Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
I open the box and find a tube of cream and a small bottle of lavender oil. I laugh under my breath. Does he have these little care packages at the ready?
“Fuck.” I drop it to the floor and rest my head back. “What are you doing, Beau?” I ask myself, just as the doors slide open. Goldie looks down at me where I’m on my ass. “I don’t need a ride home,” I say before she offers. Her eyes fall to the box on the floor before slowly returning to me. “I used to be smart.”
“A handsome, fucked-up man can make any smart woman stupid.” She offers her hand, and I take it, letting her pull me to my feet. I don’t miss her taking in the welts on my wrists. “And a beautiful, fucked-up woman can make any smart man stupid.” She says it so quietly. But I hear her. Is James being stupid?
“Who are you to him, Goldie?” I ask, with no confidence she’ll answer me.
She steps inside and hits the buttons. “Take it easy, Beau.” The doors close, and I stare at myself in the mirror for too long. My cheeks are still flushed. My wrists red raw. My hair a crazy mess.
I swallow, turn, and walk through the lobby in a haze, a complete muddle, collecting my keys from Otto as I pass. “I brought your car up from the garage. It’s on the street.”
“Thanks.”
I make it outside and look up to the dark sky, gulping down air, trying to get my breathing under control.
God help me.
17
JAMES
The figures on the screen all blend and blur, my concentration shot, as the people in charge of my fortunes tell me where it’s stashed, invested, and how trading’s going. “Email me the reports,” I say, eager to get them out so I can resume the mindfuck that is Beau Hayley.
“Sure.” Michelle gathers up her things as Pierce shuts the laptop, and I see them to the elevator.
“Thanks for accommodating the late hour.” The doors open, revealing Goldie. Her laser stare tells me I’m about to cop it.
I turn and head to the drinks cabinet, seeking some backup from alcohol, as she sees off my guests. I take my vodka to the foot of the glass pane that spans the side of my apartment and stare out across the city, my mind in chaos.
“Otto is with her,” Goldie says from behind, and I nod, taking a swig of my drink.
“And the guy she saw last night?” I ask.
“Agent Oliver Burrows. FBI and ex-fiancé. They shared a hug outside the store. Obviously, I don’t know what they shared once they were at his place.”
I scowl at the window. “Thanks.” So the ex-fiancé is sniffing around again?
“Does she know yet that her appeal has been denied?” Goldie asks.
“No,” I answer with certainty, since Spittle confirmed the official letter has only just been sent.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” she goes on.
“Not a fucking clue.”
“Want some advice?”
I laugh under my breath. My answer won’t mean a thing. “No.”
“She doesn’t deserve to die.”
“I know.” I turn to face Goldie. “But I’m not the only one who needs her dead, am I?”
“So you fucked her?”
That wasn’t a fuck. That was an experience. “It seems like a better alternative to killing her.” I raise a sardonic eyebrow, and Goldie rolls her eyes. “It’s nothing,” I go on. “Get over it. I need to keep her close until I know I’m in the clear.” It wasn’t nothing. It was everything. Like our darkness and torture blended, melded, and the weight of it wasn’t so fucking heavy anymore. It was as if we shared each other’s agony, and in those moments, it wasn’t as painful. The hurt, shared. Pain, welcomed. Scars, meeting.
A connection.
A fucked-up connection.
And I’m fucked if I know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with it. I need to keep her close. She has a purpose, but regardless, Beau Hayley is a dead woman walking.
Because if I can’t bring myself to kill her, someone else will.
18
BEAU
As I climb out of Dolly, I thank every god in existence that Lawrence and Dexter aren’t home. My arms are bare, showcasing my new collection of welts, my scar is, unusually, on full display, my hair wild, and I’m wearing a man’s T-shirt. I’m a walking box of guilty signs.
I slip my key into the lock, pushing the front door open and flicking on the lights in the hallway.
I come face to face with Lawrence.
My arms instinctively go behind my back. “What are you doing here?” I ask, sounding as alarmed as I know I must look. “You’re supposed to be on stage.” Although he’s Lawrence right now, he has the remnants of Zinnea’s lipstick smeared across his lips.
He looks me up and down, taking in the black T-shirt that isn’t mine. “Are you okay?” he asks, as Dexter appears in the kitchen doorway behind him, his glasses resting on the end of his nose. His eyebrows get gradually higher as he takes me in too.