I close my eyes, breathing in, and accept my fate—my unthinkable, awful fate—sliding down to my ass by the elevator. He looked nowhere near done. It’s all I can see in my mind. That scene. I reach up to my forehead and press my palm into it, trying in vain to suppress my thoughts.
Her moans. The sounds. The music.
His power.
I look to the ceiling, my cheeks inflating from my exhale. And I cringe, thinking back to our telephone conversation again. “Oh, Beau,” I breathe, squirming harder. I can still hear the damn music. It’s not helping, my brain off on a tangent, wondering what’s happening up there. The man in the chair. Has he joined them?
My cell rings, and I jump out of my skin. “Fuck.” I swipe to answer, grateful for the distraction. Any distraction. “Hello.”
“Beau?”
“Hi, Reg.” My eyes glue themselves to the top of the stairs. “How’s Dolly?”
“Dead.”
I recoil. “Break it to me gently, why don’t you?”
He laughs. “You and I both know she’s been on her deathbed for a while, Beau. I’m surprised you haven’t come to terms with it.”
I pout. “Is there nothing we can do?”
“Aside from replacing the engine, no.”
“Why can’t we do that?”
Reg falters. “It’ll cost more than replacing the car, Beau. What with parts and labor. We’re talking thousands of dollars.”
“I don’t mind how much it costs.” I really don’t. Truth be told, with all the money I’ve spent on Dolly over the years, I probably could have bought myself a shiny new, reliable, top-of-the-range Mercedes. But I don’t want a shiny, new Mercedes. I want Dolly. “She’s sentimental, Reg,” I say, but he already knows that.
I hear him sigh. “I’ll see if I can find a bargain engine somewhere.”
I’d smile if I could. It’s a struggle to have this simple conversation with Reg. “Thanks, Reg.” He doesn’t say goodbye, just hangs up, and I blink, my eyes burning from staring at the same spot at the top of the staircase for so long. What on earth shall I say when he finally finds me here?
I don’t have time to ponder that. I hear a door open, and my back straightens. The music stops. I hear voices.
Oh God.
I scramble to my feet and mess with the thread of a rip in the thigh of my jeans as he rounds the corner at the top of the stairs, pulling on a T-shirt as he takes the steps. “Oh my God,” I whisper, my eyes following him down the stairs.
Don’t choke, Beau.
His face. He’s brutally handsome, and yet almost callous. His dark hair is falling around his ears and across his eyes, wet and wavy, his rough, square jaw is tense. His body looks powerful. Hard and powerful, every muscle on his tall physique sharp.
I rip my eyes away from his bare chest, seeing the woman, now fully dressed in a business suit, following him. And behind her, the man from the chair. My mind blesses me with a quick, detailed recap of what I walked in on, although the people heading down the stairs toward me now look . . . different. Composed.
Dressed.
I wait to be spotted, feeling so fucking awkward.
“It was nice to see you, James,” the woman says.
“Sure.” His reply is simple and flat and with absolutely no hint that he feels the same.
“Yeah, really nice,” the man adds.
James halts pulling his T-shirt down his torso, coming to an abrupt stop halfway down the stairs, forcing the man and woman to stop too. His hands remain motionless, still holding on to the material around his chest, his eyes laser beams.
On me.
I swallow.
“Beau Hayley,” he murmurs, as the man and woman regard me with interest. My ability to talk has escaped me. Gone. I swallow, shift, and look away from him, needing a break from his penetrating eyes.
I eventually locate some words. They’re not the words I need, but all the words I can find. “James Kelly,” I whisper, willing myself to look at him. Face him. It’s a task.
I exhale, my shoulders dropping with the air that leaves me.
“Thanks for waiting,” he says quietly, his tone flat.
I dig deep for the woman who always remained cool and unaffected in the face of uncertainty. “No problem.” I look past him to the two silent people in the background, and he glances over his shoulder.
“I’ll see you out.” He continues down the stairs, his naked feet padding toward me, the hem of his frayed jeans dragging the floor. He hits the call button on the wall and the doors open. I move back, out of their way, managing a small, awkward smile to the man and woman as they pass me and enter.
“Beth, Darren, good evening,” James says. The doors close.
And . . . silence.
A horrible, screaming silence.
I look up at him. He’s biting the corner of his lip, his chiseled jaw ticking. He’s thinking. What is he thinking?