“I’m sure the men agree,” I say, heading across the house to Danny’s office and pushing my way in without knocking. The first person I see is Goldie, reminding me that they’re not all men. Very good.
I close the door behind me, ignoring Danny’s exasperated look, and regard Nolan on the couch, looking a bit shaken up as I stand to the side, out of the way, quiet and watchful. I’m giving no one any reason to see me out, and when I catch James’s eye, I see he’s caught my move, his eyebrows high. I look away.
“So if you weren’t at Brad’s like you said,” James asks, “where the fuck were you?”
“My last installment,” he says. “I was paying off my last installment with the loan shark.”
A loan shark? Not good news. I look at James. He’s scowling. “You told us you paid off the final installment just last week.”
“I lied. I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t good for the money. And Brad would have paid it for me. I’m not comfortable with that.” Nolan looks around the office. “Where is he, anyway? He said he had business to discuss.”
“We don’t know,” Danny says quietly, lowering to his chair.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Nolan stands, his eyes wide and worried.
“He’s probably gone to the club.”
“He’s not here?”
“No.” Danny’s lips twist. “He stormed out. Don’t know whether you noticed, but for some strange reason, he’s quite attached to you.” I smile on the inside when I see Nolan’s worry lift a fraction to make way for happiness. “He was quite cut up when we thought you’d gone up with his apartment,” Danny goes on, getting up and wandering over to Nolan, getting up in his face. “So what lesson have you learned today, boy?”
“Not to lie.”
“Be straight with us, you hear me?” He pokes him in the shoulder. The Brit is capable of so much more but, even if Danny’s not saying it, he’s quite attached to Nolan too. We all are. “Now sit down.”
“He’s injured.” Nolan looks between us. “Doc said he should be resting.”
“I told you to sit the fuck down,” Danny barks, frustrated.
Nolan moves a few paces and squeezes between Ringo and Otto, forcing them to shift and yank their jackets out from under Nolan’s ass.
“Now.” Danny sits back at his desk. “Someone call Brad and tell him his pet’s alive and well.”
“He’s not taken his phone,” Otto replies.
“What?” James is across the room in the second, looking at Otto’s screen, which I expect shows Brad’s phone’s location. Here. “Why the fuck would he do that?”
Danny goes straight to his cell. “Is Brad there?” he asks. Then he curses, giving us all the answer. “Where the fuck has he gone?”
Nolan stands, panicked, and James approaches behind him, pushing into his shoulders, forcing him back down. “We’ll find him,” he says robotically, his face straight, looking at Danny, who looks plain furious.
I feel like a fly on the wall, observing our men in their natural habitats. Being The Brit and The Enigma.
My head is ping-ponging back and forth, watching, listening.
Fascinated.
James gets his cell out of his pocket and starts pacing, his attention on the screen, and Danny shakes his head to himself, still angry, but I know he’ll be more worried. “I haven’t got fucking time to go on a wild goose chase. Get me Len’s location. I want to know what the fuck happened to Fra—” His phone pings, and he growls, swiping it up, his eyes traveling across the screen. Then he looks at James. Thinks. And calmly puts his cell down and stands. “Find Brad,” he snaps, stomping out of the office, my eyes following his pent-up form. That’s it?
“Come,” James says, ushering me out, and I go, despite being suspicious. Danny wasn’t finished with business.
And then suddenly, he was.
What the fuck’s going on?
23
JAMES
“That was weird,” Beau says, looking up at me as I walk us down the corridor with absolutely no idea of where I’m taking her. Just away. From Danny. From the men. Anyone who might accidently blurt the latest news about Frazer Cartwright’s death. I need to think about this. Beau will be off around Miami trying to solve this mystery before I’ve had a chance to jump-start my brain. “Danny seemed like he wanted to say something and then didn’t.”
I keep my attention forward. “He did?” Lame. So fucking lame. Everyone in the room sensed what Beau sensed, but I had no choice. I could see Danny was about to launch into one of his little recaps on all the shit going down, and that recap would have included the fact that Frazer Cartwright’s dead. So I sent him a quick text telling him to shut the fuck up. Luckily, he got my message before his mouth caused us more problems.
“Yeah, he did.” Beau stops us walking and turns into me. Fuck. “What’s going on?”
I laugh, and it’s natural. “What’s going on?” Where the fuck would I start? “You know what’s going on. You’re making a point of knowing what’s going on.”
Her eyes narrow accusingly. I don’t shy away. “And what happened to my surprise?”
Fuck.
“It—”
Her phone saves me, and Beau huffs, looking at me like a woman looks at a man when she’s communicating silently that she’s not done. “Hello,” she answers, sounding irritated. Then her face drops, and our previous discussion is forgotten. “Oh,” she breathes, making me cock my head in question. She inhales, as if bracing herself, and nods. “I’m sorry. Is it too late?” She covers her mobile with a hand and moves it away from her ear. “Can you take me somewhere?”
“Anywhere,” I answer quickly, slightly surprised.
She nods and goes back to her mobile. “I can be there in an hour.” A swallow. “Yes.” Her eyes close briefly. “Thank you.” Then she hangs up, and I stand before her waiting. Looking patient but not feeling it.
“Where am I taking you, Beau?” I ask, after a long few seconds of silence.
“To see my dad,” she finally says, shuddering, like ice could have just glided down her spine. “I want to see him before the funeral tomorrow.”
I withdraw, taken aback. I can’t hide my surprise.
“I was never able to see Mom.” She frowns as she toys with her phone.
“Are you sure?” I ask, placing a hand on her shoulder, rubbing into it gently.
She smiles. It’s weak. “No,” she admits, and I nod, understanding. “But I know I’ll regret it if I don’t.” Moving into me, she wraps her arms around my waist and . . . hides.
I can hear her mental war as I drive her to the funeral home. Guilt is driving her. Nothing but guilt. She’s spinning her ring on her finger, checking the GPS constantly to see how far away we are.
When I park, I turn in my seat to face her. No typical words will suffice here. I can’t ask her if she’s sure she wants to do this. I can’t question whether she would prefer to remember her father as he was. Alive. Beau’s memories of him aren’t exactly fond. So instead, I say, “Okay?” and I feel like a useless sack of shit for it.