He frowns, looking confused, a limp hand lifting to point at my cell. “Well, unless I’m missing something, I’m pretty sure you just took a call from your ex-fiancéwho advised you that your father’s been murdered.”
“Why such emphasis on fiancé?” I snap. “What’s your fucking problem?”What’s his problem?Why would I ask such a ridiculous question? Ollie was here, still trying to turn me against James. That’s his fucking problem. I am losing my mind fast. Pressing buttons I shouldn’t be pressing. Saying things I shouldn’t be saying. The walls. They’re suddenly getting higher around me again, brick by brick.
I can see James is fighting to keep calm. “Your father is dead, Beau. You’re allowed to be sad. You’re allowed to be vulnerable.”
“My father was a narcissistic prick who left my mother for a brainless gold digger. My father put me in a psychiatric ward and left me to rot. My father hid me from the world to save his sparkling reputation. My father was a hollow, heartless asshole who worried more about his public image than his daughter’s welfare.” I walk past James. “I don’t want to go home,” I yell back, knowing I’ve left behind one very perplexed man. A man who saved me from drowning in the darkness of everything I just listed to him.
The man who might not be able to save me again.
15
DANNY
“Who the hell was that woman?” Rose is up in my face, and it’s all I can do not to growl back in hers. I’m not wasting my words when she’s going to be getting all the juicy details from Beau the moment they’re together again.
“Are you getting spiky with me?” I ask seriously, walking into her, making her back up. To everyone around us, my move would appear threatening. Borderline intimidating.
It is.
And my wife in all her glory will have none of it. “Fuck you, Black,” she spits, making me recoil, walking forward, turning the tables, havingmeback up. “What’s been going on while your little women have been tucked away safety in your mansion?”
My mansion? I laugh on the inside. It’s not beenmymansion for some time. More like a hotel for fucking reprobates. But back to the matter at hand. She wants to know what’s been going on? “What the fuck do you think’s been going on?” I ask, incensed. “Personal lap dances? Or something a little more”—I push my face up in hers—“physical? A good fuck with a willing whore? Is that what you’re asking?”
She flicks her long dark hair over her shoulder, giving me a run for my money in the snarling department. “You wouldn’t dare.”
She’s right, I wouldn’t, but I’m not about to admit it. Besides, I wouldn’t fucking want to. This is fucking ridiculous. How the fuck did James and Beau’s disagreement become ours? “Carry on like a psycho loony bitch, I might.” And there it is, her palm locking, loading, and firing. My hand shoots up and catches her wrist, and she quickly yanks it free.
“Carry on like an asshole, I might too.” She shoves me aside, the argument now done, and I laugh like an idiot as she stomps to the bar, her ever curvier arse jumping beautifully. That gold dress looks fucking perfect on her perfectly pregnant curves. I suppress a growl and discreetly adjust myself, following her, aware of the eyes on us. She’s made it onto a stool by the time I make it to her, and I push into her back with my chest, vehemently ignoring the biting pain the pressure brings, my hard-on wedging into her arse. She gasps and sits up straight, her hand splaying the countertop.
I push my face into her hair at her ear. “Get upstairs.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, I want to fuckyou.” I physically lift her off the stool and place her facing the right direction. “Move.” I rest one hand on her nape, squeeze a little, the other I slide onto her tummy, stroking softly, and I walk her through the throngs of people toward the office.
“You gonna listen to me if I say no this time?”
Oh, how she tests me. “Yes,” I grate, because of course I’ll fucking listen. Jesus Christ, she’ll never let me forget that, the spiteful bitch. She knows I’m beating myself up about it constantly. I don’t need her help, although she’ll undoubtedly stick the knife in further when she feels like it.
“No,” she snaps, and I stop dead in my tracks, loosening my hold of her neck.
I breath in deeply. Calmly. “Why do you want to hurt me?” I ask. It’s a perfectly reasonable question. Every damn fucking time she’s got the hump, she kicks me in the balls. I know I’ve always said she can take everything out on me, but there’s only so much a man can stand. Yet at the same time, the twisted fuck in me loves being the one person who gives her the chance to fight back, even if she’s out of line. Like now.
She flexes her neck and faces me, her hand resting on her tummy where mine was a moment ago. “I don’t want to hurt you, baby.” She smiles, and I hate it. My eyes narrow, waiting for the blow, and she steps toward me, looking up as she slips a finger past my lips and circles it around my tongue. She pouts, licking her lips, and my wilting arousal springs back to life. She comes closer. Strokes my lips from side to side, watching, concentrating. I realize I’m heading for a fall here, and yet I cannot find the will to remove myself from the reach of her vindictiveness. “I want to pain you,” she whispers, stroking down my front and cupping my dick. I swallow a grunt and close my eyes.
So she’s going to deprive me? Jesus. Deprive me, knowing I won’t ever force myself on her. She’s done this before, of course. It’s her weapon, her ace card that she flaunts when she’s feeling particularly cruel. Or, actually, helpless. But whereas before I could convince her in my own way, I cannot now. Not after my fuck-up in St. Lucia. “I fucking hate you,” I wheeze in my darkness.
She pushes her lips to mine and kisses me gently, and I naturally fall into it, but my hands remain dangling lifelessly at my sides, scared to hold her. “If you think you’re leaving me at home while you sit in a strip joint having girls drooling all over you, you’d better think again, Black.” She drops me. “And I want Esther and my son back here with us.”
I snort. Not a chance in hell. But I don’t say that; I don’t want to escalate things further. Rose passes me, and I turn, my trousers tight, seeing Beau walking back into the club, and a few feet behind, James, looking as murderous as I’ve ever known him to look.
Beau puts herself on a stool at the bar and signals Mason, and Rose joins her, not signaling Mason.
“Fucking hell.” I scrub a hand down my face and go to them. Beau’s face. It’s grim, and an uncharacteristic urge comes over me to help my mate out and explain. “Beau, let—”
“Don’t, Danny,” she warns, in a tone so deadly I listen. It’s rare to see Beau the cop. But she’s here now, firm in her stance, looking pretty fucking gritty, and I’m quickly very worried for that Beth woman.
“Go take a seat in one of the booths,” I say. “I’ll get Mason to bring some ...” I falter, looking at James. He doesn’t look like he wants Beau drinking anymore. I don’t think I want her drinking anymore either.