“Now?”
“You won’t have time tomorrow. The wedding will be all stress and speed.”
“Does Danny know about this?” I ask. “I know something is going on, and I know I promised to let you do your thing, but Rose will blow her top if her wedding is ruined.”
“The wedding will be beautiful,” he says, too confidently.
“You didn’t answer my question. Does Danny know about whatever it is you’re planning?”
James looks across the kitchen, and I follow his stare until I find Danny. He’s looking this way, not immersed in the attention or celebrations.
Thoughtful.
Jesus, what the hell is about to go down?
21
DANNY
* * *
I didn’t sleep a fucking wink, and not because I’m getting married.
Again.
To the same woman.
It’s all just an extravagant smokescreen. The end is near. The best wedding gift I could give Rose is freedom, no matter the cost, no matter the sacrifice. She’s had a taste of it. We both have. For three years, we’ve been lost in a blissful bubble of relaxed island life and coupledom.
James changed that. Actually, technically, Spittle did.
I roll over in bed and bury my face in the pillow, hearing the shower running. It’s five thirty. She didn’t sleep either, tossing and turning all night, but for very different reasons. She’s stressing. I’m not. As far as I’m concerned, she is my wife, my soul, my life, even if a non-inaugurated someone “married” us the first time on the beach in St. Lucia three years ago. But Rose demanded it, and what Rose wants, she gets.
Sometimes.
On a groan, I push into the mattress with my fists and get up, stretching as I walk to the bathroom. I open the door and stand on the threshold watching her rinsing her hair of suds, her eyes closed, her head tilted back. There are a million temptations before me—her throat, her boobs, her wet, slippery body, to name just a few. I pout, pinning down my dick as it swells and starts to throb.
“Don’t even think about it,” she says to the ceiling, carrying on her happy way washing her hair.
My face falls into a frown. “What?”
“I have too much to do.” She turns away from me, facing the spray, and scrubs at her face. “I don’t have time.”
What the fuck? “You don’t have time,” I say to myself, walking slowly toward the stall, my eyes narrowed, every glorious inch of her calling for me. I step in and seize her, slamming her wet body against the wet tile. “Today is all about us,” I whisper, taking a nipple and rolling it between my finger and thumb, amused at the sight of her trying to ignore the rush of desire. “And doing this,’ I say, taking my other hand to her pussy and stroking softly, at the same time kissing her neck, “is a massive part of us.”
“You shouldn’t have even slept in here. It’s tradition.”
“We’re not traditional.” My finger slips across her hot flesh.
“Shit, Danny.”
“Hmmmm,” I hum, sucking and biting at her.
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“But your mo—”
“No.” I thrust my fingers into her and watch in satisfaction as her head slams against the wall and her lungs expel endless air. “Enjoying that, baby?”
“Ye—”
“Rose?” My mother’s voice infiltrates our moment, and I pull out and back away quickly, alarmed.
“What the hell is my mum doing in here at five thirty?” I ask, reaching for a towel and stepping out, covering myself.
Rose, smiling like a sly cat, saunters out too and pulls on a robe. “I told you. We have lots to do.”
“Hello?”
I scowl and fling the door open, finding Mum in workout gear. “You going in the gym?” I ask, looking her up and down.
“I’m dressed for comfort and speed.” She tugs at the bottom of her sports tank, looking past me. “Where’s Rose?”
Nearly on my cock. “Five thirty, Mum?”
“The ice sculpture is being delivered in half an hour.”
“We have an ice sculpture?”
Her hand slaps over her mouth. “No. No ice sculpture.” Smiling, she edges past me into the bathroom, claiming Rose and pulling her out. “I’ve made breakfast.”
“Of course you have,” I mutter, watching as my mother hauls my wife from the room. “I guess I’ll go in the gym.” My shoulders drop, my cheeks puff out, and I mutter my way to the chair in the corner of our room, grabbing my shorts and a black t-shirt, pulling them on. After I’ve shoved my feet into my trainers, I text Brad.
* * *
Workout?
* * *
Fuck off. I’m not talking to you, DADDY.
* * *
See you there.
* * *
I head to the gym, the house quiet, obviously—it’s five fucking thirty—and stop off in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. The island is no longer cluttered with used glasses and empty snack bowls, but now decorated with every pastry imaginable. Coffee pots are evenly placed and, of course, a few teapots too. Did Mum actually sleep last night?
Neither my wife nor my mother looks up from the laptop when I enter. “I’m just getting some water,” I say, passing them and opening the fridge. No response. “In case I die of thirst,” I add, unscrewing the top. Still, nothing, from either of them. “Just popping out to murder someone,” I mutter, passing them again on my way out.
“Danny,” Mum moans, sounding wholly disapproving. “Not today, please.”
I drop my head back, laughing my way out of the kitchen. “Not today, Mother,” I call, taking a swig of water as I pass back through the foyer. I look up the stairs when I hear the clicking of . . . heels?
Coming to a slow stop, I watch as Zin . . . Lawrence hurries down, fastening the belt of a silk robe that’s embellished with flamingos, his actual real hair suffering a serious case of bedhead, his face free from makeup, but his lashes still unfathomably long and curled. “Morning,” I say, making him look up from the careful placement to his kitten-heeled slippers on the marble steps. I smile at his hairy leg poking out of the robe.
“Oh, morning,” he says, starting to faff with his short hair, as if he’s got someone to impress. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing so urgent you couldn’t have taken the time to get your stockings on.” I smirk when he rolls his eyes.
“You’ll go to hell, Danny Black.”
“If I’m lucky,” I reply, leaving Lawrence rearranging his robe around his legs. “They’re in the kitchen. Brace yourself.”
When I near the gym, I hear a constant, loud thumping sound. I push the door open a fraction, looking through the small gap. I catch Beau in the middle of a roundhouse kick. “Jesus,” I whisper as the leather punch bag swings, so hard it nearly puts a hole in the ceiling. And she doesn’t stop there, proceeding to knock ten tons of shit out of the swinging target, punching, kicking, generally looking like she wants to kill the cow all over again. She eventually lays off, hugging the bag, panting.