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Fucking. Red.
13
ROSE
* * *
We’re in the kitchen, it’s quiet, and Esther has set up all the breakfast things as per usual. I sip my coffee. “Sleek.” I smile down at the mood board as Beau tweaks a few pictures. The ideas we have, the excitement inside. It’s a big project but God, it’ll be amazing when it’s finished. The go-to destination in Miami. I feel so incredibly excited, a new zest for life—a life with no constraints—blooming. An enthusiasm for business. I know my husband thinks I should be at home playing mom, and I absolutely will, but I need a purpose beyond that. I’ve never earned my own money. I went from being abused to being worshipped. But always kept. This new power I feel? I love it. I want more. Besides, it’ll take a few years to achieve this vision, so my husband has nothing to worry about. I’ll be the mom both he and I want me to be. Maggie will be starting kindergarten before we know it, and then what? I sit around this big mansion waiting for school drop-offs and pick-ups? Wait for my husband to get home from work? No. “Do you think they’ll approve the plans?”
Beau pouts at her design. “We could talk to the mayor,” she says, looking up with a crafty smile. “No bribing, just a friendly chat.”
“Monroe Metcalfe doesn’t look like the kind of man who could be bribed anyway.”
“Which means our boys have less chance of messing this up for us.”
I hum. “But they could threaten death. Blackmail him.” And I bet they’ll try, if only to get the power back. For God’s sake, they have Byron’s Reach. They don’t need more land for their jet ski/gun business, especially now that there are no enemies.
We both look up when Anya walks into the kitchen, her face lighting up when she spots the plans on the island.
“Come see,” I say, waving her over. “This will be the restaurant area, here’s the beach loungers, with waiter service, of course, and this here is the massage emporium.” I smile down at the drawings.
“I can’t wait.” Anya jumps on a stool and pulls the papers closer. “I was thinking of taking an aromather . . . arom . . . aromat . . .”
“Aromatherapy,” Beau says, smiling.
“Yes!” She beams at us before going back to the plans. “I can work at the club at nighttime, and at the beach club in the daytime.”
“You can tell Brad,” I mumble out the corner of my mouth for only Beau to hear.
“What?” Anya asks, looking up.
“Nothing.” I smile and collect my breast pump off the table, pulling down the strap on my tank and unclipping my bra as I check the baby monitor, seeing Maggie sound asleep in her crib. “Where’s Pearl?” I ask, attaching the pump to my aching boob. “I want her to see these.”
“She’s upstairs. She’s . . . quiet.”
Beau and I both caught the stench of tension at our meeting when she walked in. Brad looked like he was about burst a blood vessel. “Quiet,” I muse, exhaling my relief when the pressure subsides in my boob. Anya gives us a telling look. She’s sensed it too. I don’t know about the men. They were so busy focusing their fury on us and our intended transformation of Winstable to notice much else. Since Danny told Pearl about Brad’s hooker and cocaine binge, the dreadful atmosphere that fell every time they were in each other’s orbit got worse.
“Maybe she found out about the woman Brad had in his room the other night,” Beau says.
I don’t know if I should be happy his attention is focused elsewhere. And perhaps that really is why Pearl is quiet. Upset? God, this isn’t good. “We need to set Pearl up with someone.” Someone her own age. Someone who isn’t guaranteed to fuck her up, because that’s Brad. She’s been through enough—her parents’ murders, being taken to be sold.
“We might not need to.” Beau wriggles her eyebrows and goes to Anya, pushing a lock of her long, dark hair out of her eye. She smiles her thanks. “Leon’s got his eye on her.”
I gasp, jerking, and as a result my breast pump disconnects from my boob. “Fuck.” Milk dribbles down my tank as I reattach it. “Leon?” I ask.
“Leon?” Anya parrots. “He doesn’t seem Pearl’s . . .” She pouts, thinking.
“Type?” Beau prompts, pulling a jug from the fridge.
“Yes, type.”
“Well.” I laugh. “A killer wasn’t my type until he kidnapped me.”
Beau snorts. “And an assassin wasn’t mine until he . . .” She darts her eyes, a little red in the face. “Never mind.”
I chuckle, amused, as Anya’s eyes widen. They’d fall out of her head if Beau finished. I know exactly what happened between Beau and James. It involved restraints. And her ass.
“What’s your type, Anya?” I ask, relieving Beau of the attention.
