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Peace. Peace found in intimacy. It’s new. Unexpected. A bit like the jealousy that found me when I saw her with Oliver Burrows.
I remain in my chair, Beau on my lap sleeping, and rewind the footage to the beginning. And I watch it again, my concentration split between her face and mine. Both are fascinating. Hers because of the sheer pleasure, mine because of the sheer pain.
I didn’t know what I was doing last night when I tied her up, but I knew I couldn’t stop it.
I’m hooked on her. On us. But she doesn’t know me, and that will inevitably change everything. I fuck women to be seen. I take them with an audience because it’s the only time in my life that I can really show myself. I’m known as James Kelly, a private stockbroker, but no one knows who I am. Where I come from. Why I’m here.
But Beau sees me. Even if she doesn’t know what she’s looking at. And I sure as shit see her. She’s blinding. Soft. And though she feels weak, she’s strong. I have to show her that.
My phone bleeps from the desk, and I gently ease forward to claim it, checking that Beau doesn’t stir. I open the message from Otto. A picture of a well-dressed man appears on my screen, and I narrow my eyes on his chubby, cheerful face. He reeks bent. Swiping away from the screen, I dial Otto.
“Who is he?” I ask quietly.
“Judge Ferguson. He’s taking back-handers from someone in exchange for the manipulation of evidence on a man. A man under The Bear’s umbrella.”
“Vince Roake,” I hum to myself. Otherwise known as The Alligator. Jaz Hayley got him in cuffs before I got my knife to his throat. “Could the judge know who The Bear is?”
“No.”
Makes two of us. And it’s as frustrating as fuck. “His movements?”
“I’m on it.”
“Thanks.” I hang up and get the image of the judge back up on my screen, airdropping it to my laptop. I look down at Beau. Dead to the world. Turning on my screens, I drop the judge’s face into the mix, scowling at his photo. Otto was right. The Bear will always add to his army. Until I find the fucker and end him.
My eyes scan across the bank of TVs, landing on the last two. Blank screens. One reserved for The Bear, and the other for who he’s got on the inside. Because that’s a given.
I look down at Beau’s peaceful, sleeping face. “Stop chasing the truth, Beau Hayley.” Because that ends in death.
I gather her up and take her to my bed, settling her down gently, fighting the odd compulsion to crawl in behind her. No. I have shit to deal with. Beau Hayley is a complication. A big fucking complication. She was before I fucked her. Now? “Fuck,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face and backing out of the room. I head downstairs, coming to a gradual stop when Otto steps off the elevator. He holds up a file. The man works fast.
“The judge’s schedule. He’s a busy man.” He drops it on the table and backs up into the elevator. “Can I ask you something?”
“No,” I answer, knowing that won’t stop him.
“Are you going to tell her who you are? What you do? What you did?”
“Do you think she’ll handle it?”
He recoils and reaches for his beard, stroking it thoughtfully. There’s no denying the worry emblazoned across his pierced face. It’s the same as the worry I’m feeling. I’m inviting disaster. “You might not have to even tell her,” he says quietly, glancing up the stairs where she’s sleeping. In my bed. Cozy. Warm. Safe. “Are you forgetting something here, Kel?”
I don’t know, am I? Probably. My head’s completely bent.
“She’s an ex copper, boy. And a talented one at that. Just because she’s quit, doesn’t mean her instinct has. Once a cop, always a cop.”
“You think she’ll hand my arse to me on a plate?”
“You’ll have to kill her before that.”
I swallow and retreat before Otto can bend my head further, going up to my dressing room and dragging out a case ready for Goldie. I check the contents, pull out a few parts, and polish them until they sparkle before slowly piecing the rifle together. I admire my work, slowly turning the gun in my grasp. Beau Hayley is searching for an answer.
And she’s sleeping with it.
I’m breaking the fucked-up scale.
24
BEAU
The stretch of my muscles is something dreams are made of; the delicious pull lengthening every one of my limbs blissful. The warm, soft sheets radiate James’s heady scent, creeping into my nose, waking up my senses. I open my eyes to a soft, hazy, apricot glow in his room. It’s quiet. The room and my mind. Both quiet.
I sit up and tug the loose hair tie from my waves and pull the sheets around my naked body. He’s not here. Shuffling to the side of the bed, I get up and go in search of him. I start in his office. No James. At least, not in the flesh. But the screens are frozen on our sleeping forms in his bed. I reach up to my lips. They don’t feel sore or bruised. My body doesn’t feel tender and damaged. This time was a very different experience, but the result was the same.
