I rip my eyes away from the letter on the table and look at him. I hate the doubt lingering on his face. The fear. I move past him and slide it from the table with a shaky hand. I work the seal open. Take a deep breath and pull out the paper, unfolding it.
I read the first line.
It’s all I need to see.
I loosen my grip and the paper floats down to my feet.
“Beau?” Lawrence rushes to collect it, scanning it as I stare out of the kitchen window into the darkness.
“They’re not re-opening the investigation.” I turn and walk out in a haze of devastation, feeling crushed, desolate, but most of all angry. So fucking angry.
“Beau!” Lawrence yells, coming after me. “Beau, wait.” He seizes me, swinging me around to face him more violently than is in him. “Where are you going?” he asks, frantic. “Stay here. Stay with us. We’ll meditate. We’ll talk. I’ll help you.”
I don’t need meditation. I don’t need to talk. I don’t need pills or therapy or sectioning. “I’m going out.” I pull myself free and open the door.
“To him?” he asks, his panic rising. “To the man who did that to you?”
I look at my hand on the door handle.
“Who is he?” he goes on. “Who did that to you?”
“He did nothing I didn’t ask for.” I walk away, hearing my uncle crying my name repeatedly, and I look back as I reach the bottom of the pathway, finding Dexter has intervened, pulling Lawrence back, trying to calm him.
“Let her go,” he soothes.
I’ve never seen disappointment on my uncle’s face.
Until now.
21
JAMES
“She’s heading toward your apartment,” Otto says as I dry off after my shower.
I hang up and stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t know what I hoped to achieve in the car park of Walmart. Seeing her in the arms of her ex clouded my purpose in that moment. I aimed to stall her. To delay her finding out that her appeal had been denied. To delay the repercussions and to stall her grief, even if only for one more day. All I did instead was discover I have a jealous streak, and I’m shaken by that. But seeing another man soothe her?
Rage. Rage spiked by jealousy, and that’s fucking new.
I reach for my jaw and rub a hand across my scratchy face, tilting my head back, but I keep my eyes on the stranger in the mirror. The face of a man I no longer recognize. He’s distorted by grief. By a relentless need for vengeance. And by a heavy, misplaced sense of responsibility. He could cure Beau Hayley. He could also end her.
This isn’t a case of fix me. I’m beyond that. Yet, scarily, I’ve discovered Beau certainly eases the torment. Masks the pain. She also injects my black soul with fragments of goodness, purpose beyond my only purpose. And perhaps the growing guilt I’m feeling, because I’m the reason she’s lost. I’m the reason she’s grieving her mother. I’m the reason Beau Hayley is so utterly damaged, both spiritually and physically. I can’t ignore the opportunity to redeem myself. Maybe give myself some light relief in more ways than one.
I pull on some boxers and go wait for her.
22
BEAU
When I walk into the lobby of James’s building, Goldie is sitting at the reception with her legs up on the desk, a can of soda in her hand. She glances up from the computer screen, says nothing, and gets up, walking to the elevator and punching in the code needed to take me to the very top. To James.
I enter, avoiding her eyes, and the doors close, the whirling of the mechanisms kicking in. I ride up, questioning for the first time if James knew I’d come. Goldie’s reaction to my arrival suggests so. And I hate that. I hate that he was right.
The doors open, and my eyes find him immediately, sitting at the bottom of the stairs in his boxers. My question is answered. He knew.
But he doesn’t know why I’m here.
I step out as he rises to his feet, unfolding every glorious inch of his body. There he is. My path to oblivion. His hair looks darker. His eyes lighter. His physique sharper. The air sizzles in the space between us, and I reach for the buttons of my shirt and start to unfasten them. His face remains impassive as he turns and starts taking the stairs, his steps measured and slow, his scarred back a beacon of ruin. I drop my shirt to the floor and follow him, reaching back to undo my bra, dropping it to the steps.
When I reach the top, I kick my shoes off and start on the fly of my jeans, watching as he bypasses his bedroom and goes into his office. I don’t question it, my feet naturally following him. I arrive at the open door, finding him in his chair, reclined back. Waiting for me. And then suddenly we’re joined by music, and the track is no accident. I stare at him, struggling for air, as Labyrinth’s Still Don’t Know my Name plays.
I don’t want to know his name. I don’t care. I just want this. Him. These sensations.
He says nothing, scanning my face. Trying to read my emotions? Trying to figure out why I came when I refused him not so long ago? His eyes journey the length of my legs, and I take his silent instruction, pushing my jeans down my thighs, catching valuable air as I do, loading up, preparing. It’s a pointless endeavor. Nothing will prepare me.
His sharp stare lands at the juncture of my thighs and stays there as I remove my panties. He pushes back in his chair a little, and once they’re on the floor at my feet, I step out and wander around his impressive desk to him. He looks up at me, watching me closely as his hands find my hips and guide me until I’m standing in between his legs. He leans forward and pushes his mouth onto my stomach, and my body folds in pleasure, my hands finding his shoulders, my fingers feeling the start of the scarred flesh of his back. Soft kisses are placed across my stomach, every inch of it, and I breathe in deeply, closing my eyes. He turns his face into my arm, licking the inside of my elbow, sending shivers surging through me. I look down at the back of his head, my hand finding his hair and stroking through the wet waves. I’m here. I was always going to be here, and he knew it. Was ready. Waiting.
He looks up at me, his hands sliding onto my ass. His stare is hard yet soft. Revealing yet disguising. Reaching for my arms, he inspects my wrists, smoothing over the welts softly with the pad of his thumb. His moves are so tender, and yet his expression remains hard. Contrasting. Confusing? No. I feel like I’m beginning to read him. Understand him. He needs this too. What I don’t understand is why.
He slowly encourages me to turn away from him and pulls me down to his lap. I rest against his chest, the back of my head settling on his shoulder, feeling his soft bristle against my cheek, his hardening cock behind his boxers pushing into my ass. He takes one of my legs and guides it up until my foot is wedged against the edge of his desk. He repeats with the other, and then places his palms on the insides of my thighs, pulling them apart so I’m spread wide open to the room. My arms curl back around our heads, and he turns his face into mine and kisses me softly. How he knows I need this moment of gentleness doesn’t escape me. I certainly didn’t expect it, not from this dark, complex man. The chemistry is electric, but I feel so incredibly calm. And yet the nerves between my legs are screaming, my flesh dripping.