The Rising, page 48
part #1 of Unlawful Men Book 4 Series
“When Amber held a gun at you,” I say, hating myself for having to ask but needing to ask, nonetheless. It’s playing on my mind. “Did you think she’d pull the trigger?” I look at my friend and see despair. Despair for me, for James, for everyone who’s involved. “Truthfully.”
“Yes.” Rose places her hands in the sand and fists. “If Esther hadn’t showed up, I think she could have in that moment, yes.”
I nod and go back to gazing at the ocean.
“You honestly think she did it?” she asks.
“I think Cartwright knew something that would incriminate Amber. He spent a lot of time writing about my father.” I give her an ironic look that’s way out of place. “Dad was probably paying him.”
“He was a bit of a megalomaniac, wasn’t he?”
I laugh. That’s out of place too. “A bit.”
“So do you think Amber killed Cartwright too?”
“I don’t know. You know her better than I do. Do you think she’s capable of that?” I know what I’m doing and I’m doing it unashamedly. No, I don’t know Amber, but I know what Rose has told me. And I know my dad, a sensible, shrewd businessman, left her every penny. Whether he did that as one last kick while I was down or because he loved Amber, I don’t know. But I saw his face when Amber was exposed as a gold digger. He was mortified. Hurt. And I also know how he treated me. So actually, I’ll never have an answer for why he did it. But I may get closure on his death.
Rose’s expression says it all. Amber is perfectly capable. And why would she run from me when I saw her loitering in the parking lot? “It’s dog eat dog in this world,” Rose says quietly, looking off at the horizon. A pang of guilt stabs me. She’s thinking about when she had to survive in this world. When she didn’t have Danny. I’ve no doubt Rose would have killed if she needed to. “So what are you going to do?”
Good question. It seems I can’t keep James happy and try to prove this. “I’m going to try and salvage what’s left of my relationship.” I push my way to my feet and offer my hands to Rose. “I know I can’t be a cop and be James’s. Your husband has reminded me of that.”
Rose takes my hands and lets me pull her up. “Very kind of him,” she says. “So which will you be? A cop or James’s?”
I link arms with her and walk us back to the cabin. “I need a beer,” I say, ignoring her question. I can’t promise to stand down, and I won’t. I have to get justice for at least one of my dead parents. I have to figure out how I do that without ruining James and me. “Where’s Fury?” I ask, scanning the place.
Rose sighs and then stops dead in her tracks on a slight hitch of breath. “Wait. Shit, you don’t know.”
“Know what?”
She faces me. “The Vikings. Their mom died.”
I step back, my sadness immediate. “No.”
She nods. “Danny let me take Daniel for pizza. Tank got the call while we were there. He called Fury, but they didn’t make it to her in time. Danny gave them some time off.”
I pull out my cell and dial Fury, needing to check if my bulletproof bodyguard is okay. He doesn’t answer. “You went for pizza?” I ask as we continue to the cabin.
“I know. We’re also looking at a school for Daniel.”
“What’s going on?”
“I hope the end is going on. You should go inside and see Lawrence before you leave.”
There are only a few occasions when Lawrence makes an appearance. When he’s hungover, when he’s exhausted, or when he’s worried.
I don’t make it inside. He appears at the top of the steps of the cabin in all his mismatched glory, his face disappointed. I don’t need it. Not now. “I need a beer.” I ask as I approach.
“And a scold.” His eyes behind giant spectacles follow me as I pass. “You fix this, Beau Hayley, do you hear me?”
I turn, inhale, and take a few breaths. “I hear you.”
“I’m going back to St. Lucia. I can’t stand the constant despair and worry being in this city brings.”
I nod, not surprised, not hurt. “Okay.” I fetch a beer from the fridge and flip off the cap as Leon comes at me, nearly knocking my teeth out when he hugs me.
“You’re a goddess.”
“Watch it,” I snap, pushing him away, the stench of marijuana invading my nose. “You stink.”
“I’m celebrating. Where’s J-Boss?”
