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“Do not fucking say that,” I warn. “Because I’m not old enough to be her father, for fuck’s sake.”
She slams her mouth shut and backs up. “She’s young and naïve, Brad.”
“You need to give her more credit.” I led this. I pushed for it. Or the stupidly crazy chemistry did. Pearl is arguably more mature than I am, and I don’t mind admitting it.
“So she knows you’re just fucking her, does she?” she asks. “You’ve made that clear?”
It takes everything in me not to explode. “Yeah, she knows I’m only capable of fucking, Beau,” I hiss. “I’m going to talk to James and Danny.” To tell them. There will be no more lectures. No warnings. “I would appreciate it if you keep your thoughts to yourself around me.” I storm off, furious, and find Danny and James on the decking with Nolan.
No Ella.
Nolan’s trying to get up. Danny gently pushes him back into the chair. And there’s another something I need to tell them.
“A word,” I say when I get to the table. “Alone.” Nolan looks fucking terrified. It only pisses me off more.
Danny and James both regard me, nodding, before Danny returns his attention to Nolan. “Stay put.” Then he points to a table on the corner of the veranda. I make my way over and the moment we’re all in our chairs, I start getting shit off my chest. “I’ve dealt with Nolan.” They both look at each other. “If he wants to see Ella, that’s his call. They’re both adults.” Neither protest nor point out that the dancers have always been off limits.
“Okay,” Danny says, waving for some beers. They land on the table before he’s found his Marlboros in his pocket. He holds the packet across the table, and I take one, leaning in when he ignites his lighter. James passes.
Right. Now I’m armed with a beer and a smoke, let’s get this shit on the table. “I?—”
“There’s something I’ve not told you,” Danny says, taking on an edge of discomfort, shifting in his chair, fiddling with his bottle. It’s not a look I’ve often seen on The Brit. If ever. I cast my eyes to James. He looks serious. A very familiar look.
“What’s going on?” I ask, reading the signs and concluding quite quickly that I don’t like them.
“The cop Higham mentioned on the phone. Bean.”
“What about him?”
“He’s been”—he clears his throat, shifting again—“talking to someone. Trying to get information on us. Someone we know.”
I feel my hackles rise. “Who?”
“Blackmailing them.”
“Who?” I grate, my hand tightening around my bottle.
“I’ve dealt with it.”
“Who?” I demand, getting more and more worked up. James takes on an unfamiliar shade of really fucking awkward, sending my patience down the fucking drain. I rise from my chair, my breathing out of control. “Will you fucking tell me who?”
“Nolan.”
My mouth goes lax, words escaping me. Nolan? I look across the terrace toward him. Still shitting himself. The fucker. No wonder he’s been so quiet lately. After everything I’ve fucking done for that kid? I drop my beer and my smoke, and take one step, enraged, my fists flexing.
“Wait.” James dives up, grabbing my arm.
“Get the fuck off me.” I shake him off and quickly have both of them on me, forcing me back down to the chair.
“Why the fuck haven’t you dealt with him?” I laugh, looking between them. “What? You think I’ll have something to say about it?” I slam my fist on the table. Yes, I’ve always looked out for the kid, always shielded him from Danny and James’s wrath when he’s fucked up, but all his fuck-ups have been learning curves. This? This is different. This is outright betrayal.
“There’s more,” James says, hands up, a silent indication to keep calm.
More? Jesus, I already want to kill him. Don’t make me want to do it slowly. “What?” I grab Danny’s smokes and light up again, puffing through it urgently, needing calm. And it occurs to me. “What were they using to blackmail him?”
Silence.
I look between them. Serious. So fucking serious. My blood chills, every one of my senses telling me I am not going to like what I hear next. “What?” I ask quietly.
