I’ve worked my way through my glass by the time they get back, and as I watch Rose weave the tables, I notice the obvious flush of her cheeks, and Black behind her discreetly adjusting himself.
She sits beside me, flicking me a small smile. “I’m sorry, I needed to get that out of my system.”
“Which bit?” I ask without thought, the signs of her and her husband getting things out of their system splashed all over her face.
Danny chuckles. It’s quite cute for a killer. And James rubs across his Cupid’s bow, smiling mildly. It’s sexy for another cold-blooded killer. “Shall we order?” Rose says, picking up the menus and handing them out. “The oysters are divine.”
“Oysters?” I ask, taking my eyes to the choices. “I never know whether to suck, chew, or swallow.” I jump out of my skin when Danny and Rose collectively burst into fits of laughter, and I look at them, stunned. Confused. Quiet. “Did I say something funny?” I ask, as they calm, Danny sending his wife a fond smile, taking her hand on the table.
“It’s a private joke.” Rose wraps her hand around his fingers, looking across the table to James. “So what do I call you?” she asks. “James? Kellen?” A sip of her wine, her smile small. “The Enigma?”
James looks down, not answering, smiling, and I relish the sight of his hair flopping forward, his lashes fanning his cheeks. He’s saved by the waiter, not that he needed saving. He was never going to indulge her bold question. It’s fucking weird, though. Knowing people know who he is, which means, technically, he’s no longer The Enigma.
We all order and, oddly, the conversation flows. Not about murder or Miami, but about the island, what there is to do, where we should go.
As I sit back in my chair after our main meal, I watch James, fascinated to see him engaging, talking, smiling. This is so normal, it’s fucking with my head. Two couples having dinner. Chatting, laughing, eating. More than once, I catch James’s eye and he gives me a reassuring smile, either topping up my wine or taking my hand and squeezing. He knows what I’m thinking.
I’m thinking this could be our life. Just us. Here. Being normal. We’ve never had dinner in a restaurant together, let alone with another couple. Tomorrow we’ll go to the local store and pick up some groceries. Then check out the waterfalls across the island that Rose gushed about. James will go out with Danny on their jet skis. Rose and I, apparently, will chill on the terrace at their villa and have cocktails. No, I don’t need a friend. But maybe I want one. Maybe I want this all the time, and the longer I’m sitting here with these strangers, the more I can understand Rose’s earlier animosity. We’ve come here and disrupted her life. Disturbed her paradise, because that’s what this is. It’s paradise.
Killers in paradise.
“So you were a cop,” Rose says, pushing her chair out, glass in hand, and crossing one leg over the other.
“In a previous life, yes.” I look at James, wondering just how much he’s shared about me. About him. About us. His elbows are on the table, a tumbler hanging from his grasp as he swirls it slowly, staring at the liquid, refusing to look at me. I lean over the table to take a piece of bread, not so keen on talking about my previous life.
As I do, my sleeve rides up, and I freeze, feeling all eyes on the monster scar peeking out of the lovely cream dress. I press my lips together and retreat without the bread. The silence is horrific, and it’s in this moment I realize that not once throughout this dinner have I dreaded the conversation. Because it’s been mindless. Free. Easy. That feels like it’s changing now.
I take refuge in my wine, peeking up at James, shaking my head when I find him gazing at me with sorry eyes. Stop it!
Rose moves, and I frown when she lays her arm on the table. I see them immediately under the faint glow of the candlelight. Scars. Scars from many cuts. I move my eyes to hers, and she smiles. Then Danny’s arm appears on the table, and he pulls up his sleeve. I inhale at the sight of the monster slashes all over his tan skin and glance at him. He smirks, stretching the unsightly scar that runs from his eye to his lip.
Swallowing, I turn my attention to James. “I won’t remove my shirt,” he says quietly with an edge of irony in his tone. And what do I do? I laugh. I laugh so fucking hard, and everyone at the table joins me. I’ve never laughed about my injuries. What the hell is this madness? But Rose’s message is clear. As is Danny’s.
We’re more similar than we all probably want to be.
* * *
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so full. Full of food, full of drink, and absolutely full to the brim with love. I watch James, which I’ve done a lot throughout a surprisingly pleasant dinner after what was a rocky start. He looks so relaxed. Even more handsome. I want to keep him here. It’s getting easier to ignore the boiling desire for retaliation while we’re here being . . . normal. It’s like with the release of his true identity, some darkness has lifted too.
“Why don’t you and Rose go for a walk?” he says, turning into me and kissing my instant frown away.
“Yes, show Beau the ocean at sunset,” Danny adds, waving his arm for the waiter and ordering more drinks.
“I can see the ocean at sunset,” I say, looking past him to the ocean at sunset. Danny falters, flicking his eyes to James, who’s watching me closely. Silently. Warningly. The women are being dismissed so they can talk about all the ways they’re going to kill. There’s the end of my perfect dinner with my laid-back man. The darkness has resurfaced. The assassin is back. Although, what did I honestly expect? That a bit of sunshine and the magical sparkling ocean would strip James of the inner killer? No, I didn’t, but this evening has given me a glimpse of what life could be like for us, and as fast as I embraced the notion, it’s been robbed from me. I feel my teeth sink into the corner of my mouth, and I glance at Rose, gaging her reaction. She’s contemplative, smiling but through pursed lips.
I’m guessing any protests from us might be met with force. I’m guessing Rose has grasped this too. It’s why she’s so obviously biting her tongue.
I look at my wine glass, a little huff of laughter escaping. Get the little women out of the way so the boys can talk business. Has James forgotten that this is my war too? Resentment starts to burn a hole in my stomach. “I’m not pregnant anymore,” I say without thinking, turning a resolute stare onto him. “I’m no longer fragile, James. I’m not glass.” I regret the words the moment they’re spoken, my bitterness for the world, for our loss, speaking for me.
The look glued to me is undisputed rage. Rage mixed with a ton of hurt. “Do you think that escaped my notice?” he asks quietly, as if our company might not hear. I absorb his evident disgust. Take it all. I know I deserve it. “If you were still carrying my baby,” he hisses quietly, “you wouldn’t be drinking.” He takes the bottle and tops up my glass to the very top, making a point. “So drink up, Beau. Make the most of it.” He sits back, takes his vodka, and toasts the air. “Cheers, baby.” And downs the lot, gasps, steam virtually bursting from his ears. Slamming his tumbler down, he cracks his jaw, heaving like a wild beast in his seat. “Go for a walk, Beau,” he orders coldly and firmly.