I forget.
Just for a moment. Just for now.
I lose myself, cutting in around the remaining spots, working my way closer to the door, not bothering to get down from the ladder to move it, but simply shifting my weight to cock it onto one leg and effectively walking it across the room, holding the ladder with one hand and the paint and brush in the other. The tracks shuffle, each one like it could have been perfectly selected to consume my senses.
By the time I’ve made it to the other side of the room to the door, I’m forced to get off the ladder to get to the final spotlight. I push the door closed, negotiating the ladder to sit square in front of it, and climb back up.
My brush doesn’t even make it to the ceiling again. The door flies open, smacking the side of my ladder. “Fuck!” I yell, not able to hear myself, wobbling precariously, trying to regain my balance. The can of paint topples, and I toss the brush aside to free a hand, wedging it into the ceiling above me in an attempt to hold myself in place. But the ladder’s already tilted too far, and before I can even think to plan my fall, I’m crashing down, the ground growing closer rapidly. I hit the floor with force.
The music is loud.
But I still hear the sound of my wrist cracking.
And the sharp flash of pain confirms it.
I hiss, and, like an idiot, push my weight into my hands on the floor to sit up, disorientated and dazed, creating more pain. “Fucking hell,” I cry, grabbing my wrist and applying pressure. I blink, forcing back the black mist that’s creeping into the sides of my vision. Shit, I think I’m going to faint.
James appears before me, crouching, panic emblazoned across his face. His mouth moves fast, and I squint, unable to figure out why I can’t hear him. The music. I reach up to my ears with my good hand in turn, pulling out the buds. He watches, confused.
And then he’s not confused. He’s angry. “For fuck’s sake, Beau,” he yells, stressed. I flinch. “I cannot believe you went up a ladder behind a fucking door.”
“Okay,” I yell. “Stop shouting at me.” I look at my wrist and cringe. Busted. “I think it’s broken.”
“No fucking shit.” He kneels and gathers me up, carrying me to his desk and setting me on the glass. “Let me see.” He takes my arm gently, and after he’s inspected it, I see the guilt that’s been masked by rage shift to the front of his emotions. “Fuck,” he whispers, his expression pained. “God damn it, Beau.”
“It’s my fault,” I say, trying to ease him. I won’t tell him why I was up the ladder. Or why the music was blasting so I couldn’t hear my thoughts. Now, as I look at James, all I can see is that shell casing.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
“No.”
“Adrenalin,” he concludes. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
I press my lips together, forcing my confession back. “It’s fine.”
He laughs, though it is not with humor. “Shut up,” he snaps, pulling his cell out of his pocket. He makes a call on loudspeaker. “I need you to take us to A&E. Beau’s broken her wrist.”
“You two are quite in the wars today, huh?” Goldie says, and her words make me take in James’s nose. It’s definitely swollen.
“We’ll meet you downstairs.” He helps me down from the desk. “Can you walk?” He takes in my clothes. “Are those my shorts?” He lifts my T-shirt, revealing the bunched material where I’ve rolled them so they’d cling to my waist.
I shrug. Why’s there a shell casing in your dressing room? “I needed to paint.” I shouldn’t have said that. “To finish.” I look away, avoiding his immediate worried expression. “I needed to finish the job.”
“I’m so pissed off with you,” he mumbles, pulling his T-shirt up over his head and ripping it clean down the middle. A few folds and knots later, he’s putting it over my head, gently resting my arm in his makeshift sling.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask, and he falters, his eyes remaining on his task.
“Boy Scouts,” he says, bracing a hand on the edge of his desk on either side of my thighs. “What were you thinking?” He leans in, his head tilted, his expression annoyed.
I wasn’t thinking. That’s the whole fucking point, and yet I can’t share that with James. “It was an accident.”
“This body,” he whispers, his tone strained, his palm resting on my throat and dragging down my front, “is delicate. It’s delicate, it’s precious, and it’s fucking mine, Beau Hayley.” He gives me a look that dares me to question him, as I swallow down my surprise. “All I ask is that you be careful with it.”
“You’re annoyed with me,” I murmur, my eyes falling down his bare chest to his stomach.
He pushes away, standing tall, his jaw pulsing. “Annoyed is an understatement.”
My jaw starts to match his, twitching. “Are you done scorning me like a child?” I ask, slipping down and passing his imposing frame, keen to escape his annoyance and the vision of him bare-chested. Don’t lose your head, Beau.
I make it only a few paces before I get a severe head rush. “Shit.” I grapple for the wall, searching for something to cling on to, as the mist I managed to push back steams forward with a vengeance. “I’m going to pass out,” I say out loud, warning him, needing him to catch me, as I start plummeting forward, my body becoming light and cold, my arms coming up instinctively to save myself.
“Beau!”
That’s the last I hear. And James’s fierce, panic-stricken face is the last thing I see.
Along with a shell casing.
48
JAMES
“Goldie!” I bellow, catching Beau just before she hits the deck. “Fucking hell.” I get her onto her side, working around her arm, putting her into the recovery position. Goldie crashes into my office, finding us on the floor. “She’s passed out,” I say, assessing every inch of her, fraught with concern.
“Jesus, you two are a liability together,” she grumbles, joining me on the floor. “What happened to her arm?”
“She was up a ladder behind the fucking door.” I still can’t believe she did that. Fury and worry start to fight for poll position, and Beau starts mumbling nonsensical words.
“She’s coming around.”
I stroke at her cheeks. “Beau, baby, come on. Open your eyes.” I tap at her face, and she flinches, her eyes blinking open. “There you are,” I whisper, dipping and nuzzling her cheek.
“Bullet,” she rasps, and I freeze, letting that one word sink past the fog of my brain. I pull away slowly, and she looks me square in the eye. Then her head rolls, along with her eyes, and she passes out again.
“Did I hear that right?” Goldie asks, going to her phone, undoubtedly checking the CCTV. Then she stalks into my dressing room, reappearing seconds later holding up a shell casing. “Fancy leaving this around for her to find.”
I say nothing, gathering Beau into my arms and carrying her out of my office. “Get me a T-shirt and call her uncle.” It’s the right thing to do, though I don’t relish the thought of facing the condemnation. Because that’s what it’ll be. A trial. A judgment.