Lawrence folds his arms over his chest and rests his weight on one hip, tilting his head. Jesus. I go to the changing rooms with my uncle hot on my heels. “It was reckless and selfish.”
“I know.” I pull my locker door open and something falls to the floor at my feet. I dip and pick up the card. Oh, yes. This is just what I need right now. “Do you remember Quinton?”
“Oh, the cute Cuban?”
“Yes.” I hand Lawrence the card. “He said hello. Mentioned that it would be nice to see you.”
“He did?” A blush crawls its way onto his cheek as he plucks the card from my fingers and reads it.
I smile and get changed.
Get ready to fix the mess I’ve made.
* * *
I ride back with Otto and Goldie, who are definitely giving me the silent treatment. So, basically, everyone is against me. I’m not being a victim. I’m accepting that I’m a headache. For everyone.
I walk into the lobby of Danny’s mansion—my home—and Goldie and Otto head to the kitchen, where I can hear people chatting. I don’t go there. I go straight to our room.
But it’s empty.
I dislike the sudden thrum of my pulse immensely. My shortness of breath. The panicked heat rising inside. “James?” I call, going to the bathroom. No life. The shower’s not been used recently. The sink has no water splashes in the bowl. I go to the terrace. No one.
The gym.
He’ll be balancing. Trying to calm down and find his center.
I race down the corridor and the stairs two at a time, and jog to the gym, pushing my way in.
Empty.
“Shit,” I curse, fighting back the rising panic, relaying every awful thing he yelled at me. I don’t understand you anymore. He told me one time that my hate walks hand in hand with my love for him. I swallow. Hate has lost a grip on love. I hardly understand myself anymore.
I back out and go to the kitchen. Everyone is in there, at the table, the island, helping Esther, talking. And it falls silent when they all spot me at the door. “Where is he?” My voice cracks over my question, the worst dread coming over me. That dread only multiplies when people start looking at each other in question, clearly waiting for the person who knows where James is to speak up. No one says a word.
I’m done with this shit, Beau. I don’t know what you want.
You’re clearly hell-bent on doing what the fuck you please, and I’m fucking exhausted trying to stop you.
Otto goes to his phone. Danny’s relaxed face turns tense. And it occurs to me . . . “His car.” I run to the window that looks out onto the front, not remembering seeing it. “It’s not there.” I face the room, my body starting to convulse with the strain I’m inflicting on myself just trying to force steady breaths rather than gasp. I realize I have no right to feel like this after what I’ve put James through in the past twenty-four hours. But . . . it’s unstoppable. The panic. The fear. The worry. He didn’t come home? “Where is he?” I yell, feeling my way to the closest drawer and yanking it open. “The paper bags. Where are the bags?” I slam it shut and yank open another, searching for them. “Dexter always kept the bags in the drawer.” I don’t understand. I haven’t had a flashback. I’m not in a busy, chaotic space. Why is this happening?
A burst of activity breaks out around me, and Rose is quickly in my sights. “Beau, calm down.” She tugs me across to a chair and pushes me down onto the seat, and Doc holds a glass of water at my lips. I sip it, never taking my eyes of my friend, willing this episode to fuck off.
“We’ll find him,” Lawrence says, with absolutely no conviction in his voice, looking at Danny for guidance.
He’s punishing me. This is how James felt when I was missing. My head bats back and forth between everyone around me, waiting for one of them to talk. Tell me where he is. Pull me free from the claws of panic. I’ve pushed him away.
“He’s in the office.”
Everyone looks toward the door as Brad walks in, his arm still in a sling. “What?” I breathe.
“The office. He left his car around the side of the house.”
I get up and hurry to the office, music coming from beyond, getting louder and louder the nearer I get. I burst in unannounced. The music is deafening.
Labrinth.
“Oh Jesus,” I whisper, my hand on the knob as Still Don’t Know Your Name blares. I take in the sight of him. My panic leaves me in an instant and guilt swoops on in and takes its place.
He’s drunk.
