The Rising, page 26
part #1 of Unlawful Men Book 4 Series
The tussle between standing down and stepping up is becoming unbearable. But one thing I am certain of? I can’t argue with James. I get up and leave the room, and Fury falls into stride behind me, reminding me that escaping and meeting Ollie is about as likely as Danny allowing me to give Rose another driving lesson. Poor Dolly. “I’m going to the gym,” I call back.
“That’s lovely.”
I look over my shoulder, giving Fury a tired look. “Missing Tank?”
One of his eyes narrows, his huge shoulders rocking as he walks. “I don’t like the look in your eyes.”
“What look?” Fuck, am I that transparent? I return my attention forward and wait for his answer. But he says nothing. And not because he’s doubting what he’s seeing. What he knows.
I make it to the gym and face Fury. “Take a break,” I say quietly, grasping the handle behind me and pushing my way inside.
“You never mentioned that bit,” Danny hisses, and I come to a sharp stop, seeing James sitting on a bench rubbing his hair with a towel, looking insultingly bored, and Danny standing in front of him looking pissed off. And then Danny sees me and looks plain awkward, and James quickly becomes the angry one. Because of me. Because he knows I’ve been talking to Ollie. “Rose is waiting for me,” Danny says, stomping away, and I follow his path across the gym with my eyes. He slams the door behind him.
Never mentioned what bit? “Everything okay?” I ask, and James laughs sardonically.
“Fucking dandy, Beau.”
I face him on the bench. He’s still dabbing at his hair with the towel, slowly, purposely, watching me. He looks fucking furious. What can I say to him? That I don’t love Ollie? That my contact with him means nothing? That he’s being jealous and it’s ridiculous?
After my performance when I saw him with Beth?
Show him.
My hands start working on autopilot, and I reach for the fly of my denim shorts, unbuttoning them and pushing them down my legs. His eyes don’t move from mine, but the towel slowly lowers. I’m nervous. I can’t let him see me nervous. I step out of my shorts and unfasten the buttons of my shirt as I pad toward him, hoping, praying his craving for me outweighs his annoyance.
The towel drops to the floor.
His thighs spread a fraction more.
I breathe in, my nerves vanishing and desire appearing, hot and potent.
The moment I’m within reach, his arm extends, snaking around my lower back, and he tugs me into him, pulling my shirt apart and kissing my stomach, his huge hands on my hips, holding me, mine resting on his shoulders. I exhale raggedly, looking down at the back of his head, sliding my fingers to his nape and playing with the fine hair there. It’s fairer than when I first met him.
Because he’s spending more time in the light. More time in sunshine.
His fingers slip into the sides of my panties and pulls them down, and he looks up at me, his eyes clouded and desperate. I stroke across his stubble and lower my mouth to his, kissing him softly. “She’s here,” I whisper. “She’s here and she’s yours.”
He groans and stands, lifting me and settling me on the bench, yanking my legs apart as he falls to his knees before me. “My period,” I gasp, my back straightening, my hands not knowing whether to hold on to James or the bench. But then he growls, slams his mouth between my thighs, and my decision is made for me, my hands grabbing onto his hair.
He bites at my thighs, kisses, sucks my flesh, and despite him avoiding entering me, I start to shake violently, yanking at his hair, making his head jar and jerk. And just when the pressure is about to release, he pulls away and stands, and I moan my loss. He dips and pushes my shirt from my shoulders, pulling it off each wrist and tossing it aside, then yanks the cups of my bra down. With the absence of his hot mouth, the air between my thighs suddenly feels cooler, and it is welcome. I watch, awed, as he pulls his T-shirt off, his chest undulating as he does, and then his shorts are gone and he is gloriously naked and impressive before me, his cock ready and dripping. I swallow and reach for it, hungry, eager, and circle him at the root, opening my mouth and moving in, looking up as I do, seeing him watch me. I lick. A groan. I bite. A jerk. I suck. Vibrations.
The feeling of his vein throbbing against my tongue encourages me to take it all, and he hits the back of my throat hard. It takes everything in me not to gag.
