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“Stay where you are,” he says, his voice shaky too, as he moves farther into the kitchen, his eyes laser beams on James behind me. I look over my shoulder slowly, wary to make any sudden movements, keeping as calm as possible. It’s a difficult task when my insides are in chaos—my heart pounding, my lungs shrinking, my stomach turning.
James is still and steady in the doorway, his focus unmoving. “Put the gun down,” he warns Ollie, only his mouth moving.
“Shut up.” He approaches James, edging closer warily, jerking the gun in gesture for James to raise his hands.
Wisely, James slowly lifts his arms, calm and collected, but I can see the monsters swirling in his eyes.
“Ollie, what on earth?” Lawrence breathes, and I slowly and blindly reach for his arm, settling him, telling him to be calm.
Ollie proceeds to pat at James’s torso, feeling around his back while holding the gun to his chest. He pulls James’s gun free from his jeans and tucks it in his own trousers, and the whole time, I’m waiting, tense, for James to make his move. Because he could. One swift, meticulous move could have Ollie disarmed and on the floor before I could draw another breath. Except he remains a statue. He lets Ollie take his gun.
And it hits me.
If not Nath, then who?
Ollie.
Oh my God.
I stand, shocked, and James’s eyes turn onto me, silently warning me away, but if anyone can talk some sense into Ollie, it’s me. I have to try. He looks so volatile. He looks ready to fire that gun. “Ollie, look at me,” I order gently.
“Beau,” James grates, his hands still in the air. “Sit the fuck down.”
“Ollie, think about this,” I plead.
“Beau, don’t make me tell you again.”
“Ollie,” I go on, ignoring him. “Be wise.”
“Beau!” James barks, and I flinch, the aggression and anger in him shocking me. “Sit. Down.”
I feel Lawrence’s hand take mine and pull, but I resist, unable and unwilling to let what’s inevitably going to happen play out. “Ollie—”
“Do you hear how he talks to her?” Ollie asks over a salacious laugh.
“I want her out of the firing line.” James flicks his eyes to mine, and I see something in them. Something I haven’t seen before. Fear. And it makes me slowly lower to the chair.
“The gun’s aimed at you.” Ollie’s grip flexes around the handle. I’ve seen him do that before when we took target practice together. Just a few seconds before he’d fire, he’d adjust his hold a fraction. My heartbeats accelerate. “Did you think I’d stand back and let you ruin her?” he asks James. “I don’t know who you are or—”
James moves so fast, his big body is a blur, and Ollie is quickly disarmed, flying back into the counter. James reaches for his shoulder, pulling another gun, and I hear the safety disengage before he swiftly has his arms braced, the gun aimed.
But not at Ollie, who’s unconscious on the floor, knocked out.
I slowly turn on the chair and find Dexter with his hands up in surrender.
My mind explodes. “James?” I question quietly, as Lawrence jumps up and shrieks. “James, what are you doing?”
He says nothing, leaving my head swinging back and forth between him and Dexter, who remains still and quiet.
“James! For fuck’s sake, talk!” I grab Lawrence’s hand and yank him back down to the chair as James lowers to his haunches and collects Ollie’s gun from the floor. He rises, engaging the safety, and comes to me, but his eyes never leave Dexter.
“Take it,” he orders me, and I do because I don’t know what else to do except listen to him. Trust him. I release the safety again.
“What’s going on?” Dexter asks, still backed up in the corner, his eyes darting around the room, looking for anyone to enlighten him. “What is this madness?”
“How did you know where I lived?” James asks calmly, his voice so composed, his body equally so, whereas everyone else in the room seems to be shaking with nerves, including me. “When you and Lawrence visited yesterday, how did you know where I lived?”
“Beau mentioned it,” he blurts urgently.
My eyes drop to the table, my thoughts chasing in circles. I try desperately to slow them. To get things straight. It doesn’t take me long. “No, I didn’t.” I look up at him in question. “I’ve never shared where James lives.” Of that I’m certain. I made a point of it, in fact, because I knew any one of the men in my life, most in law enforcement, would dig. I made a conscious effort to keep everything about James a secret.
“You did,” he argues. “Right here in the kitchen.”
“What are you suggesting?” Lawrence barks, outraged. “Where the hell is all this leading?’
I shake my head. “I never shared anything about James, Dexter,” I say quietly, wondering what the hell this means. I look at James. He has a million apologies in his eyes.
