“Yeah, fine, I was taking Brad’s pulse in the car. Doc needed the numbers.”
“Oh,” I murmur. Something else she’s useful for.
“Did you notice the small hole in the corner of Pearl’s lip?” she asks.
“Old piercing,” I say. “They would have removed it.” I flinch. “To make her—” Fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying this. “More universal.” No piercings, no tattoos, no deformities.
“Are you okay with this?” Beau asks, pushing her way into our room.
I nod, taking a deep breath, having a stern word with myself. Those girls have been rescued before they’ve endured the same unimaginable level of hell that I did. Rescued before they were sold. That’s a blessing, although none of them could possibly think that in this moment. And suddenly, I feel energized. Full of purpose. They can have a life.
“I want everything you haven’t worn in six months,” Beau declares.
“Can’t we say everything I won’t wear for the next six months, because that’ll be easier?”
She laughs and swings open the doors of my closet. And exhales her exasperation.
Twenty minutes later, Beau has arms full of clothes that don’t fit me, and I can’t even be miserable about it. “We should bring them up to change,” she says, kicking material away at her feet, removing the tripping hazard as she walks to the bed and dumps the clothes there. “Maybe shower.”
I nod.
“Which rooms?”
“Umm . . .” This is a twenty-bedroom mansion, and I can’t be sure there are any spare rooms.
“Rose?”
“Wait,” I say, tapping the side of my head, mentally figuring out who’s in what room and which room is free, if at all there is one. “There’s one down the hall, but Brad’s in there. Danny’s father’s room,” I say quietly. “It’s the only other one I know is definitely vacant.” And it’s totally out of the question. Damn it, if Esther was here, she’d know immediately.
Beau sighs. “You check on Brad. There must be another somewhere. I’ll go investigate.” We leave together and while Beau starts working her way up and down the corridor, I go to Brad, knocking before entering. The bag of blood is what I see first, half empty, and then Fury sitting guard by the bed.
“I’m awake,” Brad grunts, opening one eye. “Where’s Danny and James?”
“They’re not back yet.”
He shifts on the bed, hissing, before he settles exactly where he was. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” And suddenly I’m worried. I look at Fury, who shrugs, looking at Brad, as if he might answer his own question. “Why aren’t they back yet?” I ask.
Brad squints, straining to think. “I don’t fucking know. All I can see is red.”
Blood. What happened after Beau left the yard with Brad? I’m out of the room like a rocket, flying down the stairs. I rush into the kitchen and find Ringo staring at my pasta bake dubiously with Otto and Len.
“ Danny and James. Where are they?” I demand, making them all look at each other. But no answer.
I growl my frustration and go to my purse on the stool, rummaging through and finding my cell. I see a few missed calls from Esther but ignore them in favor of calling Danny. He doesn’t answer. Neither does James, not the first time I try, or the second or third. “God damn them!” I yell, just as my phone rings in my hand. My heart lunges. And drops when I see Esther calling me, not Danny or James. I place a hand on my forehead, closing my eyes and breathing easy, trying to sound as calm as possible. “Hey,”
“Hi,” she says, sounding chirpy. Because she’s back. “Where is he?”
“Danny?” I look at the others, who, again, toss looks between each other, starting to get worried too, all going to their phones.
“Yes. You said he was picking me up from the airport.”
“Oh God,” I murmur, giving Ringo pleading eyes. I can’t take this anymore. The constant worry. Stress. My blood pressure sky-high.
“What’s happened?” Esther says, not sounding all too easy breezy now. “Rose?”
The cell is suddenly gone from my hand and Otto is guiding me to a stool to sit me down, taking my phone to his ear. “I’m leaving to get you now,” he says, not releasing my arm. I’m becoming breathless. Pathetic! I should be used to this torture by now. Not knowing. Fretting.
“Someone get Doc,” Ringo yells.
“No.” I wave a hand. “He’s busy.”
“Rose, every drop of color has drained from your face.”
Is it any wonder? “I’m fine.” Breathe, breathe, breathe. I cannot fall apart. I must not fall apart. I know my husband. It would take a nuclear bomb to kill him. Oh God. Why am I talking such shit? He’s human, like me, like everyone. One bullet in the right place—instant death. I’m really not fine. I throw my head between my legs and pant.
“Rose?” His voice drifts into my hearing, and for a moment I wonder if I’m imagining it. But then I hear James asking where Beau is, and I fling my head up and find my husband in the kitchen, his wetsuit pulled down to his waist, his hair a matted mess of salt and wind.
“What’s up?” he asks, peeking nervously around at the crowd all watching him.
“Esther’s waiting for you to pick her up,” Otto says, and Danny frowns down at his cell.
“She’s texted me. I didn’t see it.”
“I’m going to get her,” Otto tells him—tells him—a look of pure daring on his face as he passes. Go on, it says. Tell me not to go.
Danny heeds the warning. “Where’s Brad?” he asks.
“In his room,” Ringo pipes up quietly. “He’s okay.”
He nods and I, with a lack of anything else to do but lose my shit—and I’m so tired of doing that—get off my stool and drag the oven dish toward me, starting to spoon out the pasta and slap it on plates. I pass some to Ringo and Len, who both take it gingerly, and put the rest back in the oven to keep warm for the others. Then I head for the TV room to help Goldie and Beau.
Danny’s body turns with me as I pass him. “I’ve had a really shit day at work, baby. I’m starving.”
“Yours is in the dogs,” I spit as I leave the kitchen.
“That’s probably a blessing.”
I stop, outraged, and stare ahead, weighing up my options. Punch him.
Or . . .
Punch him.
I turn.
And find him grinning, his scar deep, his blue eyes gleaming. Asshole. I look at Ringo and Len, who both quickly shove forks full of pasta into their mouths to stop them laughing. Fuckers.
I’m at a loss, my relief making way for anger. And if the pasta doesn’t get it, Danny will. I go to the oven, yank it open, pull out the dish, and pile two plates high with pasta before I go to the French doors and open them. “Cindy, Barbie,” I call. They soon come running and sit at my feet like good little girls, their stumpy tails wagging. I tip the plates, sending the pasta to the ground with a splat, and they gulp it down in a few greedy mouthfuls, licking their lips. I smile and pat their heads. “Away,” I say, sending them off before pivoting and breezing back into a silent kitchen.