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Safety is just an illusion.
“Do you mind if I make a call?” I ask, accepting the glass he hands me.
“Do you need some privacy?”
I smile over the rim of my glass. Is that chivalry? “Yes.”
“I’ll take this to the couch. Join me when you’re done.” He starts collecting the plates and dishes from the island, and I follow his back across the vast space to the rug in front of the window.
I find my purse by the door and retrieve my cell, dialing Dexter. “Is he okay?” I ask when he answers.
“He is she right now, and she’s wailing like a banshee. Where are you, Beau?”
I look over my shoulder. James is on the rug, his back against the couch. “With a man.”
“Who is he?”
I don’t know. “Just . . . a man.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?
No. “I think so.”
Dexter sighs. “You think so?”
“Will you let him know I’m okay?”
“Are you? Okay?”
I don’t know. “Yes. Don’t wait up for me.” I don’t know if staying meant staying.
“Fine,” he breathes. “Be safe, Beau.”
I smile and hang up, making my way over to James. He looks up at me. “Everything okay?”
I nod and lower to the rug next to him, scanning the mini feast. “This is all very romantic.”
“Have you decided yet whether you hate me or want to fuck me?” he asks, and it’s tactical. James isn’t romantic. He’s simply feeding me. Then he’ll probably fuck me again.
I take a sip of my wine, ignoring his question. It’s been answered a few times now. But what will we talk about, since we don’t want to actually get to know each other? “How long have you lived here?” I ask, gazing around the glass box.
“Five years.”
“You were born in England.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been in the States?”
“Five years,” he answers swiftly, sounding wholly uninterested. “Who was that man?”
My wine glass pauses on its way back down to rest on my thigh, and I shake my head, silently telling him we’re not going there.
He regards me coolly. “A friend? A relative?”
“James—”
“An ex?”
“Okay, I’m going.” I stand and step over his legs, going to find my jeans. We’ve got nothing to talk about. Nothing that falls into the safe box, anyway. This was a mistake.
“Going? Or running away?”
I screech to a stop, staring at the steps before me. He sounds so critical. I signed up for freedom, not condemnation. Picking up my feet, I keep moving, unwilling to get into a fight with a man I hardly know over something he has no clue about. I find my jeans and shoes and slip them on.
James is standing at the foot of the glass panel opposite the elevator when I get back downstairs, looking out across the city. I stop and take in his naked, mutilated back.
“You choose to run, Beau,” he says to the glass, before turning to face me. His hard stare could turn me to ashes. Does to an extent. This is the James I want. The one who fucks like an animal. The one who strips me of hate and replaces it with craving. The ice-cold man. “Maybe I’ll get tired of chasing you.”
“I’ve never asked you to chase me.”
“And there’s the problem with us,” he whispers, while my jaw ticks dangerously.
There are many problems. Many things we should ignore, except I’m finding that easier to do than him. Probably because I need this more than James. And that’s dangerous. It means I’m at his mercy. “And what is that, James? What’s the problem with us?”
“You think you have bigger secrets than I do.”
My mouth snaps shut, my legs taking me back a step.
My other name.
Do you, though, Beau?
I know there’s more to James than meets the eye, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve been ignorant to it. Pushed my insane curiosity back, because, God help me, there is a lot more than meets the eye with me. Add the fact that knowing too much about him might find my lost sensibility, I’ve been, and will carry on being, blissfully ignorant. Until he ruined it. “You keep your secrets, James,” I say, turning and leaving. “And I’ll keep mine.”
“So you’re running again?”
I pause. “This isn’t running. This is choosing to walk in an alternate direction.” I don’t look back.
My admiration just turned into hate.
More hate to stir into the pit of my demons.
25
JAMES.
I need to be rid of this incessant need to make her talk. To tell me things I already know. It’s driving her away when I need to be luring her closer, and not only because of this fucked-up desire for her.
I text Otto.
Watch her.
The elevator opens, revealing Goldie.
“I’m not up for being nagged,” I warn, glancing at my phone when it dings. I ignore the message from Beth. Not tonight.
“Tough.”
“I’m taking Beau to the opera.” I push my phone away and head toward my gym. Since my method of relaxation has just left the building, I need to relax in another way.
