynes. MPD. His license plate number is on the back.”
Brad nods, and I leave the office, heading back upstairs to Beau. The doctor is still watching her closely, and Esther is changing her sheets. “You don’t have to do that,” I say, approaching, giving Beau a quick look over. She looks no different. No worse, but no better either. My heart sinks. I’m not going anywhere until she’s on her feet, so death will elude The Bear for a little while longer.
“It’s my thing,” Esther says, pulling on a new pillowcase.
“Changing sheets?”
“Faffing.” She smiles and gently lifts Beau’s head, slipping the pillow under, getting her comfortable. “There.” She collects a few things. “Come on, Doctor, I have a few scones in the oven.”
They leave together, and I smile my thanks, settling on the edge of Beau’s bed. I pull the sheets from her legs and take her foot, cupping the back with my spare hand to support it. “Time for your exercises, baby,” I say quietly, slowly starting to bend her leg at the knee and elevate her lower leg in slow, smooth motions, circulating the blood. Up, extend, tuck in, back down. Over and over, at least half hour on each leg. And the whole time, I watch her face.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Praying.
68
BEAU
Walk away from the light. Walk away from the light. Walk away from the light.
There will be no freedom. There will be no happiness. If I walk into the light, there will be no James.
I still and listen, waiting for his touch again, my skin begging for the heat. The only heat I can tolerate. I breathe in through my nose, searching for his unique scent. There it is.
And a heat I’ve come to recognize meets my ankle. My leg rises. Extends. Lowers.
Over and over.
I open my eyes and let out a shallow sob when I see his beautiful, traumatized face above mine. The mere sight injects my useless body with strength. The pain has gone. I can breathe easy. I can see clearly. “I couldn’t find you,” I murmur.
He sighs, coming as close as he can, letting me hug him with one weak arm. My tears are unstoppable, seeping into the threads of his T-shirt. “I’m here,” he whispers. His voice. That in itself is a medicine. “I’m here.” He gently pulls away and spends an age gazing at me, wiping away the tears. He looks so troubled. “Do you remember what happened, Beau?”
I divert my eyes, shying away from the memories his question spikes. “Dexter,” I say quietly, seeing a vivid image of his hostile expression the moment before he disappeared out of the door. I haven’t the capacity or strength to try and unravel it all. Not now.
I suddenly feel empty, but the emptiness feels deeper. More profound. I look at my stomach. Empty. “I’m not pregnant anymore,” I say quietly, looking up at James. “Am I?”
He can only shake his head, his throat swelling. The emptiness multiplies, and I rest my head back on the pillow, looking at the ceiling. James may appear as sad as I feel, but I can sense his need for justice. “Where’s Lawrence?”
“He’s safe.”
“And Nath?” I look at him and know immediately that Nath is gone. I inhale, breathing out shakily, flinching at the pain that simply breathing brings. “Is Dexter still out there?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Kill him.”
I nod, accepting, because what else can I do? Stop James? Nature’s strongest force wouldn’t be able to stop him. My own uncle. A man I’ve looked up to for years. He’s watched me suffer. Held endless paper bags over my mouth when I’ve fallen into one of my merciless meltdowns. Held my hand. Spoken encouraging words. He fooled me. I feel myself begin to shake with the anger building, and I roughly wipe at my eyes, forcing myself to settle. Anger is pointless now. I’m helpless. Useless. It’ll only fuel James, and he looks like he needs no fuel.
Breathe, Beau. I take a moment to gather myself and gather my bearings, looking around. I expect to see medical machinery everywhere. I see only one piece next to my bed, a line into my arm. I expect to see harsh, tubular lighting above me. I see an elaborate gold chandelier. I expect clinical bed sheets. I see a sumptuous spread in rich autumnal colors. I gaze around the room, an extravagant, plush bedroom, and finish at the French doors onto a terrace.
“Where am I?” I ask, finding James on the edge of the giant bed.
“We’re safe.”
“That wasn’t my question.” I try to sit up, hissing as I do.
“Beau, for fuck’s sake, take it easy.” His palms gently press into my shoulders and push me back down.
“I’m fine.”
“God help me, woman, lie the fuck down.”
I relent, but only because the pain is too intense. “How long have I been out?
“A week.”
“A week?” I blurt, panicked. A whole week? I know what James is capable of in an hour. He’s had a whole week to rain holy hell on the world? “And where have you been?” I ask. Looking for Dexter? Oh God, what about Lawrence? He’ll be out of his mind.
“Here. Always here.”
I stare at him, stunned, but I see only sincerity in his expression. It’s a stark contrast to the man I first met. “A whole week has passed, and you’ve not killed one person?”
His smile is small and ironic. “I’ve killed more people in this one week than in my lifetime.”
Plotting. He’s been plotting. “Where are we, James?” I ask, gazing around again.
