He does a terrible job of concealing his surprise, and an even worse job of hiding his anger. “Fucked any women while their husbands watch lately?”
“Past life,” I hit back, unmoved, carrying on my way. “Burnt your wife’s hand on the toaster recently?”
“What the fuck?”
I smile as I pass through the café, seeing Leon showing the kid around. “J-Boss,” he sings. “This is Jerry. Jerry, this is J-Boss. Oh, and here’s D-Boss.” I look back and see Danny stalking out of the changing room, his face like thunder. “D-Boss, this is—”
“We’ve met,” Danny barks, making Leon and Jerry recoil. “The toaster was a point.”
“What about the stinger of a slap the night you met her?”
He’s getting progressively more wound up and, sick fuck that I am, I’m enjoying riling The Brit. “Another point.”
“Parading her around naked in front of your men?”
His mouth falls open. “I’m going to sew her fucking mouth shut.” His finger comes up. “That woman has caused me more damage than I’ll ever cause her.”
I slap his finger away. “Chill the fuck out,” I say over a laugh, watching as his scar gets deeper and deeper, his eyes colder. I note the clenching of his fists. The roll of his jaw. Leon and Jerry wisely step back, out of the danger zone. “And would you mind putting my razor back?” I add.
My final blow is the final straw, and he launches a right hook that nearly takes me off my feet. Jesus. “Go fuck yourself,” he yells. “Or burn yourself.”
Oh, he did not. I charge, tackling him around the waist, sending us crashing to the ground, our phones scattering along with the loose change in my pocket. I straddle his waist and punch him square on the jaw. “Fucking pussy,” he spits. “Rose hits harder than you.” He shoots up, taking me to my back, and we roll and squirm around on the floor, our flying fists out of control, only the odd one connecting.
“Phones!”
I still. I’m on my back, Danny’s palm’s around my throat, while my palm’s splayed and pushed into his face. The sound of two mobiles ringing fills the silence. In unison, we each give up and frantically search out our phones. I spot mine, Danny spots his, and we scramble on our hands and knees across the café floor, seizing them and answering.
I roll to my back. “Hey beautiful,” I puff, knackered.
“Hey, baby,” Danny chirps, landing next to me.
“Why are you panting?” Beau asks as I lick the corner of my bottom lip, recognizing the warm, coppery taste of blood. I check Danny, who has a tidy scuff on his cheekbone. “Just got in from the water.”
“Just got in from the water,” Danny mimics, turning his eyes onto me, grinning. “No, not yet. He’s being taken to the house.”
I punch his bicep and get up, going to the fridge and grabbing a water. “How’s your shopping trip?” Isn’t she coping? Is that why she’s calling, because she needs my voice to help her make it through the trauma?
“Struggling,” she admits.
“I’m on my way,” I say, heading out.
“No, wait. Zinnea needs this.”
I halt, listening to her, but I’m not happy about it. Zinnea needs this. “Want me to stay on the phone?”
“For now, yes. She’s full on. What have you said to her?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I shrug. “Don’t believe me then.”
Beau sighs. “What are you doing, anyway?”
“Just hanging out.”
She laughs lightly, and it does nothing to ebb my urge for her. “The Enigma and The Brit. Just hanging out?”
I look across to Danny, just as he reaches for his cheek and grimaces. He finds me across the café. Snarls. Then pulls his gun, aims at my head, and fires.
I duck, the bullet sailing past me and sinking into the wall. “James!” Beau yells, sounding frantic.
Yes, The Enigma and The Brit, just hanging out. “I’m fine,” I say, smiling. “Danny’s doing target practice. I think he needs some tips from you.”
I get the middle finger before he stomps out, Leon and Jerry moving aside hastily to let the raging beast through. He slams the door behind him, I laugh, and Leon puts his hand out to Jerry, smirking. “When can you start?”
16
BEAU
* * *
I hang up, taking my phone to my mouth, contemplative. “Is everything okay?” Zinnea asks, dropping a windchime into our cart.
I smile and inhale, ready to take on another aisle. “Yeah.” Deep breaths, deep breaths. I swallow, cautiously glancing around. The number of shoppers seems to be multiplying by the second. And it’s hot. Stifling. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
I need James.
Breathe.
I don’t need James.
Deep breaths.
Fuck, I need James.
My heart rate goes from stable to frantic in a few panicked crashes, and I hold the side of the cart, trying so hard to talk myself down. “I think I should wait in the car,” I say quietly, looking up at Zinnea. Her face. I feel like a total letdown. “Will you let Rose kn . . .” I pause, frowning, searching the vicinity. “Where’s Rose?”
“She went that way.” Zinnea points behind me. “Something about cleats for her son.”
I turn, searching for her, panicking now for another reason. No sign of Rose, but Tank is behind me, his gigantic frame hardly visible past the piles of soccer equipment loaded into Rose’s cart. “Why are you here?” I ask.
His searching eyes land on mine, his face furious. “I’m going to kill her,” he barks, stomping off.
Instinctively, I jog the other way. “Wait there,” I call back to Zinnea.
“Beau,” Fury yells, but I ignore his warning, turning a corner, then another, going up one aisle, down another. “Where the hell are you?” I say, my eyes scanning every nook and cranny as I pull up her number and call. It goes to voicemail, and I curse her ass to hell and back, running up and down aisle after aisle, hearing Tank and Fury yelling our names at the tops of their voices, neither bothered about the attention they’re attracting.
With my heart in my mouth, I push past people, dodge carts, calling her name. Nothing. I check every department. Every corner of the store, and when I’ve searched for ten minutes and found no sign of Rose, I finally relent and do what I’ve dreaded having to do.
Call Danny.
“Shit.” I cringe and hit his name, starting to make my way back to Zinnea. My mouth is dry, my throat sore, my chest tight.
He answers quickly. “Beau?”
“Hey.” I close my eyes briefly and inhale some bravery.
“You okay?”
“Yeah . . . um . . . Rose is . . .” I fade off, halting in my tracks when I spot her up ahead. Air leaves my lungs faster and louder than I planned, my palm slapping my breastbone.
“Rose is what?” he asks, sounding ominous.
“Fine,” I squeak, quickly—and probably stupidly—hanging up. I pace toward her static form. “Jesus, Rose, don’t do that to me.”