She shakes her head, her eyes dropping like rocks to her feet. “We need to go.”
A horrible, awful feeling comes over me, and I step forward. “Rose?”
“Please, Beau, can we just go?”
“Tell me what’s going on,” I order calmly, feeling anything but.
I see her visibly swallow, building up the courage to spill whatever it is she knows. “I think Danny’s going to do something stupid.” She moves back, putting herself in the corridor.
Stupid. My brain feels like it has an electric shock, more memories coming to me. My eyes dart across the carpet at my bare feet, things slowly clicking together. “He said he’s taking you to St. Lucia today,” I tell her, looking up, not at all bothered if I’ve ruined a surprise. What the fuck is going on that Rose is clearly struggling to tell me? “James told me to pack.” I move forward, not meaning to appear threatening, but I’m struggling in the face of worry. Why would Danny and James go skiing the morning after the wedding? Of all the times, why this morning? And why am I only considering this now?
Nervous?
Should I be?
I inhale. I was referring to the wedding when I asked Danny if he was anxious. Making idol chitchat. But remembering his face now, the questioning, I think he thought there was more to my question. Did he misinterpret it as a red flag? A twisted warning?
It crashes into me like a tidal wave. He doesn’t trust James. I exhale, my heart clattering. “Has Danny set James up?” I ask, not giving her a chance to answer, my brain going into overdrive.
“Are you saying James was planning for you two to leave too?”
“He said it was nearly over.”
“So James could be setting Danny up?”
“Fuck!” I yell, running to the closet and grabbing some yoga pants and a sweater, attempting to rein in my temper as I fight my way into my clothes. I can’t blame Danny any more than Rose can blame James. They’re both determined men. He’s got a wife and two kids to protect. What do James and I have? And who is setting who up?
I race past Rose, still pulling my sweater down my body, my wet hair getting caught up in the neck. “Beau, wait,” she whisper-hisses behind me, but my sprinting legs don’t slow, carrying me down the stairs fast.
“Keys,” I say, scanning the foyer. “Where do they keep the keys?”
“What about your car?”
“I have no idea what James has done with the keys.” And Dolly would wake the whole of Miami up. Plus, I can’t guarantee she’d even start after so long sitting unused. I turn and see Rose nearly at the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t run,” I yell, watching her feet moving fast. Too fast. “Rose, don’t—”
“Shit!” she yelps, tripping over her own feet in her urgency. All I see is the solid marble floor. And for the first time, the signs of a small bump.
“Rose!”
She makes a grab for the handrail on a startled cry, and I shoot forward, my heart in my throat, catching her before she hits the deck. “Oh my God,” she gasps, grappling at my shoulders as she finds her feet again.
“What are you thinking?” I snap, helping her get steady.
“I—”
A door closes upstairs, and I dart my eyes past her, hearing the light pad of footsteps, someone coming to investigate the noise. “This way,” I whisper, pulling her along to the corridor that leads to Danny’s office, getting us out of sight. I position her by the wall, ensuring she’s stable before I release her and hold my finger to my lips in order for her to quiet, peeking around the wall to the top of the stairs. I find Uncle Lawrence—his natural hair a wild mess, his makeup still on, and his Flamingo kimono open and exposing his slender chest—sleepily looking around for the source of the noise. He looks as rough as I feel. “Go back to bed,” I whisper, willing him to return to his room so we can get out of here.
It’s only a few seconds before he wanders back to bed, although it feels like centuries. “Keys,” I whisper, turning to Rose. She looks a little pasty as she holds her stomach, and I know alcohol isn’t the cause. I take her hand and squeeze. “Rose, we need some car keys.”
She swallows and looks toward Danny’s office. I hurry down the corridor and push my way in, coming to an abrupt halt when I find Brad and Ringo on one of the couches, still suited, a couple of bottles of Scotch on the floor. I bite my lip and creep farther in, scanning Danny’s desk, rooting through his drawers. No keys anywhere. Damn it.
“Brad,” Rose whispers.
I look up and find her in the doorway, pointing to Brad’s comatose state on the couch. My eyes fall to the pocket of his pants, where a key fob is poking out. I pad over quietly, bending, reaching, my eyes jumping from his face to my target repeatedly. One little flick has the fob hitting the floor with a quiet thud. I swipe it up and hurry away, taking Rose’s hand as I pass and pulling her along. More noises emanate from upstairs when we reach the front door, the gruff, sleepy voices of the Vikings making my feet move quicker. I pull the door open, get Rose outside, and quietly close it behind us. The sun hits me like a brick to the face, and black spots hamper my vision as I rush to Brad’s car, which seems to be as far away as it could be.
I fling the door open, get one foot inside, and freeze, the sounds of groans coming from not too far away. “What’s that?” Rose asks, looking over the roof of the car at me.
“I don’t know, but we don’t have time to find—”
“Goldie?” she says, looking past me. I turn and find the bushes rustling, mixing with the groans, a flash of blonde hair breaking up the greenery. And then Goldie’s head appears, one hand clenching it. Any other time, the sight would be comical. Not now.
“Get in,” I order Rose, falling behind the wheel and starting the engine. “Quick, Rose!”
She drops into the passenger seat, craning her head to see out of my window as Goldie rises from the bushes, still in her lovely dress, sticks and leaves poking out everywhere. She clocks us, frowns, steps out, and I put my foot down, wheels spinning, no doubt waking up the rest of the house too. I smack the steering wheel in frustration, the gates coming into view. The closed gates. I take my foot of the gas, trying to slow to a more reasonable speed within the grounds of the house before the guy manning the gate hears us.
“There’s no way Bud will let us out.” Rose says what I’m thinking, just as he appears, putting his hand up in gesture as we approach in Brad’s car.
We’ll be fine if he opens the gates before he realizes it’s not Brad in the car. So I flash the headlights and sink into the seat, watching as he reaches inside the gatehouse. “Come on,” I say quietly, as daylight begins to seep through the two wooden panels of the gates.
“They’re opening,” Rose says, pulling the visor down.
My foot is itching to slam down on the gas, but I remain patient, the gatehouse and Bud getting closer, and as soon as I make eye contact with him, I slam on the gas, seeing him darting back to the gatehouse.
“The gates aren’t open enough,” Rose says as the car jars, the wing clipping the left-hand panel. “Shit!”
I yank the steering wheel to the right, and the car judders, skidding onto the road outside. Rose reaches up to the roof as I get the car under control, and we’re soon speeding away from the mansion.