She peeks out the corner of her eye. “He was annoyed I stayed in St. Lucia. He was annoyed Danny insisted, but I understood Danny wanted to reassure you, and you wanted me to stay with Daniel there.”
Oh? The crafty little fucker. “He told you . . .” I fade off. There’s no point burdening Esther with her son’s conniving stunt. Just wait until I find him. “You need to talk to Danny. Tell him how you feel. Tell him to stand down.”
“Danny? We’re talking about the same man?”
“Yes. You’re letting your guilt rule your life. Enough.” I stand and she looks up at me, alarmed. “He cannot tell you who to be or who to see. You can be his mom and be a woman too. You’ve paid your dues. Now it should be about you.” I dip and kiss her cheek. “Life is too short to stroke egos, Mom. He’ll have to get used to it. Look on the bright side. At least you know Otto can take care of himself. Imagine if you fell in love with a wimp?”
I leave the kitchen and Esther behind chuckling. “Wait!” she yells. “In love? I’m not in love with him.”
I roll my eyes, but I melt too. They’ve not even been intimate, and the feelings are obviously strong. My husband needs to back the hell off.
I make my way to Danny’s office, walking in without knocking. It’s empty. So I go to the TV room. No Danny. I go to the gym. No Danny. But James is standing on his head and Beau is lying on the mat before him, her chin resting on her palms as she watches him. “Have you seen Danny?” I whisper.
She shakes her head.
“I saw him heading upstairs.” James doesn’t open his eyes. I throw a little wave to Beau, backing out, leaving them to their . . . workout?
I hurry upstairs, down the corridor, and push my way into our bedroom.
He’s face first on the bed, sprawled out, fully dressed.
Snoring.
I sigh and pad over, climbing on next to him and stroking his hair from his face. He murmurs. Grunts a few times. I rest my head on the pillow next to him and watch him sleeping. It’s the only time he looks peaceful these days.
“Sleep well,” I whisper, kissing his head.
It’s not long before I’m gone too.
His pained groan wakes me, his body squirming lethargically next to me. “Fuck me, that hurts,” he complains, groaning more, making tiny movements and stopping, slumping, moving, stopping, moaning.
“What hurts?”
“Shoulders,” he hisses. “Arms. Chest.” His head lifts and then drops back down heavily. “Everything. Everything aches.”
I prop myself up on my elbow and stroke his back. He’s not moved position since I found him last night. “You know I hate you,” I mumble.
“Yep, and I hate you more,” he says easily, and I smile. I can’t help it. God, I love this man.
I’m sure he’d rather be more awake for this conversation, but, honestly, who knows when we’ll get another minute to ourselves? “You used me, you shit.”
“For what?”
“To keep your mom in St. Lucia away from Otto.” I won’t mention Lennox Benson. Not now. We have enough grievances, and the man is inconsequential, really.
“Yeah, I did that,” he says, sighing, obviously without the energy to deny it. “But she’s back so you can stow away the sass.”
Never. The conversation I had with Esther last night is playing on my mind. Perhaps now is the time to convince Danny to back off, since he looks quite immobile. “She’s a wom—”
“I’m in pain, Rose,” he mumbles into the pillow. “Moody. Don’t make it worse.”
I narrow my eyes on the back of his head. Fine, but we will be talking about it. Onto my next issue. “Daniel knows what you do.”
“Jet skis?”
“No, not jet skis. He saw an article in the paper about you and James.” What I can see of his jaw tenses.
“Right.” He goes to get up, like who have I got to kill? Then drops back down on a howl of pain. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
I wince, reaching to touch him but not wanting to touch where he might be tender. “What happened? Wait . . .” They were all drugged. Incapable of walking. “Did you carry them out?”
“Yes. About a quarter mile down the coastline. Twice.”
Dodging bullets. God, he’s a hero. And to think I once thought he was a monster. I’m sure many still do, and sometimes he is, but . . . he’s my monster. “Anything I can do?”
“Massage.” He lifts his head with effort and looks at me with a cheeky smirk, his overgrown hair in his face.
“Massage what?”
“My dick. It’s the only part of me not hurting right now.” I smack his arm and he laughs, then winces. “No, seriously, baby, I’m in agony here. I can’t move.” His face plummets into the pillow. Another groan. “You’ve got to rub some life into me. Ouch. Fuck, ouch, oh you motherfucking cunt!”
I scan up and down his body, getting to my knees. “Where should I start?”
“Shoulders.”
“I need something to rub in.” I get up off the bed and go to the bathroom, searching the vanity for any kind of oil. I find the lavender oil Doc gave me and take it back to Danny. His phone rings.
“You’ll have to get that.” He peeks up, flinching. “Who is it?”
“James.” I click it to loudspeaker and hold it close to him.
“What’s up?” Danny asks, his words delivered on a croaky exhale.
“How much pain are you in?” James asks.
Danny’s eyes snap open. Hopeful. As if he’s excited to not be in his painful misery alone. “You too?”
“Jesus Christ, I can’t fucking move, mate.”
“Yes! Ouch. Fuck!”
“Keep still then,” I order, restraining my laughter, just as the door flings open and Beau appears in her panties and a tank.
“Do you have any oil?” she breathes urgently. “I can’t find any.”
I lose my battle to hold on to my laughter and fall apart on the bed, hearing Beau breaking down too.
“Fuck you,” Danny mumbles, useless. “Where’s my mum?”
His gripes only increase my laughter, as does the sight of Beau holding on to the doorframe, tears streaming down her cheeks. I fall to my back, not judging the available space all too well in my hysteria, and bang Danny’s back with my forearm.
“Arhhhhh!” he yells, throwing his head up, jerking another stiff muscle. “Fuck!”
My cheeks blow out, and Beau slides down the wood, crumpling to the floor, her face wet and hair sticking to her cheeks. I can’t breathe. My stomach aches.
“What’s going on?”
I look up and see Brad behind Beau in the corridor, his hand wrapped around the metal pole of a metal stand, the empty bag of blood dangling by his ear. The sight of him, hardly holding himself up, snaps me out of my laughing fit and has me rushing over.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, taking his arm and leading him to the closest bed. Ours. The dressing on his shoulder looks damp and stained. “Lie down.”
He drops down on a grunt and Danny lifts his head a fraction. “You’re a dickhead,” he grumbles. “I fucking told you to go with the girls.”