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I don’t like the sudden tension. Danny answers, holding his cell between us. Doesn’t speak.
The Russian accent has each one of us scowling.
“You killed my men.”
Danny’s eyes are instantly insane. “You raped my wife.”
Sandy laughs. “Oh, it’s coming back to me now. She was good. A nice, tight pussy.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Rose was a child. Fourteen. Probably a virgin. I step back, out of the range of the imminent explosion, nervous. Fuck, Sandy does not want to play that game.
The evil I know and only sometimes love spreads across Danny’s face, deepening his scar, his knuckles turning white around the phone. “I’ll find you, Sandy. And torture you until you squeal for your momma.”
He chuckles, enjoying himself, and the line goes dead. I quickly pry the cell from Danny’s hand before it crumbles, taking his shoulder, massaging, working him down. “You gotta keep it together, Danny.”
He moves away from my touch, his eyes fucking crazy, and stalks toward the water, wrestling his wetsuit up his arms. He’s going out on his jet ski. It’s probably best. It’s open space, the chances of someone getting in his way small. “Fucking hell.”
“He needs to tell Rose.” James follows our loose cannon, pulling a stressed hand through his hair as he goes.
I pace after them, feeling the pressure inside building. I can’t even appreciate the distraction. It’s all too fucking messy.
“Hey, B-Boss,” Leon says, falling into stride beside me.
“What?”
“So Pearl mentioned she’s quit the club.”
Eyes still on Danny’s stalking form as he wades into the water toward his jet ski, I slow to a stop, feeling that pressure heightening. “And?”
“Well”—he kicks his beaten converse, shifting nervously—“we can always do with a few extra hands around here.”
I fucking bet. My throat is tight and my skin prickles. I look over my shoulder, feeling her eyes on me. She’s in a bikini. I look away. “You’re welcome to her.” I march on through a group of men getting ready to go out on the water, arms everywhere as they pull their wetsuits up. One of them catches my shoulder.
“Watch it, you jerk,” he says, hostile.
I stop.
Turn my eyes onto him. He must realize who he’s giving lip to, because he backs up. He has a red flame logo on his wetsuit.
Red.
I can still feel her watching me. I close my eyes. Breathe. Feel her nails in my back. Breathe.
The pressure pot that is my head releases, and I swing, putting the mouthy fucker on his ass. He hits the deck with a thud.
I feel no better. The pressure hasn’t released. “Fuck!” I yell, seeing the same red flame on a nearby jet ski. I snarl at it and search the vicinity. There’s a hammer on a nearby rock along with a bunch of other tools. I swipe it up.
“Brad,” James warns, coming back toward me.
“Fuck off.” I swing and smash into the front of the jet ski, putting a hole through the bow. And I don’t stop there, pulling back and swinging, taking off the throttle, hitting the handlebar. I roar, smashing into the side panel, hole after hole, destroying the machine and yelling my way through it.
By the time I’m done, it’s in pieces, some of it floating away, the crowd behind me silent. I’m sweating. Heaving. I drop the hammer and look down at the water around my feet. Then slowly drag my eyes to my right.
Pearl backs up, folding her arms over her chest, and turns, walking away.
The sun hits her hair and fires shards of light this way.
Blinding me.