“Fuck,” he grates, quickly pulling himself out and taking me under my arms, lifting me from the bench. He holds me against his body and turns, sitting down and lifting me a fraction. “We shouldn’t,” I say for the sake of it, knowing he won’t stop. Can’t stop. I don’t want him to stop. I drop my forehead to his and reach between us, removing my tampon as I close my eyes. I need him inside me. I need this, for me, for him, for us. I falter for a moment.
“My towel,” he whispers, and I look around, seeing it on the floor. James bends, lowering me, and I swipe it up, quickly ridding myself of what stands between us in this moment. Then I take what I need, guiding him to my entrance and sinking down slowly, both of us exhaling.
God, that feels incredible, him filling me so completely. Pulsing. Close. I place a hand on each of his shoulders and link my ankles around his back, pulling away so I can see his face, his chest, his thick biceps, his abs rolling. It’s all magnificent, but his face . . .
It’s straight now, not a hint of his pleasure showing as he watches me move on top of him, letting me do all the work. “Do you want me to kiss you?” I ask, and he shakes his head. “Do you want me to move faster?” Another shake of his head. “Stay like this?”
A nod, a palm slipping up my body from my hip and sliding onto my exposed breast. He strokes and molds, and still his eyes never leave mine as I circle my hips, thrust slowly, leisurely building our pleasure.
The way he’s studying me.
Absorbed.
He takes in every piece of me, his eyes moving slowly across my face, my wounds, my body, his lips slightly parted, his breaths short and strained. I swallow, feeling the rush of my climax taking hold, giving me no warning. James nods, reclaiming my hips, guiding me, and every muscle I can see hardens before my eyes. I gasp and slap my palms into his pecs, bracing my arms, my pace increasing. He shakes his head, stilling, and I cry out, my head falling back as my orgasm retreats. “Fuck,” I breathe, starting slowly again, working both of us back up, being sure not to go faster than he wants, as I bring my eyes back down to his face. It’s all I need to get me to the edge again.
It tickles, teases, temps me to grab it and claim the pleasure, begs me to move faster.
I don’t.
James groans, it’s suppressed, and his thighs harden beneath me. Then he nods, and it seizes us both, snapping our spines straight, forcing our chests together, as well as our mouths, and I am kissed into oblivion as he spills himself inside me, his strong arms wrapped around my waist, holding me tightly as we shake and kiss and moan.
I puff and pant into his mouth, sliding my face away and burying it in the crook of his neck. “Okay?” I whisper, not liking his silence.
He nods, feeling out my finger and turning the ring.
To remind me it’s there.
“I love you,” I murmur.
And he nods.
* * *
James moves around the kitchen silently, the shadows between his shoulder blades growing and shrinking each time he reaches into a cupboard or opens a door or drawer. He slides a plate across the island to me. “Eat,” he says, clipped.
“I’m not—”
“I can’t remember the last time I saw you eat, Beau.” He picks up a piece of toast and thrusts it toward me. “So eat.”
I accept and he goes to the fridge, pulling out an array of green fruit and vegetables, placing them all onto the counter before collecting a chopping board and a blender. I nibble the corner of my toast as I watch him move quietly and efficiently around the kitchen, peeling and cutting and loading into the blender. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Be careful,” I quip, getting a brief warning look thrown my way as I chew.
“You can take the delivery.”
I swallow slowly, still on my stool. I’m surprised, but I fight not to show it. “What’s changed?” I realize that’s a stupid question. Ollie’s phone call is what’s changed. Or has standing on his head leveled out his reasonable side? Or . . . did Danny just speak to him? Reason with him? Convince him they haven’t got a lot of choice? That I’m capable.
“Nothing’s changed.” He tips a glug of apple juice into the blender. “I still don’t want you to do it.”
“So why are you agreeing?”
Pausing with his juice making task, he considers the jug for a while, as if waiting for it to offer up the best way to give it to me. “Because, Beau, if I don’t control my instinct, I will be suppressing yours.” He looks at me. “I can’t lose you.”
