“Well work fucking faster. Chaka’s turning up a week this Friday with our guns.”
“Do you want to change your tone?”
“No.”
I stand, wedging my fists into the desk, leaning in. “I highly recommend you do.”
“Oh fuck,” Otto moans from the couch as Danny mirrors my pose on the other side of the desk.
“Or else?”
I move fast, grabbing his jacket and fisting the material, pulling him closer, and he does the same, pulling me in so we’re snarling in each other’s faces. I do not need his ego or his frustration aimed this way. “I said I would deal with it.”
“Then fucking deal with it.”
“I’ll do it,” Beau says quietly from beyond.
I frown. Danny frowns. We both look out the corner of our eyes toward the couch. Beau is now standing, and everyone’s eyes are on her. “Do what?” Danny asks.
“Take the delivery.” She looks at me, appearing confident, but I can see her nerves. She thinks I’ll refuse to even entertain listening to whatever nonsense she’s thinking. She’s right.
I shove Danny away. “Time for you to go,” I say, claiming Beau by the elbow and walking her to the door.
“What? No, James, I—”
“It was good while it lasted,” Danny calls, forcing me to turn a dark look back at him. Why does he have to goad her? He yanks his suit jacket into place, his eyes narrowed, the scar that decorates his face deep and bright. Then, quite suddenly, Danny’s blue eyes widen and a collection of inhales sound.
And something connects with my ankles, taking my legs from under me. I land on my back with a lung-draining thwack. “Fuck,” I cough, looking up at the ceiling.
Then, sniggers. They all clearly want to die.
Enraged, I lift my head and find Beau in the chair I was sitting in not a moment ago.
“Well, that told you,” Danny muses, hands braced on the top of his desk, stretching to look at me on the floor. “Need a hand?”
Don’t lose it. Don’t lose it.
I slowly get to my feet and visibly draw some long deep breaths, wanting Beau to know it’s taking everything in me not to fly off the handle. “Talk,” I order, willing to listen, if only to appease her in this moment. Whatever she has to say, whatever bright idea she’s got, it’s a no.
“I’ll meet Chaka and accept the delivery,” she says, nibbling on her bottom lip.
God love her. “That simple?”
“Nothing about being with you is simple, James,” she says, taking the atmosphere in the room one step closer to thick. Multiple sets of eyes swing back and forth between us.
“So what do you propose?” I ask. Let’s hear it. Because, actually, I’m really fucking curious.
Beau pulls her hair over one shoulder and combs through with her fingers. She looks so feminine doing that. So . . . lovely. “We tow empty jet skis across the bay, fill them with guns, and tow them back.”
I blink, withdrawing, and feel all eyes land on me, like, what do you think of that, James? “What?” is all that comes, and the peanut gallery all turn their attention back to Beau.
“There’s nothing odd about moving jet skis from storage.”
And back to me. “Absolutely not.”
Back to Beau. “Why?”
Heads swing, facing me again. “Because I said so.” The end. “Now it’s time to go.” I take one step and stop when Danny clears his throat. Oh no. Don’t do it, Danny. I glare at him, for what it’s worth.
“It’s not a bad shout,” he says quietly.
Is he hell-bent on getting his nose broken today? “Come again?”
“A couple of young surfer sorts on the ocean pulling a load of skis behind them? Nothing unusual about that,” Brad adds. I turn my deadly glare slowly onto him.
“And who do you propose those surfer sorts are?” I ask like a prick. Every fucker in here knows the answer to that.
“Leon and—”
“Me,” Beau pipes in.
“No.” I laugh. Brad’s suggestion to have Beau working at Hiatus suddenly seems very fucking appealing.
Beau regards me, almost disappointed. “Jame—”
The door swings open and Rose appears, and the moment she finds Beau at the desk, her mouth falls open. “What are you doing in here?” she asks, indignant.
“Oh fuck,” Danny breathes.
“Busted.” Brad laughs. “I’m out of here. Let me know if we’re doing business with the The Shark and his Polish army anytime soon.”
Not likely. The Polish traffic women, but they aren’t my priority right now. So her period starts and all of a sudden she’s spouting off crazy ideas that either have her running around Miami chasing killers or gunrunning. What kind of fucked-up crazy am I in?
A mobile starts ringing, and everyone looks at each other as Beau stands. She glances down at the screen and does a fine fucking job of being cool. “Excuse me,” she says, avoiding my eyes as she leaves.
All attention is on me when the door closes. I can’t stand it. Fuck! “I’ll be in the gym,” I say, leaving pronto, my focus forward, ignoring my mind’s demands to find her, take her phone, and tie her up. I make it to the gym and kneel on a mat, taking some stretched, deep breaths, before laying my forearms down, engaging my stomach muscles, and pulling my body up. The rush of blood to my head is welcome, and I close my eyes and focus.
I focus so fucking hard.
Focus on fighting the urge to find Oliver Burrows and kill him. I already owe him for arresting me and texting Beau a photo of Beth groping me. Now Tom Hayley is dead? That fucker just got a pardon from Beau for trying to interfere in our relationship again, because she knows her ex is the path to answers. Burrows will be harnessing that to his advantage, enticing Beau in, manipulating his position, and using her loss and need to his advantage.
And here I am restraining that instinct in her. Holding her back.
Denying her.
Fuck.
18
BEAU
I felt his eyes like daggers in my back as I left Danny’s office. I also felt my guilt as strongly. Despite knowing it would be frowned upon, he took me into Danny’s office. And despite The Brit’s immediate aversion, he kept me in there because he knows I have value beyond freedom and love for James. I may have appeared hard-faced and steadfast in my determination, but remaining in that office had nothing to do with my grit and everything to do with the men’s acquiescence. Until I spoke my thoughts and, absurdly apparently, suggested a solution to their problem. James’s dismissal was an insult.
And now Ollie has called, and because I wasted time removing myself from James’s space, I missed him. And now he’s not picking up.
“Damn it,” I mutter, pacing around in circles on the terrace. “Answer.”
“Maybe he’s busy gathering more shit to throw at James.”
I look up and see Danny on his terrace, his shoulder leaning against the door. He takes a drag of his cigarette and wanders across to the railings that separate this terrace from theirs, his stride casual. It’s the kind of walk he walks when he’s calm but raging. “Maybe,” he muses, “Burrows hopes the shit will stick this time.”