So drunk, he hasn’t even registered someone’s in the room. Staggering around, waving a drink in the air, tossing the liquid left and right before refilling and doing the exact same. Still in his wetsuit. It’s like . . . like he’s having an argument with someone who’s not here.
Me.
Except, I am here. I’ve never seen him like this. I close the door and look around for where and how to turn off the music, my ears ringing. I could scream and he wouldn’t hear me. I resort to covering my ears and going to him, trying to get his attention. I put myself in front of him. He stops, stills, looks down at me.
Sees straight through me.
I’m not here.
Pain slices me clean in half as my hands drop and he pushes past me, going to the couch and dropping heavily onto it, letting his head fall back, his eyes closing. He can’t look at me.
Danny appears in the doorway, his icy eyes taking in the scene. James plastered. Me standing like a useless fool in the middle of the room. He pulls his phone out, presses the screen, and the music dies. “Fix it,” he orders, throwing a disappointed look to James, pulling the door closed. But he was telling me. Not James.
Fix it. How? Anything I say won’t be remembered in the morning.
I go to him and lower to the couch beside him, reaching for the empty glass in his grasp. He doesn’t give it up, fighting with me. He wins. Of course he wins. His eyes open, revealing . . . nothing. The expressiveness they’ve gained since we met has gone and the soulless, cold pits are back. “I can’t be around you,” he says, fighting to get his big body up from the couch. “I’m supposed to be enough, Beau.”
I wince, not asking if I’m enough for him. I know I am. “Can’t I have justice for at least one of my dead parents?”
He spins so fast, his big body is a blur, and I back up, wary. “Not if it means I fucking lose you!” He throws his glass, and it hits the frame of the Picasso on the wall, shattering, making me flinch and cower. “Finding him isn’t about revenge for me anymore. It’s about me and you!” His words are clear. There’s no slurring. But his body continues to sway and stagger in between his bellows. It’s as if alcohol has hit his body but not yet his brain. He sounds lucid but looks trashed. “It’s about us having a life together. Happiness. Fucking health.” He smacks his temple with the ball of his hand, making it clear that health doesn’t just mean physically. “Do you want the same? Am I enough?” He walks on heavy legs to the drinks cabinet and takes a bottle of vodka, swigging more than a glass full, his naked, scared back glaring at me. “Or will this innate instinct in you always win?” He faces me, his eyes tortured. “I can’t take part in a fight I can’t win, Beau.”
“You can win,” I say, my vocal cords straining, my voice shaky, wanting to go to him, but I’m too scared. Not of his physical presence. But of rejection.
“Can I?” He comes to me, his eyes never leaving mine. I find it hard to maintain our eye contact. “Because everything tells me otherwise. You. Your actions.” He swallows, and it’s lumpy. “My gut.”
“No.” I step forward, my emotion choking me, and James steps back.
Rejection.
“And these.” He holds up something, and my watery eyes try to focus. My birth control pills. Oh God, no. “You wanted a baby,” he whispers
I feel all breath leave me, my eyes low, the cruel claws on panic creeping up my back again.
“You told me, Beau. In every way, you told me.”
“And you didn’t want it,” I say feebly, going to the couch and lowering, my eyes down, unable to face the mess I’ve made of him. He said I wasn’t ready for a baby.
He throws the pack of pills on the couch. “It had nothing to do with me not wanting it.” His voice is starting to rise again, his temper flaring. “I was worried about you! Fuck, Beau! What is it?” I look up at him, my mind not helping me. Not telling me how to explain. “You don’t want a baby anymore? You don’t want me? Do you want to be a cop again? Oliver Burrow’s fiancée again?” Another swig of vodka, his hand shaking violently as he takes it to his mouth.
“You can win,” I say over a sob. “You can.”
“It’s bullshit!” he roars. “Don’t tell me I can win when you won’t fucking let me.” This time, he throws the bottle, and I jump on a cry of shock as glass pours down like rain, the building tears starting to fall as James’s body vibrates, rolls, burns before my eyes.
“James,” I choke, getting up to go to him.