I relax on my stool, softening. This immense, powerful killer looking so uncertain carves out a piece of my heart. “You’re not going to lose me.”
A sharp nod as he goes back to juicing. “So what did he say?” he asks, not looking up at me.
I pause mid chew, wiping a few crumbs from the corner of my mouth. “I will get a call from—” My cell jumps across the marble, an unknown caller lighting the screen. James’s finger stills on the blender button, his eyes on my cell too. “From a detective,” I finish, placing my toast down and brushing off my hands before taking my cell to my ear rather than putting it on loudspeaker for James to hear. “Beau Hayley,” I say, as James abandons his green juice and collects a dish towel, wiping his hands as he observes. I want to leave the kitchen. But I can't do that.
“Miss Hayley, Detective Clarissa Collins, MPD. Is now a good time?”
Is there ever a good time to have these kinds of discussions? There absolutely is. Preferably when my boyfriend isn’t in the room. And then it occurs to me . . . should I know about Dad? Ollie didn’t mention anything other than he couldn’t talk on the phone, which tells me he didn’t feel safe. Private. “How can I help you, Detective?” I ask, feeling so fucking uncomfortable under James’s watchful gaze. He’s questioning why I haven’t opened up the conversation to him.
“I wondered if I could trouble you for some time.”
“Sure. Now?”
“I was hoping to see you in person, but I stopped by the address we have on file for you and the house is empty.”
She wants to see me? “I don’t live there anymore.”
“With your uncles?” she presses, making me frown, her answer telling me she probably knows a lot more about me than I would like, especially if she’s been digging around in the police files. I look at James. Does she know I’m now engaged to marry a mass murderer? Jesus fucking Christ.
“Yes. They separated,” I say, trying to sound willing with the information. Cagey will get me nowhere. “My uncle Lawrence is away on vacation.” I make a point not to say where. “And . . . well, his husband—” I look at James. Won’t he stop with the concentrated, annoyed stare? “He left and we haven’t heard from him since.”
“You mean Dexter Haynes? MPD?”
“That’s right.”
“But a missing person’s report hasn’t been filed?”
She knows why that is. It must be common knowledge in the force that Dexter was bent. “Have you called me to talk about my uncle, Detective Collins?” The moment I utter her name, James has his cell phone out of his pocket, undoubtedly to message Otto and have her checked out.
“No. No, I wasn’t,” she says, her voice softening. Softening ready to hit me with the grim news that my father is dead. “Can I take your address? I can be there in half hour.”
I look around the kitchen of The Brit’s Miami mansion. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” And she’ll know why that is too. “Whatever it is you need to talk about, we can do over the phone.”
“I don’t th—”
“We can do it over the phone,” I reiterate, getting agitated.
“It’s your father,” she says, as I stare at the board full of chopped fruit. “I’m so sorry, Miss Hayley.”
“What happened?” I ask, trying not to sound robotic but being unable to help myself.
“Wrong place, wrong time,” she replies, making me blink my surprise and look up at James. His brows are heavier than usual, his expression questioning without being questioning. I click my cell to loudspeaker and set it down, if only because I need someone to hear the bullshit I know I’m about to be insulted with so that when I go on a rampage, he will understand why.
“Wrong place, wrong time?” I mimic.
“There was an incident at a local hotel. We haven’t got the finer details just yet, and I am limited on what I can divulge, but it appears there was a dispute between two local gangs that spilled into the hotel. I believe your father had a meeting there. He got caught in the crossfire.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m very sorry, Miss Hayley.”
I look at James, hoping to see some semblance of surprise, but instead I find only an impassiveness that confuses me more. Caught in the crossfire? My God, are they honestly going to try and convince me again that I’ve lost another parent by sheer bad luck? “Thank you for the call.”
“One more thing,” she says, stilling my fingertip just shy of the red icon on the screen. “There’s a journalist. He’s already leaked information and pictures. I didn’t want you to be surprised when you see it on the local news.”
