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)
His frown only heightens my anger. “Beau?”
“Where the fuck is her husband?” I seethe, seeing Danny approaching behind James, his face a picture of concern, which makes me wonder how crazy I must look. As crazy as I feel? I’m certain it’s not possible. “Masturbating in the corner somewhere?”
James steps back, hands up, as if handling a ticking time bomb. “What?” he says warily. He knows. He absolutely knows what, but I absolutely do not mind telling him.
“This.” I thrust my cell in his face, and he is forced to seize my wrist and hold it still so the screen stops shaking long enough for him to see the image. “Tired of dealing with the shit you’re creating?” I ask. “Not getting enough out of this relationship anymore so moving back to old habits?”
His jaw rolls. It’s a fucking insult. “Stand down, Beau,” he orders in a deadly tone I should probably pay attention to. And yet I don’t. My rage is ruling me. My body trembling, a red mist fogging my vision. I feel like control is slipping away rapidly. I need to let go of this pressure. I need to explode.
“I will not fucking stand down!” I yell. “How fucking dare you? You stand down!” I shove him out of my way and march to the bar, not ordering a drink, but swiping up a glass of red that’s already there, not bothering to check whose it is or if they mind. I’m pretty sure they won’t challenge me.
I down it, praying the liquid cools my temper, and gasp, slamming it back on the bar and motioning for another. I can feel many eyes on me, but the music still plays—Swedish House Mafia One (Your Name) right now—and the dancers still dance. I order a second wine before turning around and leaning against the bar, raking a hand through my hair to pull the loose strands off my hot face. I see Danny pull Rose away. I see her grave face. I see Fury looking torn between attempting to remove me from what’s fueling me—James—or leaving me to . . . detonate.
I cast my eyes across them all again. The music seems to get louder by the second, like it’s building to a crescendo along with my temper. Then I look at James. I look at him with all the contempt I feel on a curled lip. I just want to lash out. Hit things. Be rid of this unbridled anger. Release the pressure.
Standing there, his stance wide, his fists balled by his thighs, his jaw ticking, he looks like a deadly mix of power and control. I hate both on him in this moment when I’m straining not to lose my shit. I drink down my second wine and blindly push the glass on the bar behind me. Hurt him. Hurt him. Hurt him. My eyes glued to his, I walk to him, lifting my chin, my whole body rolling with the effort to breathe. I see the veins in his throat pulse. His Adam’s apple sinks and protrudes. His lips twitch. The hollows of his cheeks pulse under his stubble. I find his blue eyes. Eyes that are flames right now. “We’re done,” I say emotionlessly, backing away.
“We’re never done, Beau.” He speaks calmly but looks anything but, his powerful, muscled frame shaking from the strain of keeping his cool.
I turn and walk away.
“We’re never done, Beau Hayley!” he roars. “Broken, fixed, happy, sad, we’re never fucking done!”
I turn calmly and come nose to chest with Fury. “I’m not his anymore, so you do not need to tail me.” I look up at him and get a hint of his mood. Furious. “Back off,” I order, but he says nothing, just moves aside, not because he’s backing off, but because he’s giving James access to me. “No,” I yell, my hands coming up and blocking James from seizing me. “Keep your fucking hands off me.” I turn to leave again, or I try to, but an arm snakes around my waist and lifts me from the floor. “Get off me,” I scream, my arms and legs flailing, throwing my head back, but he anticipates my move—the only move I have in this position—and gets his nose out of the way of my thrashing head.
“Stand fucking down,” he bellows, fighting to hold down my flailing arms. He carries me out of the club, and the looks coming at us are, expectedly, shocked.
I kick, I scream, I fight his hold with everything I have, my anger driving me. I can’t stop. I need this pressure to leave me. I need to be exhausted. But no matter how much I fight, I can still breathe easy.
I need to stop breathing easy.
Stop breathing altogether.
I’m carried across the road, and I hear the sound of brakes screeching, driver’s yelling for us to get out of their way. I think a missile could hit James now and he wouldn’t budge an inch. He stalks down an alleyway to where his car is parked and the headlights blink, the doors opening. He is not putting me in that car. “I said we are done,” I yell.