11
BEAU
On Monday morning, I call Reg while I’m eating a mango and loading the washing machine to let him know I’ll be there soon to collect some things from Dolly.
With my hair pulled into a low, messy bun and my body appropriately dressed in ripped, paint-splattered jeans and a signature long-sleeved, oversized shirt, I leave the house feeling a puzzling mix of trepidation and anticipation. My hand reaches for my tummy of its own volition, rubbing soothing circles as I dip and weave through the forest that is our front yard.
I make it to the sidewalk with only a few snags on my clothes and come to a screaming halt when I’m confronted by a tall, formidable-looking woman in a masculine suit, her short blonde hair slickly tucked behind her ears. “Miss Hayley,” she says, her British accent strong, stoic as she motions to the Tesla behind her. I know my face must say what I’m thinking, and I’m thinking, who the hell are you?
“I work for Mr. Kelly.”
My eyebrows jump up so fast, I’m surprised they don’t detach from my face and fall to the ground at my feet. “I’m sorry?” I question.
Her impassive face remains blank. “Mr. Kelly instructed me to collect you and deliver you to his home.”
Deliver? What the fuck am I, a parcel? “And how does Mr. Kelly know where I’m to be collected from?” I ask, instinctively looking left and right.
“That I can’t answer.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
A small smile breaks the corners of her bare lips. “Both.” She sweeps her arm out toward the car again. “Shall we?”
I laugh, unable to stop myself. “You want me to get into that car with you when I have no idea who you are?” Did he send a woman because he thought it might make this less fucking weird?
“I work for Mr. Kelly.”
“That’s lovely, but I don’t even know Mr. Kelly.” Or what he fucking does. He could be a mass murderer for all I know.
She eyes me with curiosity, her lips still hovering on the verge of a smile. “No, but you will be getting to know him, yes?”
My shoulders straighten. What is that supposed to mean? I should ask, but, instead, like I’m working on autopilot, or idiocy, I step toward the car. For fuck’s sake, Beau. You’re a cop. This goes against everything I know and believe in. I quickly swallow. No, not a cop. I was a cop, and by casting my badge aside, it seems I’ve also cast aside my sense.
“My name is Goldie,” she says, opening the back door for me. “In case knowing my name makes you feel better about accepting the ride.”
“It doesn’t, but thanks,” I say, settling in the back seat. I’m stupid. Must be. And on that thought, as Goldie rounds the front of the car unfastening her black suit jacket, I send a quick text message to Nath, telling him to report me missing if I don’t contact him by this evening.
She slips into the driver’s seat. “I have instructions to take you to collect your equipment.” She looks up at the rearview mirror as I pull on my seatbelt.
“The old scrapyard by the docks,” I tell her. “I’ll guide you.”
“I know it,” she replies, pulling away.
“You do?” How could a pristine, suited woman driving a sparkly Tesla know of such a place? It’s dire, cars piled twenty high, old tires forming mountains, the stench of gas dripping in the air. And then there’s the landfill next door, which only adds to the ripe stench, turning it putrid. Every time I get into Reg’s truck, the smell hits me like a brick to the face.
Another glance in the mirror. “I do.”
I nod mildly. “Okay,” I say quietly, looking down at my cell when Nath replies.
Why? What are you doing?
I reply, adding a smiley face, just to ease his worry.
Going on an adventure :)
I click send and drop my cell into my lap, focusing on the woman in the seat before me. “What does Mr. James do?” I ask. She merely peeks up at the mirror on a small smile. “Okay. What do you do for Mr. James?” Another glance. No answer. “You’re not very talkative, are you, Goldie?”
“You seem like a smart woman, Miss Hayley.”
“Smart?” I question. “Then what am I doing in this car with you?”
“I was wondering that myself,” she says quietly, taking a left. My curiosity goes into record-breaking territory. But my fear? Where the fuck is that?
After collecting my painting gear from Reg, Goldie drives me to James’s apartment and has my equipment put onto a shiny gold trolly that wouldn’t look out of place in a five-star hotel. I don’t miss the wariness of the pierced, bearded guy who frequents the lobby as he eyes my paint-ridden equipment polluting the luggage trolley. He taps in a code, Goldie bids me farewell, and I ride up to James’s glass box with the guy in silence. I look up at him. Concierge? Security? There’s no rule book stating what a concierge should look like, but this dude here definitely doesn’t fit. So, security? Where’s his uniform?
He looks out the corner of his eye at me, obviously sensing me staring. And he smiles. It’s forced. A fake smile meant to assure me all is well. “What do you do for Mr. Kelly?” I ask.
Saved by the ding of the elevator arriving, he pushes the cart out, offloads my things a little heavy-handedly, as if he’s inconvenienced, and then leaves promptly before I can press him for an answer.
“Morning.” James appears at the top of the stairs, his fingers working the buttons of his shirt. His hair is wet. His facial hair the perfect length. He looks deadly gorgeous, even without a smile, and I find myself looking away, my chest thrumming with something I’m less than familiar with.
“Morning.” I turn my attention to my things, crouching to find what I need to get started. “Have you decided what color you want your walls?” Your two walls?
“White.”
I grab my pot of spackling, some drop cloths, and my filling knife. “And I assume the same for the ceiling?”
“Yes,” he answers. I hear the sound of his shoes meeting the stairs as he makes his way down, and with every step he gets closer, my body tenses more until his shoes are in my downcast vision. “Tea?”
“No, thanks.” I stand, a bit too abruptly, not appreciating just how close he is, and collide with his unfathomably rigid physique. “Shit,” I murmur, staggering a few paces, dropping my knife and spackling. He catches my arm and steadies me, and I look at his fingers gripping me over my shirt. Over my scar. It tingles, and I turn my eyes up to his, finding him staring down at me, his face straight. The atmosphere is thick. “How did you know where I live?”
He doesn’t answer, just stares at me, and I move back, out of his grip, rubbing at my arm. And I wait. Wait for an answer. Wait for a break in his expression. I get nothing—nothing except a laser stare that is so obviously meant to unease me.
“I should get on. Have a good day at work.” Doing whatever it is you do. What do you do? I dip, collect my tools, and move past him, my eyes wide, my heart in my throat.
Why?
Why does he make me feel like this?