“I fucking heard.” Brad stalks off, holding his shoulder. “Do what the fuck you like,” he growls. “But if you fuck another member of staff, I’ll fuck you with a hammer drill.”
“It’d be way less comfortable than the blender,” James says under his breath, making Nolan snort his laughter. I’m obviously not in on this private joke, but I give the kid a look to suggest he best rein himself in before Brad, the moody fucker, goes crazy on his arse.
“Higham’s here,” Otto pipes up, turning the screen to us. I lean in and see him getting out of his beamer, taking a long-arse time straightening his cheap suit jacket. Bracing himself?
“We’ll stay in the bar,” I look back at the stage. “What time are the girls due to start practice?”
“An hour,” Nolan calls.
I look at James. “Enough time to torture the truth out of the fucker?”
The blackness I both love and hate washes over his face, giving his pasty, hungover skin a little color. “I need ten minutes.”
“Ooh, feeling feisty, huh?”
He doesn’t find my joke funny, lowering his arse to a stool, pretty much cracking his knuckles. I’m blaming it on his hangover. I lean forward and hold my glass out, prompting Goldie to take it and pass it back to Mason to refill. “This needs a gentle approach,” I say to James. “No flying off the handle. He’s—” My mobile interrupts me. Mum. Fuck. I don’t dream of ignoring her, knowing she wouldn’t call me unless it’s necessary. “Mum?” I answer, edgy. “Everything okay?”
“What’s going on?” She hits me with her demand fast and abruptly, not answering my question, and that gets my back up. But the days when I spoke to my mother with little respect and even less love are over.
I reach up and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Do you want to elaborate?” I ask calmly. If she mentions anything about Otto, my mood will slide. That would be a shame, since I’m feeling almost chirpy today, which is more than I can say for Brad and James. Things are coming together. It feels good.
“You’re buying Rose a spa?”
My hand drops from my face. “Say what?”
“A spa. You’re buying her a spa.”
“Am I?”
“Well, according to your wife, yes. So again, what’s going on?”
I feel my nostrils flare. My mood takes a nosedive. Trust my wife. I hang up and smash my thumb across the screen, walking away from the bar to reduce the risk of the top shelf of liquor shattering when my booming voice hits it.
“Hello, dear,” she says happily.
“Don’t dear me. What the fuck, Rose?” I ask, relatively calmly, all things considered. I can see what’s coming, and I seriously do not like it.
“You told me to make it work. So I’m making it work.”
Yes, she’s making it work. For herself. The conniving bitch. “And how much is making it work going to cost me?”
“I’m in negotiations,” she declares, a strongness to her voice that doesn’t bode well. It’s cocky. “But I’ve assured the proprietor that money isn’t an issue, is it, darling?”
No, it’s not, but her having an interest other than me is. “Rose?”
“Yes, darling.”
“You’re pregnant.”
“Am I?” she cries, sounding surprised. “Shit, I wondered what the fuck was going on with my body.”
I look up at the ceiling. God, please, make her stop before I do something I regret. Like kill her. “You’re blackmailing me.”
“I’m harnessing my power.”
I laugh. “Oh, baby, you sure do have power.” And she exerts it unapologetically. I can’t fucking blame her. She never had power before she had me.
“Danny,” she says, sounding way too matter of fact. “You told me to make it work. Did you honestly think Beau was buying some horseshit about me wanting to bond over a facial and a bikini wax?”
“No, but she might have bought some horseshit about you wanting to slag your husband off over a facial and a bikini wax.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t have been horseshit. I’ve been bad-mouthing you all day.”
“I hope not, since I’m about to part with hundreds of thousands of my money for you.”
“It’s mine.”
“What?”
“Your money. It’s mine. You left it to me three years ago when you drowned at sea. And the asking price is five million.”
My eyes nearly pop out of my head. “What?”
“Don’t worry. I think I can get her down to four.”
“God, I fucking hate you.”
“I’ll get over it. Have a lovely day, dear.” She hangs up, and I yell a few times, punching thin air before me.
“Love,” someone says from behind me. I swing around. Higham. Is he for real? He’s going to come in here and brandish his fucking sarcasm? I look at the others, maybe searching for a sign that my thoughts are reasonable, because I seriously want to kill him.
“Danny,” James says quietly. “Don’t do it.”
I steam forward and take the prick off his feet, deciding today I get to do the torturing. He grunts when he lands, and I straddle him, sit up, and start launching my fists into his face one at a time, over and over.
Bang, bang, bang, bang.
“Danny, for fuck’s sake!”
Bang, bang, bang, bang.
Blood comes like rain hitting a lake and splashing up into my face, but still I don’t stop, the outlet exactly what I need.
“Danny!”
A pair of hands grab my shoulders and hauls me back, and I land on my arse a few feet away, my fists covered in blood, my face and suit splattered. Higham starts rolling around on the floor, his face a broken, bloodied mess, groaning. “Fucking hell, Black,” he chokes. “You fucking madman.”
I snort, wiping my face with the sleeve of my jacket, and push myself to my feet, putting my boot in his stomach with force, making him cough. I drop to a knee, fist his jacket, and haul him up. “Why the fuck are you having coffee with Natalia Potter?”
His face drops, and doesn’t that speak volumes?
“Love his gentle approach,” James says, retreating, leaving me to my own devices. Good. Today I want to kill, and I don’t feel like doing it slowly. So much for my good mood.
“Talk!”
“I’m seeing her.” Higham strains the words, his face pained, and not because he’s in fucking agony.
“What?”
“I’m having a fucking affair, okay?” He pushes my hands away and sniffles, roughly wiping his bleeding nose with the back of his hand.
“With the woman who wrote a report about me and James?”
“Yes,” he yells, distressed. “Fucking hell, yes. I told her she was on dangerous ground. She wouldn’t fucking listen, would she? She’s young. Hungry.”
I peek up at Otto. He said that. “So you didn’t feed her information on us?”
“God no, I value my life.”
“Then . . . who did?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“Oh, come on, Higham.”
“I swear, she wouldn’t say.”