I breath in deeply. Calmly. “Why do you want to hurt me?” I ask. It’s a perfectly reasonable question. Every damn fucking time she’s got the hump, she kicks me in the balls. I know I’ve always said she can take everything out on me, but there’s only so much a man can stand. Yet at the same time, the twisted fuck in me loves being the one person who gives her the chance to fight back, even if she’s out of line. Like now.
She flexes her neck and faces me, her hand resting on her tummy where mine was a moment ago. “I don’t want to hurt you, baby.” She smiles, and I hate it. My eyes narrow, waiting for the blow, and she steps toward me, looking up as she slips a finger past my lips and circles it around my tongue. She pouts, licking her lips, and my wilting arousal springs back to life. She comes closer. Strokes my lips from side to side, watching, concentrating. I realize I’m heading for a fall here, and yet I cannot find the will to remove myself from the reach of her vindictiveness. “I want to pain you,” she whispers, stroking down my front and cupping my dick. I swallow a grunt and close my eyes.
So she’s going to deprive me? Jesus. Deprive me, knowing I won’t ever force myself on her. She’s done this before, of course. It’s her weapon, her ace card that she flaunts when she’s feeling particularly cruel. Or, actually, helpless. But whereas before I could convince her in my own way, I cannot now. Not after my fuck-up in St. Lucia. “I fucking hate you,” I wheeze in my darkness.
She pushes her lips to mine and kisses me gently, and I naturally fall into it, but my hands remain dangling lifelessly at my sides, scared to hold her. “If you think you’re leaving me at home while you sit in a strip joint having girls drooling all over you, you’d better think again, Black.” She drops me. “And I want Esther and my son back here with us.”
I snort. Not a chance in hell. But I don’t say that; I don’t want to escalate things further. Rose passes me, and I turn, my trousers tight, seeing Beau walking back into the club, and a few feet behind, James, looking as murderous as I’ve ever known him to look.
Beau puts herself on a stool at the bar and signals Mason, and Rose joins her, not signaling Mason.
“Fucking hell.” I scrub a hand down my face and go to them. Beau’s face. It’s grim, and an uncharacteristic urge comes over me to help my mate out and explain. “Beau, let—”
“Don’t, Danny,” she warns, in a tone so deadly I listen. It’s rare to see Beau the cop. But she’s here now, firm in her stance, looking pretty fucking gritty, and I’m quickly very worried for that Beth woman.
“Go take a seat in one of the booths,” I say. “I’ll get Mason to bring some . . .” I falter, looking at James. He doesn’t look like he wants Beau drinking anymore. I don’t think I want her drinking anymore either.
“Wine,” Beau says, not looking at me. “And we’ll be staying here.” She remains on her stool and Rose doesn’t question it. I’ve just about had enough of insolent women for today. I wave Mason over. “Water for that one,” I say, pointing at Rose, who is quick to swing around and give me daggers. I push out my bottom lip. “Did that hurt, baby? Me talking about you like you’re an object, did that hurt?” I’m so fucking childish. Her fault. “And a bottle of Scotch and vodka for the table over there, since it looks like we’ve been banished.”
I join James. “If it’s any consolation, I’m in the doghouse with you,” I say, sliding into the round booth seating, reaching under the table and pushing into my semi-erect dick, willing it to behave. Two bottles and two glasses land on the table, and I nod my thanks to Mason. I’m pretty sure he’s had more tattoos. His neck? The bloke is covered, head to toe. I pour us both a drink and push James’s across the table, taking my own and sipping while I watch him stare at it. “Yo, bud?”
“Tom Hayley is dead,” he says to the glass, flat and emotionlessly.
I still, my drink hanging in midair. “What?”
“He’s dead.”
I look across to the bar and see Rose with her hands over her mouth, looking at a very still and quiet Beau facing the bar nursing a bottle of red. And Fury’s face says it all too, as he looks at me, as if to check he’s heard right. What? How? When? Who? Why? I shake my head, trying to straighten out my thoughts. “He’s dead?”
“I don’t have many details. Frazer Cartwright called Beau.”
“The journalist?”
“Yes, the journalist.”
“He’s a man in the know, isn’t he?” I quip. “Perhaps we need to talk to him.”
“Agreed.”
“And it’s confirmed?”
“Agent Burrows confirmed it.” James looks at me through hollow eyes. “He was on his way to the scene.”
“Fuck. All this transpired just now?”
“Yes, while Beau and I were”—he cricks his neck, his hand wrapping around his tumbler—“ironing out a few differences.”
“Well, you’re a shit ironer if that shiner on your cheek is anything to go by.” I toast the red mark as James feels at it, then have another sensible sip of my Scotch, wanting to, or needing to, down the lot and get a solid hit of alcohol. But I can’t do that. I can never do that. In fact, I shouldn’t be fucking drinking at all. And yet . . . I take another sip. “Dead?”
“Gunshot reported.”
I nod, thinking. If I’m brutally honest, the world won’t be so hard done by with no Tom Hayley in it and, being even more brutally honest, it’s one less thing for James and me to worry about, because that man was gunning for us. But . . . Beau. I look at the girls at the bar again, seeing Rose now rubbing Beau’s back, her stool closer, but Beau hasn’t moved. “Who sent her that picture of you with Beth?” I ask, going back to the initial problem.
James looks up at me as he plays with his glass. “Burrows.”
“But he was on his way to the scene. From here? And why the fuck would he come here, anyway? To make peace?” I laugh. I doubt it. Or . . . I frown and look up at James. “Or he’s got someone in our club.” I glance around the expansive space, up the stairs to the mezzanine floor. Staff? A client? It could be anyone.
“I think it’s simpler than that, but I’m gonna have Nolan look into it to be sure.” He goes to his phone and taps out a message.
“Wise.” Now, back to the matter at hand. “Do you think this will knock Beau back more?” I ask, topping up James’s drink. She wasn’t exactly head over heels in love with her father. “Her mum, now this?”
“No,” James says. “I think it’ll be worse than that.” He turns his glass slowly on the table, oblivious to my questioning expression.
“What could be worse than her returning full tilt to that darkness?” I ask, and James looks up at me. I hate the answer before he’s even spoken it, his face so impassive. It’s truly worrying.
“Taking me with her,” he whispers, turning his eyes to Beau at the bar.
Fuck, yes, that would be pretty fucking horrific. There’s no denying James is on the upper end of the fucked-up spectrum, even now, but at least he’s got a purpose beyond revenge. “How do we stop that?”