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I scoop up my purse and yank my cell out, checking the screen. Nothing. Not from anyone and, more worryingly, nothing from Nath. “Fuck,” I breathe. What happened to him last night? Why hasn’t he messaged me to tell me what’s going on?
James shakes his head, as if disappointed in me, unbending his body to his full height. “Sit the fuck down, Beau.”
“Excuse me?”
Something seems to pop in him, and he throws his arm out aggressively. “I said, sit the fuck down on the motherfucking chair,” he bellows, and I recoil, taken aback by his explosive rage. Taken aback, yes, but more than that, he’s just revealed something vital. He’s worried about sharing this too. He’s stressed out, though he’s done a stellar job of concealing it. Until now. And it all begs the fucking question: why is he so adamant about me knowing? “Sit down now!”
“What’s your other fucking name?” I yell, slamming my purse and cell to the floor, truly hating myself for needing to know. “Tell me.”
His jaw spasms, his arm trusting toward the stool. “Sit.”
“No.” I need to be on my feet in case I’m leaving.
Nostrils flaring, James paces toward me with conviction, seizing me and carrying me back to the island. I’m dumped on the stool with little care. “Don’t fucking move.” His finger waves in my face, and I smack it away. Who the fuck does he think he’s talking to? I snort and immediately remove myself. And I’m instantly seized again.
“Get the hell off me,” I yell, shoving my elbow back. I hear the crack before I hear his grunt of pain.
“Fuck,” he hisses, releasing me, and I quickly turn and find blood pouring like a waterfall from his nose. He takes his hand to his face, and it seeps between his fingers, still spilling relentlessly. His eyes are pooling, watering terribly, as he blinks repeatedly, startled. Oh God.
He steps back, looking down at his hand. “Are you going to calm the fuck down?” he asks tightly.
Me? “I’m calm,” I grate, hating the guilt that finds me. “You?”
He closes his eyes, collecting himself. “I’m calm.” Going to the sink, he runs the faucet and starts splashing at his face, and I approach behind, seeing the water stained red, the bleeding constant.
I collect a dish towel and flip off the water, taking his arm and leading him to a stool. He sits without instruction, and I move into him, taking the cloth and holding it to his nose. He watches me as I dab and pat. “I think I broke it,” I murmur, my guilt multiplying. “I’m sorry.”
He replaces my hand with his on the towel, keeping it in place, and pulls me onto his lap. “I’m sorry for losing my temper,” he whispers, letting his forehead fall onto my shoulder. Soft James.
I lift my arm so I can get it around his shoulders, threading the fingers of my other hand with his on my hip. “What’s your other name, James?” I ask. This ends now. No more games. No more ignorance on my part. I need to deal with this and then deal with Nath. Deal with everything.
“Let’s get a shower first,” he replies, lifting his head, leaving behind smears of blood. “Then we’ll talk.”
My stomach cartwheels as he negotiates us up from the stool and takes my hand. Talk. We’re going to talk, with words rather than our bodies. I swallow hard as he walks us to the stairs, but just as he takes the first step, the elevator dings. We stop and turn, and Goldie steps out. The usually cool ice maiden looks less than her usual cool self as she exits the elevator with haste, but when she spies us by the stairs, she jars to a halt, and the cool, impassive mask falls into place.
“A word,” she says, her eyes flicking to me. I frown, trying to assess her. She’s unreadable.
I’m forced to rip my inquisitive eyes away when James puts himself before me, blocking my view of Goldie. I look up at him and wince at the sight of his blood-smeared face. “Go,” he says, dropping a light kiss onto my forehead. “I’ll join you when I’m done.”
I start backing up the steps, and Goldie comes into view again beyond James. She’s still and quiet by the elevator, her hands joined before her. Both of them watch me as I ascend, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking. They want to make sure I’m out of earshot.
I turn at the top and round the corner, coming to a stop, listening carefully. I hear nothing, and given the openness of James’s apartment, that means they’re whispering.
Plagued by curiosity, I force myself into James’s bedroom and go to the bathroom, turning on the shower and pulling off the T-shirt. I step under the spray. Whispering. Whispering means someone doesn’t want to be heard. As a cop, I never believed whispers. Whispers mean distrust, so therefore I shouldn’t trust James and Goldie. And yet, I am the interloper. I have no idea how long they’ve worked together, or what they actually do. Do I even have the right to know?