“No.” His hand comes up, halting my advance, and he looks at me. It’s a look I’ll never forget. One of contempt. Pain. Hopelessness. “I’m not okay,” he says on a whisper, swiping another bottle off the cabinet and leaving.
The door slams, and my eyes explode with tears, my ass hitting the couch, my face hiding in my hands.
Please don’t leave me. Please still love me. Want to keep me.
“Please,” I sob. “Please, please, please.”
Don’t tell me I can win when you won’t fucking let me.
I cry. I cry so fucking hard, my sobs ragged and broken.
Tattered.
Like my heart.
31
JAMES
This is exactly why I don’t drink in fucking excess. My body won’t cooperate, and my mind? It’s unbearably clear. Not nearly as foggy as I need it to be. I focus hard on placing my hand on the polished gold rail and then one foot in front of the other as I climb the stairs, having a break for a swig every five steps or so. I don’t know how long it takes me to get to the top. Maybe half a bottle.
I hear the front door open and turn very slowly and carefully to look down the stairs. Fury and Tank enter, both suited. Danny comes from the kitchen and looks up the stairs to me. I’m sure I see his head shake in disapproval. He can go fuck himself.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking between them.
“Reporting for duty,” Tank says sardonically.
“No. You need time off and, with respect, I need men with their heads in the game.”
The twins cast looks at each other, both unsure. It’s Fury who speaks up. “Our heads are perfectly in the game, Danny, I assure you. And, with respect, now’s not the time for you to be down two men.”
My eyebrows rise, though slowly. Alcohol. Fury’s right, but I can’t seem to make my mouth work to tell Danny to listen to him. Good. The alcohol is finally going to my head.
Beau comes from the corridor that leads to Danny’s office, her eyes puffy, and spots the boys, and Fury is immediately on her, questioning. “I’m fine,” she assures him, offering comfort when she needs it herself, reaching over his huge shoulders and hugging him.
I turn and go to our room, swigging as I go. I can’t look at her. Can’t bear to hear her pathetic excuses, whatever they may be. It’s bad enough she disappeared for twenty-four hours straight because she needed space. To tell me she wants a baby and then do something that pretty much guarantees she won’t have one? I don’t get it. Waiting to see if she comes on her period was torturous. Was she going to leave me to go through that each month? The worry, the disappointment. Wondering how she’d take it. How she’d react? Bracing myself for the backlash. Feeling so fucking helpless. Worried.
I snort, disgusted, and push into our room, slamming the vodka down and dropping to the bed, peeling my wetsuit off and tossing it in the corner. I reclaim my alcohol and take myself outside, laying on a lounger and staring at the sky.
She doesn’t want a baby. Fine. She’s proven today she’s definitely not ready for it. Irresponsible. Reckless.
More vodka.
The clouds begin to travel faster through the sky. They circle, roll, tumble. “Fucking hell.” I grunt and struggle up, blinking back the spin as I stagger to the bathroom, my body telling me it’s had enough—to stop pouring alcohol into it at a stupid rate. My head, however, is still too lucid.
I sup back more liquid, feeling my way across the wall. My body will have to soak it up.
I feel so betrayed.
Really? Because I’m certain you had a fleeting thought to get her pregnant and trap her.
I stop in my tracks and look around, confused. “What?”
Yes. To make it impossible for her to go off around town playing Lara Croft with her ex-fiancé.
I recoil, stunned, turning on the spot, looking for the source of the voice. “I didn’t tell anyone that.”
You told me.
I lose my footing and fall into the nearby wall. I try in vain to save myself, but my drunken body isn’t responding to my slowing brain nearly fast enough, and I land with a thwack, smacking my head on the toilet. “Shit,” I mumble, my words slurring now too, as I fight my way back to standing, somehow managing to still have the bottle in my grasp. Chuffed with myself, I finish my vodka, tilting back on my heels, my face pointing at the ceiling to make sure I get every last drop. It’s now official. I’ve never been so drunk.
Finally. May the numbness commence.