James goes straight to his phone again, and I thank Detective Collins once more before hanging up. “We need to find Frazer Cartwright,” I say immediately, getting down off my stool. “I can’t believe they’re doing this to me again.” I sink my fingers into my hair and clench. “Caught in the crossfire?” I say over a laugh, feeling tears pinching my eyes. And then . . . I gasp, dropping my hands from my head, staring at the floor. “Is he dead because of me?”
“What?” James barks, sounding angry? “What the fucking hell are you talking about?” He grabs me and spins me around to face him, getting up in my face, furious. “If you’d have met him for dinner, you could be dead too, Beau.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean Tom Hayley, my father, was running for mayor, and his daughter is me.” I jab a finger into my chest. “And I am with you.”
James flinches and backs up. “You think he was the target?” he asks.
“It makes sense.”
“Wait, Beau.” His palm rest on his forehead, his eyes closing. “Why would anyone want your father dead?”
“Because his daughter is me,” I yell, guilt overwhelming me. “Miami can’t have a mayor with a daughter who’s involved with the biggest crime family this side of the Atlantic.” Then something else occurs to me. “Or maybe his competitor had him murdered,” I say, pacing to the window and back again, thinking.
“Monroe Metcalfe?” James laughs over his name. “Beau, Monroe Metcalfe has a résumé that glows brighter than the sun at the height of summer.”
He shouldn’t sound so disbelieving. Look at Perry Adams. He had everyone fooled. I laugh to myself, facing James. “I—” His hand lands over my mouth, silencing me, and he holds it there, his spare on my nape.
“Shhhh,” he whispers quietly. “Calm the fuck down.”
“I’m calm,” I mumble into his hand, reaching up and carefully pulling it away.
“Damn you for being a cop.” He sighs and lets his mouth drop onto my forehead. “I will find Cartwright,” he says. “I promise. I’ve already got Otto on it.”
“Why?”
“He seems to know a lot about a lot and we want to know how.” He leans back and gets me in his sights. The hard-faced, impassive killer is gone, and my soft, expressive fiancé is back, and right now he’s looking at me like he might love me more than life itself. Soothed. Calmed. “I’ve neglected you,” he whispers, scanning my face, dragging his thumb across my lip. “I’m taking you out for dinner tonight.”
“You are?”
“I am.” He turns me by my shoulders and sends me on my way with a smack to my ass. He’s trying to introduce some normal. It’s gallant, if wasted. We’re not in St. Lucia now, and no number of romantic dinners will make me feel normal. “And, Beau?”
I look back.
“You should call Lawrence,” he says gently, and I nod.
* * *
I didn’t call Lawrence. I did everything, except call Lawrence. How do I even begin to explain what’s happened? Mom? Dad? I’ll call him tomorrow. I did call Ollie though. Repeatedly. He didn’t answer. It feels like Nath all over again. I’m worried for Ollie, but more worried for myself, because returning to those places I went to after losing Mom feels scarily close.
I take the steps down to the foyer to find James after he left me in the bedroom an hour ago to make a few calls. He spent the rest of the day at the boatyard with Otto, Goldie, and Ringo. Probably to tell them he’s bowed and agreed to me helping. I bet he’s also taken the opportunity to fill them in on Detective Collins’s call to me. Wrong place, wrong time. I’m not being crazy. This all just feels . . . off. And while I can’t claim to be consistently settled, this persistent edgy feeling, like I’m constantly on the verge of a panic attack, is how I existed before James.
Consistently settled. There are times. They’re always brief but blissful. The times when James takes me away. He’s mastered the art of calming me. Problem is, he can’t devote every minute of the day to doing that. Not here in Miami, at least. He makes a damn good try in St. Lucia, though.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and smell him before I see him, the creamy, manly scent with an edge of spice. Heaven. Then I see him, and I feel my heart race and settle at the same time. Gray trousers, open-collared blue shirt that makes his eyes shine, a light tan belt to match his shoes. Stubble. Sleeves rolled up. He’s smart casual. So damn handsome. Looking at him now, even when his face is unreadable, it’s hard to imagine him as The Enigma.
