I clear my throat. “My apartment is currently blazing.”
“What?”
“A bomb. He triggered it, thinking I was in there.” I take a left toward Miami Beach, hearing Otto muttering his curses.
“Fuck,” is all Goldie manages. “He thinks you’re dead?”
“Not for long.” I can never return to being an enigma. Not now I’ve put us in the heart of the Miami underworld with the resurrected boss of that heart. “We’re heading to the club. I want you to bring the girls there.” I need Beau close right now. “Use the back entrance. I’ll let Nolan know.”
“Got it. See you there.”
I hang up and breathe out as a screeching fire engine speeds toward us.
We’re both silent as it passes, and I look up to the sun, willing it to keep shining for Beau.
8
BEAU
* * *
“I’m sure everything is fine,” Rose says from the seat beside me in the back of the Mercedes.
I wish I could believe her. But I’ve gotten to know Goldie’s facial expressions pretty well, and her face when she told us we were leaving the beach now was grave. I muster the energy to smile, albeit weakly, and accept Rose’s hand when she lays it between us. She’s gone out of her way to help me today. Moved mountains, literally, considering who our men are, so we could simply leave the elaborate Miami complex that’s my temporary home. She’s brought me to the light and let me soak it up quietly without a word. I’m becoming quite attached to her. Not dependent, like I feel I am with James, but attached. “I’m sure,” I murmur, looking at my cell in my lap when it rings. “Oh God.”
“What? Who is it?” Rose sounds worried, so I’m quick to ease her. I pick it up and show her the screen. “Oh,” she breathes, lips pursing. She knows all about my dad. In fact, Rose knows just about everything there is to know about me now. No one will ever fill the void that losing my mom formed. The open, nonjudgmental friendship. Honesty. But despite the amount of time I’ve spent with Rose, I think her guileless acceptance may come close. A friend who knows all and loves me anyway. Just like a mother would. “Checking in?” she asks.
I laugh. “My dad doesn’t check in. He calls when he wants something.” But I just don’t have the energy to hate him anymore. It’s a weird feeling. So odd. But other forces are monopolizing my anger these days, and they are forces far greater than my egomaniac father. I brace myself and take the call, cringing my ass off. I haven’t even told him I’m back in the country. “Dad.”
“Darling,” he says, and I roll my eyes. I feel a little bit guilty for my reaction. Perhaps seeing me half dead in a hospital pulled his head out of his ass. It’s ironic, really. I’ve been half dead since Mom died. And now he cares? I remind myself of the supposed genuine dinner invitation from him weeks ago. The one that would involve his friend, Frazer Cartwright, who just so happens to be a journalist writing up a piece on the success of Tom Hayley, master businessman. I would have been there as a prop. Nothing more. And I know for a fact I was only invited because he’d deemed me more stable in recent times. I laugh on the inside. I’ve never felt more unstable. Add in the fact that James is now in my life, avoiding my dad feels more compulsory than ever. He’ll want to know every tiny thing there is to know about James. His roots. His job. His ambitions. What the fucking hell do I tell him?
“How are you?” I ask. Small talk. Always is, always will be.
“Busy. How are you?”
I recoil in my seat, truly surprised. He never asks. “Good,” I answer.
“About that dinner.”
I look at Rose, my face twisted. “Dinner,” I mimic. “Dinner with you, or dinner with you and a journalist who’s going to write a glowing article on how successful and humble you are? And what a fantastic relationship you have with your daughter.”
“Now, Beau,” he sighs.
I back down, but only because I’m too exhausted to be locking horns with him. And I’m still sidetracked by the fact that we’re on our way to Brad Black’s club and I don’t know why. “Sure,” I say over a sigh.
“Tomorrow?”
I only just stop myself from blurting a straight, God, no. I’m too beat to argue with him, but I’m also too beat to endure dinner with my father. “Maybe next week?” I need time to build some energy for this.
“Next week? Are you busy?”
No, never busy. He knows that. “I’m just . . . I have a few things to deal with.” This is horrific. Plain horrific.
“Then I’ll pop by Lawrence’s place to visit with you.”