Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
“Well?” he prompts.
“Leave my wife out of it.” Danny stands again, and I reluctantly accept that shit is about to go down, and no one can stop it, not even Danny’s mother. I doubt Rose could either, if she was here. It’s just a matter of who launches first.
“Is it safe to come out yet?” Brad asks, peeking out from under his arm, just as Danny flies across his desk and takes Otto off his feet.
“That’s a no, then.” Brad retreats back into his darkness, and Goldie gets up, looking at me, palms up, asking what the fuck we should do. Honestly, I don’t know.
“Leave them,” Ringo says, holding an arm out in front of Goldie, as if holding her back. I take his stance. I’m not getting in between them either.
“Oh God,” Esther says, as Otto rolls them, getting the upper hand, straddling Danny. He launches a fist right into his face, and everyone winces at the sound. Blood sprays, Esther puts her face in her hands, and Danny roars, flying up, blood spread over every inch of his scarred face. He looks like a fucking psycho. An absolute, raving, psycho, his teeth bared, his cold eyes wild. Otto’s got a few years on Danny, he’s sturdier, heavier, but I’m worried for him.
I step back when they come toward me, Danny throwing Otto on the desk and returning the favor, making a mess of his nose too. More blood. And Otto, the crazy fuck, laughs dementedly. It’s the worst thing he could do. And all of a sudden, both men are a blur of swinging fists, deafening bellows and downright craziness.
Punch after punch, kick after kick, yell after yell, they go at each other like rabid cavemen, smacking into walls, knocking the glasses over on the drinks cabinet, knocking fucking pictures off walls. This has been brewing for weeks. The small altercation in St. Lucia and at the boatyard didn’t cut the mustard. They need to get this out of their systems. Again.
We all move out of their way, me pulling Esther from the path of their wild, flying limbs more than once, but there is nothing I can do for Brad, who’s a sitting duck on the couch, hiding from the ugly.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” Danny yells.
“Fucking try it,” Otto roars. “You fucking brat.”
Then they land on Brad and his scream is ear-piercing, his face draining of blood in an instant. Danny and Otto snap out of their fits immediately, scrambling up, and look at Brad, who is in absolute agony on the couch, holding his shoulder. “Fuck!” he shrieks, as I hurry over, barging the two idiot kids out of my way to get to him. His dressing is drenched in blood, the wound open beneath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“Someone get Doc,” I order, pushing Brad’s knees down, stopping him from curling into a protective ball so I can get to his wound.
“Fuck!”
“You’re good,” I say, peeling the dressing away and pulling my T-shirt off, pressing it into the wound.
“Doesn’t fucking feel it.”
“Stiches have popped.” I can hear Danny and Otto sniffing and heaving behind me, and I look back, livid, just as Esther moves between them and gives Danny a stinger of a slap, followed by Otto. Both men blink in surprise, and Danny reaches up to his face, feeling it.
“Mum?” he questions, looking like a lost little boy.
“No more,” she says firmly, her jaw tight as she turns to Otto. “And if you ever lay a hand on my boy again, we’re done.” She comes to Brad and crouches, assessing him. “I’ll get you some tea,” she says, stroking his hair. “Sugar?”
He nods. “Please, Mom,” he murmurs, clenching his eyes closed. Esther gets up and leaves, not giving Danny or Otto a second look, and Doc enters, bag in hand.
“Open stitches,” I say, moving to give him space.
“Oh dear. How did that happen?” All eyes turn to Danny and Otto, who both look pretty sheepish. “And what happened to you two?” Doc asks.
“Misunderstanding,” Otto mumbles, swiftly leaving, no doubt to go after Esther and try to apologize.
To my surprise, Danny stays in the room. “Fuck it,” he hisses, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Brad, mate, I’m sorry.”
“Fuck off,” he hisses. “You’re being a fucking child. Take me to my room.”
I press my lips together and look at Doc, who nods his acceptance. Ringo comes to help, and we carefully help him up. “Can you walk?”
“Yeah, I can fucking walk.” Brad puts his good arm around me as Ringo moves into his other side, ready to be leant on, and Goldie runs ahead to makes sure our path is clear. It’s probably just as well—Danny needs a moment alone to calm the fuck down. “We should check in on Hiatus later,” I say shortly, reminding The Brit that while he’s behaving like a child and throwing a hissy fit over who his mother, a grown woman, chooses to see, we still have shit to deal with. “Nolan’s holding the place up on his own.”