“Don’t worry about that for now.” He gets up and goes to the door, swinging it open. “Get the doctor,” he orders, and I see Goldie craning her neck, looking into the room. Searching for me. She looks worried, until she sees me on the bed, awake. And she smiles. But only through her eyes.
“Good to have you back, Beau,” she says gruffly. I’d call that affection, but I can only smile, and it’s weak.
James comes back and starts fussing around the sheets. He’s stalling. Diverting. Distracting. I reach for his hand and stop him. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Where is somewhere safe?”
“You have a lot of questions for someone who’s just come out of a week-long coma.”
“I’ve not even started,” I assure him. “Where—” The door knocks, and an o
lder man walks in, his suit tweed, his beard gray. “Who are you?” I exclaim, looking to James for an answer.
“Beau, this is Doc,” he says, dismissing me, giving his attention to the elderly man. “Check her over.”
“I’m fine.”
“Shut up, Beau,” James snaps, and the doctor looks between us, a little alarmed. “Listen to me,” he warns the doctor, and he gets straight to it, checking me over. He reaches my stomach and presses lightly. I hiss.
“Fine,” James grunts, going to the stand where a bag of fluids hangs, pulling it closer as the doctor checks my pulse.
“I just need to empty your catheter,” the doctor says.
Catheter? I look at the ceiling, despairing, and close my eyes, hiding from my mortification. “Remove it,” I order, and the next thing I know, he’s poking around in a place he shouldn’t be. I breathe in and hold my breath, feeling the uncomfortable pull on my bladder. And when I open my eyes, he’s brandishing a bag of pee in the air. “Oh my God,” I murmur, looking at James to save me from this humiliation.
“Thanks, Doctor, I’ve got it,” he says, smiling softly. “She’s fine.”
The doctor nods and leaves with my bag of pee, and I sigh, lifting my heavy arm, seeing a new cast.
“You upset your break when you fell,” James says.
“How long will I be useless?”
He smiles, full of pity, and pours some water, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Here.” He directs a straw to my mouth, but I try to take the glass instead. It’s pulled back out of my reach. “Let me.”
“I can feed myself, James.” I am not depending on him to care for me. Never.
“Beau,” he breathes, his patience wearing. I don’t care. This is not how I’m wired. He knows that. “You’ve been shot. You’ve lost . . .” He fades off, his nostrils flaring. “Just let me look after you, for fuck’s sake.”
I swallow, wary of the monsters in his eyes, and drop my mouth open for him. I need to pull my head out of my ass and let him do whatever he needs to do to deal with this. Take care of me. And kill. But what about me? What will get me through this? The weight of the world feels heavy again. It lightened when I met James. He provided a relief. Now, there are more secrets. There’s more danger. More hatred. And on top of that, my body is broken along with my spirit. So there will be no walking that path of nothingness with James for a while. No ecstasy. No mind-numbing bliss.
I suck on the straw and swallow, blinking back the tears. No more tears. I will not cry. God, I want to cry.
“Want some sunshine on your face?” James asks, setting the glass back on the nightstand.
No darkness.
I nod, tearful, and he helps me negotiate my stiff body to the edge of the bed. The whole time, my teeth are clenched, my muscles tense, trying to stem the pain. The soles of my feet meet the soft carpet. That hurts too. And I get a little head rush, just from sitting up.
“Whoa,” I whisper, swaying.
“Okay, bad idea.”
“No.” I grab his arm. “I’m not lying in that bed feeling sorry for myself.” Thinking about what we’ve lost. What’s happened. How it happened. Who did it. “I need sunshine on my face. I need rainbows, James.” My voice, infuriatingly, quivers. Rainbows are a long way away. I realize that.
He nods, understanding, and helps me to my feet, watching me closely, waiting for any signs that I might pass out. “I’m okay,” I assure him, lifting one foot and placing it down, leaning into his big body as he holds me around the waist with one arm and pushes the metal stand holding the bag of fluids along with the other. I look to the French doors, to the gorgeous, green, vibrant garden beyond. “It’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t it?” he says, taking it in himself. “Beauty amid so much ugly.”
I look up at him. I couldn’t agree more. He is beauty amid the ugly. We make it out onto the terrace, where there are sun loungers and another terrace directly next door. It’s a hotel. A lovely mansion hotel.
“Here.” He lowers me to a lounger and positions himself behind me, moving back and letting me rest on his front. I exhale, close my eyes, and feel the warmth of the sun on my face and the warmth of James on my back. “Good?”
“Perfect,” I say. This is perfect. Wherever we are, wherever he’s brought me, it’s perfect.
Paradise.
No evil. No hell.
But I know it can’t be sustained, because despite being in a place that looks like paradise, all I can think about is the loss.
