Otto’s laugh and Goldie’s sympathetic smile don’t bode well.
“Over my dead body,” James grunts, swinging the door open and getting out. I watch as he looks up at the house, pulling his T-shirt out the back of his jeans.
Concealing his gun.
I hop out and join him on the sidewalk. “You don’t need that.”
“Don’t tell me what I need, Beau.” His dismissal riles me, and then he further insults me by walking away. “Wait in the car.”
He’s not fucking real. I go after him, and when he reaches the door, I muscle past him and plaster my back against it, craning my neck to look him in the eye. “I will handle this.” I haven’t come here to argue, and the hostility pouring off James is a recipe for exactly that. An argument. “I’ll get the champagne and we’ll leave.”
“And your passport and some clothes.”
“Fine.” I turn to the door, pushing it open slowly, listening. If I’m lucky, Lawrence is out shopping and Dexter is on shift.
I’m not lucky.
Both appear in the kitchen doorway, Lawrence with puffy red eyes and Dexter looking utterly worn out. “I’m just collecting a few things,” I say, motioning toward the stairs.
“You’re moving out?” Lawrence blurts, his lip wobbling again as he backs up into the kitchen and lowers to a chair.
Moving out? I wish I was only moving out. I turn to James. “Give me a minute,” I plead, wishing he’d lose the angry lines on his face. He doesn’t respond, and I can see he won’t. He’s not moving.
I turn and go to the kitchen, passing Dexter on a small smile and settling down next to Lawrence, taking his hand. I can’t leave him on bad terms. “I’m okay.”
“Okay? My God, Beau, you are far from okay.” He squeezes my hand, his hold begging.
“I’ll make coffee.” Dexter takes the coffee jug and empties the old filter, as James comes to the threshold, standing in the doorway. I motion for him to take a seat. He shakes his head.
“We can help you,” Lawrence says, talking as if James isn’t here.
“I don’t need help.”
His bottom lip slips between his teeth, and he gnaws on it, assessing me. Disagreeing with me. “You’re throwing everything away, and for what?”
Freedom. Peace. A life I’d long accepted I’d lost. But Lawrence would never understand, and there is only so much I can share, which makes convincing him harder. Or, actually, easier. I don’t think anyone could understand James and me. Only us. It kills me over and over, but I accept defeat and move my hand out of Lawrence’s. I’m fighting a losing battle. And James is fighting a winning one.
I hope.
I have to be sensible with my time—it’s not on our side, and sitting here attempting to break Lawrence down is wasting it. I give him a small, sad smile, a smile that tells him I’m hurting, and start to stand. I only manage to lift my ass off the chair a few inches when the door from the yard flies open, ricocheting off the wall with a bang.
Ollie appears.
Armed.
His weapon pointed at James behind me.
I fall back to the chair, Lawrence cries out, and Dexter drops the coffee pot. It smashes on the counter, the sound of breaking glass echoing around the kitchen. “Ollie?” I whisper, taking him in, noting his distressed state. He’s . . . edgy. Sweaty. Shaky.
“Stay where you are,” he says, his voice shaky too, as he moves farther into the kitchen, his eyes laser beams on James behind me. I look over my shoulder slowly, wary to make any sudden movements, keeping as calm as possible. It’s a difficult task when my insides are in chaos—my heart pounding, my lungs shrinking, my stomach turning.
James is still and steady in the doorway, his focus unmoving. “Put the gun down,” he warns Ollie, only his mouth moving.
“Shut up.” He approaches James, edging closer warily, jerking the gun in gesture for James to raise his hands.
Wisely, James slowly lifts his arms, calm and collected, but I can see the monsters swirling in his eyes.
“Ollie, what on earth?” Lawrence breathes, and I slowly and blindly reach for his arm, settling him, telling him to be calm.
Ollie proceeds to pat at James’s torso, feeling around his back while holding the gun to his chest. He pulls James’s gun free from his jeans and tucks it in his own trousers, and the whole time, I’m waiting, tense, for James to make his move. Because he could. One swift, meticulous move could have Ollie disarmed and on the floor before I could draw another breath. Except he remains a statue. He lets Ollie take his gun.
And it hits me.
If not Nath, then who?
Ollie.
Oh my God.
I stand, shocked, and James’s eyes turn onto me, silently warning me away, but if anyone can talk some sense into Ollie, it’s me. I have to try. He looks so volatile. He looks ready to fire that gun. “Ollie, look at me,” I order gently.
“Beau,” James grates, his hands still in the air. “Sit the fuck down.”
“Ollie, think about this,” I plead.
“Beau, don’t make me tell you again.”
“Ollie,” I go on, ignoring him. “Be wise.”
“Beau!” James barks, and I flinch, the aggression and anger in him shocking me. “Sit. Down.”
I feel Lawrence’s hand take mine and pull, but I resist, unable and unwilling to let what’s inevitably going to happen play out. “Ollie—”
“Do you hear how he talks to her?” Ollie asks over a salacious laugh.
“I want her out of the firing line.” James flicks his eyes to mine, and I see something in them. Something I haven’t seen before. Fear. And it makes me slowly lower to the chair.
“The gun’s aimed at you.” Ollie’s grip flexes around the handle. I’ve seen him do that before when we took target practice together. Just a few seconds before he’d fire, he’d adjust his hold a fraction. My heartbeats accelerate. “Did you think I’d stand back and let you ruin her?” he asks James. “I don’t know who you are or—”
James moves so fast, his big body is a blur, and Ollie is quickly disarmed, flying back into the counter. James reaches for his shoulder, pulling another gun, and I hear the safety disengage before he swiftly has his arms braced, the gun aimed.
But not at Ollie, who’s unconscious on the floor, knocked out.
I slowly turn on the chair and find Dexter with his hands up in surrender.
My mind explodes. “James?” I question quietly, as Lawrence jumps up and shrieks. “James, what are you doing?”
He says nothing, leaving my head swinging back and forth between him and Dexter, who remains still and quiet.
“James! For fuck’s sake, talk!” I grab Lawrence’s hand and yank him back down to the chair as James lowers to his haunches and collects Ollie’s gun from the floor. He rises, engaging the safety, and comes to me, but his eyes never leave Dexter.
“Take it,” he orders me, and I do because I don’t know what else to do except listen to him. Trust him. I release the safety again.
“What’s going on?” Dexter asks, still backed up in the corner, his eyes darting around the room, looking for anyone to enlighten him. “What is this madness?”