James.
I got what I asked for.
Have you, though, Beau?
I shoot up, startled, water splashing everywhere, my breathing shot. I’m freezing and feel incredibly stiff. Reaching across to the vanity unit, I grab my cell. Midnight. I glance around my bathroom as I drop it, bewildered, my eyes heavy with tiredness.
I need to get out.
Lying back, I plunge my head under the water, enduring the cold for a little longer to wash my hair. “Jesus,” I gasp, my teeth chattering, my skin riddled with goosebumps. I lift out of the water as soon as the suds are rinsed from my hair and grab a towel, wrapping it tightly around my chilly form.
As I’m wiping my eye makeup off with a cleansing cloth in the mirror, my cell rings and my hand lowers slowly from my face as I see the screen. It’s past midnight. I breath in deeply, taking his call. I don’t speak. But he does.
“Hi,” he says, low and gravelly. “It’s me.”
I look at myself in the mirror. I’m smiling. “It’s late.”
“And you’re awake. Why?”
I can’t tell him that I fell asleep in the tub and fantasized about him. It sounds as sappy as it is, and though I don’t know much about James, sappy he’s not. “I don’t sleep well,” I admit.
“Me neither.”
“Why?”
“Too much on my mind.”
“Like?”
“Many things,” he replies as I lower to the edge of the tub. “One of those things today is you.”
Today. Perhaps not tomorrow or the next day. Just today. “Why?” I ask.
“Because I never imagined I would meet someone as fucked up as me,” he says honestly. “And yet here I am, living the dream.”
It’s probably inappropriate, but I laugh to myself. He’s being straightforward, and I appreciate it. I’m glad he’s confirmed he’s fucked up, because I was silently beating myself up about reaching that conclusion. His kink shouldn’t make him fucked up. His scar shouldn’t either. But his broodiness and apparent lack of emotion certainly pointed to it. “Why are you fucked up, James?”
“Maybe you’ll find out in time. And perhaps in time you’ll feel comfortable enough to share your demons with me.”
My eyes dart across my bare knees. In time. How much time is that? “Maybe,” I murmur, quite certain that all the time in the world wouldn’t be enough for me to be comfortable.
“But in the meantime,” he continues, his voice rough, “let’s just carry on dodging our reality.”
“Isn’t it unhealthy to bury your head?”
“What’s the alternative?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. I’ve done therapy, seen shrink after shrink, taken medication, become a zombie because of it. Nothing worked. Nothing saved me from myself.
“Or maybe we just accept it,” he says.
“I accepted it long ago.”
“Me too.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?” I ask, a bit bemused.
“Because I wanted to hear your voice.”
I recoil, so much so, I nearly fall back into the bath. That just doesn’t sound like something James would say, and I’m thrown by it. His voice has been like ice—brittle, angry, cold. Arousing. He has elicited so many different responses from me. But I can’t deny, hearing his voice is settling. Because I wanted to hear your voice. Like I needed to hear his.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, probably sensing that I don’t know what to say to that.
“I feel fine.”
“Did you use the oil and cream I gave you?”
“Do you give a recovery package to every woman you fuck?” I get up and go to the mirror, placing my cell on loudspeaker and setting it behind the faucet. I take the cream and squeeze a little onto each wrist.
“No.”
“Then why me?” I ask, starting to rub it into the angry welts.
“It’s more for my benefit than yours.”
“Why?”
“To ease my guilt for hurting you.”
“Why would you feel guilty?” I ask, my broken skin seeming to get redder with each word he speaks. “I’m a grown woman, James. I knew what I was getting myself into.” That’s a complete and utter lie. I had no idea of the places James could take me to. No idea at all. But I do now. And, God, I want to go there again.
“Beau,” he breathes. “You have no clue what you’re getting yourself into.”
My massaging fingers falter, my mind struggling for how to respond. He keeps alluding to this. It’s like he needs to share something but can’t. “Then tell me.”
There’s a brief silence before he speaks again. “Sleep well.” He hangs up, and I stare at myself in the mirror for an eternity, coming to terms with the fact that I’m as much in the dark about him as he is about me. Treading murky waters.
But will I drown in them?
Or just drown in James?
19
JAMES
She’s home. That eases me, but I know I’d feel a fuck load better if she was in my bed. I place my mobile down and try to focus on the spreadsheet Michelle’s sent over. I can’t focus. Not on anything, and that’s fucking dangerous. I click out of my current screen and pull up Google. Type in a name.
The results show me a good-looking guy, early thirties, well built. Oliver Burrows.
I sit back and study him, for the first time in my life considering killing a man for reasons less than worthy.
He wants Beau back.
And if he doesn’t stop pursuing her, I can’t promise I won’t end him.
I snap my laptop closed as Otto strolls in, Goldie on his tail. “You’re gonna get a call,” he says, slumping down in a chair and helping himself to the remote control on my desk. He aims it at the screens and pulls up ABC News. A reporter is standing outside the scrapyard on the docks, a swarm of police cars and forensic vans behind her.
“It made the news,” I muse.
“The owner clearly has dollar signs in his eyes,” Goldie says, joining Otto. A phone rings, and all our eyes fall to the top drawer of my desk. My skin prickles as I slowly reach for the handle and calmly pull it open, swiping up the ringing phone, clicking to answer and putting it on loudspeaker. I rest it on my desk. “Your men are dropping like flies,” I say quietly.
“Who the fuck are you?” he breathes, and I smile.
“You sound agitated.” Well and truly pissed, actually. His nifty voice distorter can’t disguise that.
“You’re hindering my business activities.”
“Maybe you should move out of Miami,” I say, kicking my feet up on the desk. “I hear Hell is nice at this time of year.” Translated: you’re a dead man.
“Fuck you. This ends now.”
I smile. “Is the big bad bear afraid?” Most definitely not. But certainly pissed off. Apparently, he saw the demise of The Brit as an opportunity. Thought he could swoop on in and mop up in Miami. It was rich pickings. The Russians out. The Romanians out. The Brit out.
Shame The Enigma is in.
“I will find out who you are.” His words are a threat, and I roll my eyes.