“Wine,” Beau says, not looking at me. “And we’ll be staying here.” She remains on her stool and Rose doesn’t question it. I’ve just about had enough of insolent women for today. I wave Mason over. “Water for that one,” I say, pointing at Rose, who is quick to swing around and give me daggers. I push out my bottom lip. “Did that hurt, baby? Me talking about you like you’re an object, did that hurt?” I’m so fucking childish. Her fault. “And a bottle of Scotch and vodka for the table over there, since it looks like we’ve been banished.”
I join James. “If it’s any consolation, I’m in the doghouse with you,” I say, sliding into the round booth seating, reaching under the table and pushing into my semi-erect dick, willing it to behave. Two bottles and two glasses land on the table, and I nod my thanks to Mason. I’m pretty sure he’s had more tattoos. His neck? The bloke is covered, head to toe. I pour us both a drink and push James’s across the table, taking my own and sipping while I watch him stare at it. “Yo, bud?”
“Tom Hayley is dead,” he says to the glass, flat and emotionlessly.
I still, my drink hanging in midair. “What?”
“He’s dead.”
I look across to the bar and see Rose with her hands over her mouth, looking at a very still and quiet Beau facing the bar nursing a bottle of red. And Fury’s face says it all too, as he looks at me, as if to check he’s heard right. What? How? When? Who?Why?I shake my head, trying to straighten out my thoughts. “He’s dead?”
“I don’t have many details. Frazer Cartwright called Beau.”
“The journalist?”
“Yes, the journalist.”
“He’s a man in the know, isn’t he?” I quip. “Perhaps we need to talk to him.”
“Agreed.”
“And it’s confirmed?”
“Agent Burrows confirmed it.” James looks at me through hollow eyes. “He was on his way to the scene.”
“Fuck. All this transpired just now?”
“Yes, while Beau and I were”—he cricks his neck, his hand wrapping around his tumbler—“ironing out a few differences.”
“Well, you’re a shit ironer if that shiner on your cheek is anything to go by.” I toast the red mark as James feels at it, then have another sensible sip of my Scotch, wanting to, or needing to, down the lot and get a solid hit of alcohol. But I can’t do that. I can never do that. In fact, I shouldn’t be fucking drinking at all. And yet... I take another sip. “Dead?”
“Gunshot reported.”
I nod, thinking. If I’m brutally honest, the world won’t be so hard done by with no Tom Hayley in it and, being even more brutally honest, it’s one less thing for James and me to worry about, because that man was gunning for us. But...Beau. I look at the girls at the bar again, seeing Rose now rubbing Beau’s back, her stool closer, but Beau hasn’t moved. “Who sent her that picture of you with Beth?” I ask, going back to the initial problem.
James looks up at me as he plays with his glass. “Burrows.”
“But he was on his way to the scene. From here? And why the fuck would he come here, anyway? To make peace?” I laugh. I doubt it. Or... I frown and look up at James. “Or he’s got someone in our club.” I glance around the expansive space, up the stairs to the mezzanine floor. Staff? A client? It could be anyone.
“I think it’s simpler than that, but I’m gonna have Nolan look into it to be sure.” He goes to his phone and taps out a message.
“Wise.” Now, back to the matter at hand. “Do you think this will knock Beau back more?” I ask, topping up James’s drink. She wasn’t exactly head over heels in love with her father. “Her mum, now this?”
“No,” James says. “I think it’ll be worse than that.” He turns his glass slowly on the table, oblivious to my questioning expression.
“What could be worse than her returning full tilt to that darkness?” I ask, and James looks up at me. I hate the answer before he’s even spoken it, his face so impassive. It’s truly worrying.
“Taking me with her,” he whispers, turning his eyes to Beau at the bar.
Fuck, yes, that would be pretty fucking horrific. There’s no denying James is on the upper end of the fucked-up spectrum, even now, but at least he’s got a purpose beyond revenge. “How do we stop that?”
“I’d have to let her do what she’s planning on doing.”
“What is she planning on doing?”
“Becoming a cop again.”
I shoot back in my chair like I’ve been shot. “What the fuck?”