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My head drops back, my eyes closing, and I feel Rose rest a hand on my arm. Why has it only just occurred to me that I have no idea how much my father knows? I need to speak to James. “I’m not staying with Lawrence.” In fact, the house is sitting empty, Dexter’s missing, and my uncle, my dad’s wayward, shameful brother, hasn’t left his room at Danny Black’s mansion yet. He won’t talk. Wouldn’t even look at me when I checked on him earlier. “I’m not there, Dad.”
“Oh?” he says, curious. And then, “Ohhhhh. Him.”
Him. That’s all it needs, really. Him. I don’t need my father’s approval. I don’t really want it, either. But if my near-death experience has brought on this long-lost, concerned, caring figure in him, it would just be a hell of a lot easier to have it. “James.” I say his name clearly. “His name is James.”
“And you’re staying at his place? Moved in? It’s a bit soon, isn’t it, Beau? How long have you been dating him? What does he do for a living? I should know these things.”
For fuck’s sake. He deserves to know nothing. And if he did deserve information on my life, I could hardly tell him that my current address is a supposedly dead assassin’s mansion. Don’t even get me started on the occupation of my boyfriend who I’ve been seeing mere weeks. And if he knew I was pregnant? Was. I let my head drop to the side to find Rose, showing her the immense discomfort I’m feeling. “I’m staying with James, yes.” It’s not technically a lie. I am staying with James. But not at his place.
“Maybe I could stop by there to visit with you?”
I laugh, and it’s unstoppable. “I don’t think so.” My head finds my hands.
“Then bring him to dinner,” he suggests, making me balk. “I suppose I ought to get to know this man.”
Jesus Christ. “Look, Dad, we’ll do dinner.” Soon. “I’ll call you, okay?” Let’s walk before we can run. I’ve spent years hating this man. Blaming this man. Wishing him dead instead of Mom.
“Okay,” he agrees, if grudgingly. “But you should know, one of my latest investments is a beautiful luxury apartment block on South Beach. Let me buy you one. The penthouse, perhaps?”
This is too much. “We’ll talk about it. I’ve got to go, Dad.”
“Ok—”
I grimace and hang up. “Oh my God.”
“He sounds really concerned about you.”
“He does,” I admit. And I have no fucking clue how to deal with it.
I’ve been so busy appeasing my father, I don’t realize we’re idling at the curb around the corner from the main strip on Miami Beach. Goldie and Ringo both look around, Ringo with his hand in the air in silent order for us to wait, Goldie with her cell to her ear. “Round the back,” she says, motioning to a side street not far down the road. Ringo pulls away, and a few moments later, we’re down an alley outside a pair of black iron doors. His hand comes up again, holding us in our seats as he answers his phone.
“Yeah,” he says, as the doors open and the young lad who works for Brad Black appears. “Nolan’s here,” Ringo says down the line. “What do you want me to do with Rose?”
Rose shoots forward in her seat fast. “Are you serious, Ringo?” she asks, halfway between outrage and humor. I see Ringo flinch in his seat, and I catch his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I’m not his damn prisoner anymore,” she goes on. “I’m his wife.” Pulling the handle of the car, she slides out, throwing her purse onto her shoulder. “What will he do with me?” she mutters, marching into the back entrance of the club as I get out with Goldie, who looks amused, and Ringo, who looks thoroughly scorned.
“That told you,” Goldie teases, closing in behind me, getting close but not physically moving me.
“Fuck off, wench,” Ringo spits as he rounds the car, prompting Goldie to laugh her way into the club.
“Glad you two are getting along,” I say dryly, feeling my stomach twist as I take in the decadent space swallowing me up. James wouldn’t order them to bring me to a place he knows I couldn’t cope with. I take comfort in that.
Rich blue wooden paneling lines the corridor with gold-framed portraits set every few sections, each displaying an old photograph of Miami. The battered wooden planks beneath my feet are polished, the ceiling scattered with gold spotlights shining a hazy, dim light on us.
Rose paces determinedly along in front, her glossy dark hair swishing across her back, her jeweled flat sandals clipping the wood rhythmically. Her pretty coral sundress makes her sun-kissed skin glow. I’ve thought it since the second I met her. Perfection. It’s hard for me to believe this woman was once damaged. I glance down my front, to my torn denim shorts and oversized shirt I’ve tried to pretty up by knotting the tails. I don’t feel inadequate next to Rose. Actually, I feel hopeful. She’s like a marker, an example of how I can feel.