Our baby’s gone. Nath’s gone. Dexter killed my mom. Lawrence must also be beside himself with grief. I’d thought I’d grieved enough already in my life, but the hits just keep coming. I feel like I’m slowly losing my mind. I need some facts. Something to stop all these thoughts of loss and pain that are barricading my brain from good sense. Something to show me we have some hope. “Tell me where we are,” I demand softly.
“No. Just enjoy it.”
69
JAMES
Fuck, I’m going to have to share eventually. But revealing where we are will lead to other questions I’m not sure I can answer yet. “How’s the sunshine on your face?”
I don’t like the long silence that comes. Neither do I like it when she starts to try and turn over, so I lock my arms down around her upper body, mindful of her cast and cannula. Even broken, she’s difficult. “James,” she says, her voice threatening.
“Stay still. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I’m fucking fine.”
Anger. She’s full of it, and I know my evasiveness is only a small factor. I close my eyes and search for calm, try to push back my own fury. Fury with myself, because while trying to tame the demons in us, I’ve created more. “We’re at Danny Black’s mansion,” I say quietly, and she stills.
“What?” she whispers. “Why the hell are we at a dead mafia boss’s home?”
“Because I can’t do what I need to do while looking after you.”
“I don’t need looking after,” she says, tensing, like she’s intending to move. She jerks, not intentionally, but in pain, and the line in her arm pops out, blood starting to piss everywhere.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, slipping out from behind her and crouching by the lounger, taking a towel from the table and applying pressure on the inside of her elbow. She stares at the towel, her breathing labored. “Just give in, Beau,” I say, looking up at her. “You have to give in and let me help you.” A fat teardrop slips off her cheek and splashes onto the towel. “Stop trying to be strong. You don’t need to be.” I reach for her face and wipe under her eyes. “I’ve got this,” I assure her. “And once it’s done, we go wherever you want to go.”
She looks up at me, and I fucking hate the sadness I see. Not anger. Not need. It’s pure, heavy sadness. “Will it ever be done?” she asks. “Do you know who The Bear is? Where Dexter is? You could spend years chasing your tail.”
“You don’t want this to end?”
“Yes. End it now. Let’s just go. Me and you and . . .” Her words fade off and her hand lands on her stomach. And our baby.
Fuck.
“Do you want to spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders? Worrying about me. People know who I am, Beau. They know James Kelly is The Enigma. I have to end this.”
She swallows, her eyes dropping. She knows. And she has to accept. “Is that why I’m here? Protection while you go on a mercy mission? What if you don’t come back?” she asks, looking up at me. More sadness. “Then what happens to me?”
“He’ll come back,” a voice from behind me says, and every muscle I possess firms up as I look at Beau. She’s frowning through her tears, her neck craning to see past me. I don’t need to look. His British accent tells me everything I need to know. Not to mention the thick, deadly air that’s arrived.
Beau’s jaw drops, her eyes expanding. She knows who she’s looking at. I squeeze her hand, take a breath, and rise to my feet, slowly turning to face him.
The Brit.
His impassive expression doesn’t crack, the scar on his face silver, his skin tan, his eyes sharp. He turns his suited form slowly and leans on the railings, looking out over his gardens. “I think we need to have a little chat,” he says quietly, slipping a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.
I knew. I slowly put the puzzle together with the scrap pieces unwittingly thrown my way, and yet still, seeing him in the flesh, I’m surprised.
Surprised he’s here. Surprised he’s revealed himself to me.
I turn to Beau, who literally looks like she’s seen a ghost, and lean down to help her up. She comes with ease, and I’m grateful, despite knowing her compliance is fueled solely by shock and not willingness. “Here, hold this,” I say, picking up the metal stand and placing it in her hand. She grips it, eyes still on Danny Black behind me, and I scoop her up and carry her back into the bedroom, laying her on the bed. She looks at me in question. “I’ve got this,” I say again, pushing my lips to hers.
I make sure her arm has stopped bleeding before I text Otto to get Doc up here. Then I leave her, heading back out onto the terrace, pulling the door closed behind me. “How is she?” he asks, exhaling a plume of smoke.
“Difficult.”
His scar dents slightly, the sign of a small smile. “I get it. Smoke?”
“I’m trying to quit.”
He pushes from the balustrade and flicks his cigarette butt away. “Me too,” he mutters, his hand coming out, extending toward me. “Danny Black.”
Like he needed to introduce himself. “James Kelly.”
His smile breaks. “I prefer The Enigma.”
“He’ll soon be dead.”
He laughs under his breath. “Take it from me, not even death gets you away from this world.” He motions to a chair and takes one himself on the other terrace. “Talk to me.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know who you are, where you came from, and how you know The Bear knows I’m alive. Because I’ve no interest in being resurrected unless I have to be.” The side of his finger brushes across his Cupid’s bow, his eyes watchful. “I have a wife. My chances of survival are zero if I have to go home to St. Lucia and tell her we’re coming back to Miami.”
The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2 Page 41
