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“Stop whining,” she says, smiling down as she holds the cold cloth over the wound. I wrinkle my nose and grunt an apology as I stare at Beau’s heavily scarred arm. I should not be bitching about a small scold in front of a woman who is scarred for life by fire. “Who were you talking to?” she asks.
“Myself,” I admit, relaxing back on the counter.
She peeks up at me. I hate the knowing in her eyes. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“What time did you get in from the club?” She lifts the cloth and inspects the damage.
“Four.”
“Brad, come on. You need more than two hours’ sleep.”
You tell my mind that.
Beau leaves me by the counter and goes to the cupboard, pulling out a box and some cream. “How much longer can you go on like this?”
Until I can be sure I can close my eyes and not see red. “I’m fine.”
“Seriously?” She squeezes some cream onto my hand and rubs it in, and I try my fucking hardest not to hiss. “You need to speak to Doc.”
“Doc can’t help me.”
Looking up at me, she sighs her annoyance, and her hand comes forward, reaching for my shorts. I watch on a frown as she dips into my pocket—fuck—and pulls out a small plastic bag full of white powder, her head tilting accusingly.
I don’t appreciate it. I swipe it out of her grasp and stuff it back in my pocket. The Florida snow is in case of emergencies. Like every day right now.
“Well, I spoke to Doc,” she says. “He said he might be able to help.”
“You talked to Doc about me?”
Her eyes narrow, angry. I know she’s worried. She needn’t be. Holding up a pot, she tilts her head. “Sleeping pills.” She doesn’t give me an opportunity to reject them, slipping them into my pocket.
With the cocaine.
“Haven’t you got other things to worry about?” I ask, turning to the coffee machine to top off my cup. “A nursery to paint, a husband’s kink to suppress?”
“God, you’re a dick sometimes.”
“Better than a pussy-whipped killer who’s under the thumb.” I smile at the machine, waiting for it. She doesn’t disappoint. I get an elbow in the back, making me grunt and fold a little. “Coffee?” I ask.
“I’m not allowed coffee.”
I look over my shoulder, seeing her in the fridge. She pulls out some of James’s signature green slop and grins around the rim before she swigs some back. I grimace and head out of the kitchen. James has more than a short leash on Beau these days. No one can blame him after what they’ve been through. I’m surprised he hasn’t actually wrapped her and his unborn baby in cotton wool.
“When are you going on your honeymoon?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Good question.”
I stall at the door and look back. Her head is tilted again. Fucking hate it. I know Beau well enough to know when her cop instincts are buzzing, and they’ve been buzzing for the past six months since Danny walked out of this mansion on the warpath to chase that Russian fucker Sandy down. What a fucking shock that was. No man wants to find out the guy he’s about to do business with, albeit illegal business, is the man who raped his wife when she was fourteen. Jesus fucking Christ. No one could have anticipated that twist. Unfortunately, Danny’s reckless pursuit of Sandy led to him being shot. Three times. The jerk also returned, on his knees, and told his wife the man who’s haunted her for the past fourteen years was dead. He isn’t. Sandy, the cunt, sped away in his Bentley, and no one has heard from him since. Or found the fucker. It’s not through lack of trying. Between Danny, James, me, and the others, we’ve turned Miami inside out. Pushed out to New York, where Sandy was supposedly moving in on. Nothing. It’s eerily quiet these days. The Bear’s dead, along with most of her army. But are we relaxing?
Never.
“For some reason,” Beau goes on, lowering her puke juice to the counter. “We can’t go until . . .” Her eyebrows rise. “What?”
“What?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
