“I have no dresses.”
“Then you’d better get that sweet, slim ass over to my place.” I go back inside and a few seconds later, Beau’s next to me by the closet rummaging through my clothes. “Take your pick,” I mutter, looking at all the dresses solemnly. “None of them fit me anymore.”
She pulls out a white dress, looking it up and down. “This is the dress you wore the night we met.”
“And this is the one you wore,” I say, reaching for the cream piece I also wore the night Danny took me to a lovely Italian place and murdered two men.
“I think I need to go shopping,” Beau says quietly.
“Yes!” I hang the dresses back up. “I’m getting fatter by the day, and you need some dresses. I’ll plan a shopping trip.”Somehow.
“And until then?” she asks, looking across the rails of dresses.
“You should wear this one,” I say, pulling out a lovely Boho chic tiered piece that falls just below the knee. “I’ve not worn it yet, which means no one has died in the presence of this dress.”
She laughs and takes it from me. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. It suits your free spirit better, anyway.” I start looking for something to wear myself. Something stretchy.
Beau’s cell rings, and every inch of her tenses, telling me exactly who is trying to reach her. “Miami’s next mayor?” I ask as I pull out a gold slinky dress that’s got some give.
“What the hell am I going to say to him?” She toys with her phone, torn between answering and ignoring. “Actually, I’m more worried about what he might say to me.” She takes a deep breath and connects the call. “Dad.” She starts pacing, her eyes low, the dress in her hold, and I pray this call won’t have her returning to her room and bed. “I’m sure they’re doing everything they can,” she says, looking at me, shaking her head. “I don’t know, Dad.” She lays the dress on the bed and starts walking again, watching her feet. “Tonight? I’m sorry, I have arrangements with a friend.” She’s cringing. But I also sense her conflict. She feels sorry for him too. So do I, the old fool, being hoodwinked by a gold digger, but I still don’t like him. I also don’t care if he lost every penny he has, but I do because that’s Beau’s inheritance, and I can think of no one I’d rather have Beau’s egomaniac’s father’s money less than Amber. I shudder. Amber who was the in-house whore when I arrived at Casa Black. Amber who Danny has fucked. And suddenly, I can hear them, her screams, the bangs on the wall. Because he wanted me to hear, right after I’d practically offered myself on a plate and he rejected me.
Stop!
“They’re my friends, Dad,” Beau goes on, bringing me back to the present. “I know you’re running for mayor.” The heel of her palm meets her forehead. “Then I won’t come on campaigns with you. Simple.” She pulls the phone away from her ear and covers the speaker. “I can’t even deal with him right now,” she whispers to me. “He’s at a hotel downtown. Wants me to meet him for dinner in the lobby bar. Is it bad I’d rather eat razor blades?”
I shake my head.
“I’ve got to go, Dad. I’m late. We’ll do dinner next week, okay?” She hangs up, ties her hair, and pulls her robe in. “Where’s your makeup?”
13
JAMES
I walk out of the lobby bar of the hotel and immediately slip a cigarette between my lips, my body tense. I frown at the flame of the lighter as I hold it on the end. It’s not only flickering, it’s shaking, and I move my eyes down to my hand. Mytremblinghand. “What the fuck?” I mutter, inhaling and slipping the lighter into my back pocket, looking up and down the street as I cross the road, forcing my body into relaxing and failing miserably, struggling to understand this extreme reaction. I slip into my Range Rover and let the window down to let the smoke out, taking a moment to calm my pounding heart. Unshakable.
I’m stumped.
I don’t know why the fuck I’m shaking. I’ve done the right thing. I only pray Beau thinks so too.Whenshe starts talking to me again.
I start the engine and pull off, having one last pull on my cigarette before flicking it out of the window, heading back to Hiatus. I turn on the stereo. Music. Music will calm me. Pulling up at a red, I smile at the irony when Paradise Circle joins me, and signal to turn right.
But I don’t turn right.
I look over the crossroad, seeing a pink neon light glowing my way. Enticing me. Tempting me. Telling me more relief can be found through those doors. I turn off the signal and put my foot down, passing the club. The chances of him being there? Slim. But it doesn’t hurt to check. I park around the back and go to the trunk, pulling the base up and collecting a Glock, tucking it into the back of my jeans with its friend before taking the rucksack. Then I google The Pink Flamingo to check who owns the place. Elsa Dove. I nod to myself, checking her out, finding an uptight looking middle-aged blonde in a trouser suit. Divorced. Previous socialite. Wealthy parents. Then I check out who manages the place. Des Stanton. Single. History of drugs. Parents dead. It tells me all I need to know.
My strides are long and purposeful as I walk to the front, getting eyed by the men on the door. They both look me up and down, then to each other. “We gotta search ya, man,” one says, the brave one.
“You don’t gotta search me,” I assure them, turning and lifting my T-shirt. “I just want to see if there’s someone in there, then I’ll be gone.”
They throw each other wary glances. “And if that someone is in there?”
“I’ll remove him, because I’m pretty sure the owner won’t want him frequenting her establishment, even if the man running the place for her does.”
“Yeah, okay, cool, man,” the other says, hands up. “We’re not paid enough to deal with this kinda trouble, man.”
Wise men. I brush past them, then push my way through the double doors, scoping the joint from one side to the other. The shit music. The tacky décor. The cheap furniture. I have to squint to protect my eyes from the glare of the sickly pink neon lighting assaulting the place.