My forehead becomes heavy, and I grab the lever on the door and wind down the window. “Just fucking,” I reiterate, whether that be for me or him.
“Just fucking, Beau.” He strides off, and with those few words exchanged, James knows I’m not only going to the opera with him because I’m curious. I’m going because . . .
“Oh God,” I murmur, slamming Dolly into reverse and pulling out of the space. “No, Beau.”
I cannot develop feelings for a man.
Especially a man like James.
Which is what? What is James like? Apart from brooding and sexy and a huge fucking comfort?
An enigma. He’s an enigma.
And I want him to stay that way.
30
JAMES
I give Otto the nod when I pass his car, and he pulls out immediately, tailing Beau out of the car park. I get into my Range Rover and stare at the wheel, shellshocked. Not only because Beau might have just unwittingly shared something, but because I am getting wholly obsessed with her. Just fucking. I close my eyes and breathe out. I see me. All those years ago, it’s me. Lost. No purpose. No outlet. I’m giving her an outlet. Not answers, but an outlet.
“Fuck.” My phone rings, and I answer to Goldie.
“The exchange is arranged for tomorrow evening at South Beach,” she says. “A case will be left between two beach chairs. Look for yellow towels.”
“Sounds clean and simple, huh?”
“I thought the same.”
And nothing is ever that clean and simple in my world. I start my car and pull out of the car park fast. “I have a new name for you to search.”
“What?”
“Dolly Daydream.”
She laughs, and I don’t blame her. “Are you kidding? It sounds like a porn star.”
“Not quite.”
“Then what?”
Why all the questions? Fuck me, since I met Beau, it’s all I’m getting. Question after fucking question. “You’re pissing me off a lot lately, did you know that?”
“Fuck off.” She hangs up, and I clench the steering wheel tightly, anger brewing. Because for the first time in forever, I wish I didn’t have to kill a man tonight. And such a perverse headspace is more dangerous than my need to continue my never-ending killing spree.
31
BEAU
As I unload the groceries in the kitchen, I try to pluck up the courage to find Lawrence and claim back the beautiful black lace gown. He’s going to be devastated, and not only because he loves the gown. I put the milk in the fridge and face the door to the hallway, taking a few steps toward it. I can do this. Play it down. It’s no big deal.
I’m a joke.
I pace to the bottom of the stairs in assertive strides and take the first step.
That’s as far as I get.
I hear a door open, followed by a breathless sigh, and then Lawrence appears at the top of the stairs.
As Zinnea.
In the dress.
Shit.
“Isn’t it a showstopper?” she sings, picking up the bottom and flouncing down the stairs. “My God, I’ll be the talk of the circuit. I look lethal!”
I move aside to let her pass, my heart sinking. “Gorgeous,” I murmur, just as Dexter comes through the front door in his uniform.
His face is a picture. “Wow,” he blurts, and Zinnea squeals.
“I know!” She breezes to the other end of the hallway where the floor-length mirror hangs by the kitchen door, swishing the skirt of the dress dramatically like she could have just walked onto the stage. “I’ll wear it tonight.” She turns around and inspects the back. “It’s like it was made for me.”
My shoulders drop, my whole being sagging. What the hell am I going to do? I can’t break her heart, and I have absolutely no opera-worthy dresses. “It’s uncanny.” I smile tightly, playing it cool, while mentally carving out a plan. It involves an emergency dash to the Midtown shops. On a Saturday afternoon. I start to sweat. And the shakes take hold. And my breathing goes to shit. I can feel the panic attack looming, ready to trap me in its claws and bring me down a peg or two.
I walk to the kitchen, my legs like lead, and start yanking open drawers, searching for where Dexter might hide those paper bags these days.
“Here.” One appears in front of me, and I grab it, scrunching it around my mouth and taking long, deep breaths as I find a chair and flop into it.
“Well,” Zinnea says, sitting opposite me and taking my hand. I look at her over the ballooning bag. “When I said I look lethal, I wasn’t wrong, eh?”
I shake my head, feeling so incredibly beaten. I did the diner, which was nothing compared to Walmart. But I only survived the store because of James. I’ll do the opera—again only because of James. And then what? When there is no James? I pull the bag away. “I need that dress back,” I tell her calmly. I don’t know what happens beyond this minute, so trying to figure out tomorrow or next week is a waste of time and energy. Today is now. I have to do what I can and hope I can keep up the momentum when James inevitably isn’t around anymore.
Zinnea’s shoulders push back, her palm resting on the intricately detailed lace covering her chest. She looks horrified. “Oh.” She clears her throat, and I peek at Dexter, who’s holding back an epic grin of both amusement and delight as he pulls the belt out of his blue pants. “And may I ask why?”
“You know why,” I counter quietly, hoping she’s not going to force me into details.
“That man.”
I place the bag down and draw in some courage with air. That man was the only reason I made it around the store at a peak time today. That man is the only reason I haven’t thought nonstop about the letter I received denying me a chance of justice. That man is a walking, talking mystery, and he could be the only reason I make it through the latest shitty news about Mom’s death. I won’t be sharing my earlier memory of the conversation I had with Mom. Not until I know if it’s something worth sharing, anyway. “His name’s James,” I say, giving Zinnea my eyes.
“I thought you said it’s not sustainable.”
“It’s not.”
“But if he’s helping her now, what’s the harm?” Dexter pipes up, joining us at the table. He reaches for my hand and squeezes, and I cast him a surprised look.
What’s the harm? It’s a loaded question with endless answers. I don’t know what the harm is, but I do if I don’t see him again. Which makes this all very easy, really. “I’m going to an opera with him.”
“What?”
“It’s just opera.”
“To everyone else it’s opera,” Zinnea says over a laugh. “To you, it’s hell on earth.”
“Not with James.”
She recoils, flicking worried eyes at Dexter. And then those worried eyes fall into the realms of sadness. “I’ve offered to take you to many places.”
Dexter lets out a bark of laughter, and both Zinnea and I jump. “But not to heaven, right, Beau?” He gets up, his eyebrows rising with him, and for the first time since I can remember, I blush a little, evading their eyes.