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“Don’t be. He’ll be dead before I leave this world.”
“Amen,” Otto pipes in, and my eyes turn onto him, finding his grip of the wheel turning his knuckles white. Goldie isn’t a woman who needs protection. Not now, at least. But she’s got it. I settle back in my seat and turn a small smile onto Goldie, but it falls when I find her still staring at my stomach.
And it hits me. Oh God. A baby? She must sense my change in persona, the increase of my sorrow, because she snaps out of her daydream and looks at me with sad eyes. My hand is on hers in a second without thought, squeezing, telling her I’m sorry again without words. She looks away, but her hand turns and accepts mine, squeezing in return. Abortion? Miscarriage?
“You ready for that ten-bedroom villa full of women?” she asks, but only after clearing her throat.
“Damn straight I am,” Otto replies, pulling off the main road into a street. My street. “Beats ice cream in the park, you pussy.”
I frown through my increasing anxiety, as Goldie laughs and drops my hand, reaching forward and smacking him over the head. “Fuck you, Dino Dick.”
The car has stopped outside Lawrence and Dexter’s house. I have to get out and face my uncles. I have to see if that bottle of Krug is hiding something. “I think I should go alone,” I say, trying to sound assertive but only achieving a whisper.
Otto’s laugh and Goldie’s sympathetic smile don’t bode well.
“Over my dead body,” James grunts, swinging the door open and getting out. I watch as he looks up at the house, pulling his T-shirt out the back of his jeans.
Concealing his gun.
I hop out and join him on the sidewalk. “You don’t need that.”
“Don’t tell me what I need, Beau.” His dismissal riles me, and then he further insults me by walking away. “Wait in the car.”
He’s not fucking real. I go after him, and when he reaches the door, I muscle past him and plaster my back against it, craning my neck to look him in the eye. “I will handle this.” I haven’t come here to argue, and the hostility pouring off James is a recipe for exactly that. An argument. “I’ll get the champagne and we’ll leave.”
“And your passport and some clothes.”
“Fine.” I turn to the door, pushing it open slowly, listening. If I’m lucky, Lawrence is out shopping and Dexter is on shift.
I’m not lucky.
Both appear in the kitchen doorway, Lawrence with puffy red eyes and Dexter looking utterly worn out. “I’m just collecting a few things,” I say, motioning toward the stairs.
“You’re moving out?” Lawrence blurts, his lip wobbling again as he backs up into the kitchen and lowers to a chair.
Moving out? I wish I was only moving out. I turn to James. “Give me a minute,” I plead, wishing he’d lose the angry lines on his face. He doesn’t respond, and I can see he won’t. He’s not moving.
I turn and go to the kitchen, passing Dexter on a small smile and settling down next to Lawrence, taking his hand. I can’t leave him on bad terms. “I’m okay.”
“Okay? My God, Beau, you are far from okay.” He squeezes my hand, his hold begging.
“I’ll make coffee.” Dexter takes the coffee jug and empties the old filter, as James comes to the threshold, standing in the doorway. I motion for him to take a seat. He shakes his head.
“We can help you,” Lawrence says, talking as if James isn’t here.
“I don’t need help.”
His bottom lip slips between his teeth, and he gnaws on it, assessing me. Disagreeing with me. “You’re throwing everything away, and for what?”
Freedom. Peace. A life I’d long accepted I’d lost. But Lawrence would never understand, and there is only so much I can share, which makes convincing him harder. Or, actually, easier. I don’t think anyone could understand James and me. Only us. It kills me over and over, but I accept defeat and move my hand out of Lawrence’s. I’m fighting a losing battle. And James is fighting a winning one.
I hope.
I have to be sensible with my time—it’s not on our side, and sitting here attempting to break Lawrence down is wasting it. I give him a small, sad smile, a smile that tells him I’m hurting, and start to stand. I only manage to lift my ass off the chair a few inches when the door from the yard flies open, ricocheting off the wall with a bang.
Ollie appears.
Armed.
His weapon pointed at James behind me.
I fall back to the chair, Lawrence cries out, and Dexter drops the coffee pot. It smashes on the counter, the sound of breaking glass echoing around the kitchen. “Ollie?” I whisper, taking him in, noting his distressed state. He’s . . . edgy. Sweaty. Shaky.
