The Enigma (Unlawful Men)

I’m afraid I need to reschedule.

No sooner have I clicked send, my cell rings, and for the first time I wonder why I haven’t saved his number. Not that I need to. I know it by heart; I’ve stared at it so much. I answer, but say nothing, waiting for what James might say instead.

“Why?” is all I get, and although I have a perfectly good reason, I’ll be damned if I can voice it, leaving a long, lingering, expectant silence. “I asked why.”

“I have travel issues,” I say, trying to come across assertive but sounding hesitant instead.

“It’s not an issue.”

“I have equipment issues.”

“It’s not an issue.”

I breathe out, reaching for my temple and massaging. “I have James issues.”

“And finally we have the real issue,” he whispers, and it doesn’t escape my notice that he fails to claim this issue of mine isn’t an issue. Is it an issue? I laugh on the inside. Of course it’s an issue. My body and mind aren’t my own around him. Lonely? Always. It’s like he’s wired into me, making me think things I shouldn’t think. Say things I shouldn’t say.

Do things I shouldn’t do?

“What’s your issue?” he asks.

“That you’re not the kind of man I should be spending time with.”

“You’re probably right,” he replies, honest as can be, no hesitation. I blink my surprise. “But I’ll be at work.”

“And you trust me in your apartment?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“You don’t know me.”

He inhales loudly, like he’s losing his patience, and releases the air on a sigh I’m supposed to hear. Impatience. It’s rife in him. “Stop reading between the lines, Beau. If transport is an issue, I’ll have you collected. If equipment is an issue, I’ll buy you some more.”

“And if you’re an issue?”

“Then we’ll fix that issue.” He hangs up, and I let my limp arm hit the bed with a thud. I have no idea what I’m doing right now. No idea at all. All I know is that when James is on my mind, nothing else is.

10

JAMES

The heat. It’s tolerated. It’s a fucked-up comfort, because never will I burn alive again. Never will I feel the heat of such a savage inferno.

I stare at the glowing flame swaying hypnotically, my palm hovering over it. I raise it a little. The heat subsides. I lower it again. The heat intensifies. Lower still. Hotter. Lower again. The flame licks my skin.

I hiss and slowly retract my hand, taking my gloves from my desk and pulling them on, my eyes turning to the screens in my office. All are blank, except one with the face of the man I will kill tonight. And another with footage of Beau Hayley. She’s in a supermarket, wandering up and down the aisles, aimless, no direction, no purpose.

Lonely.

I wrestle thoughts of her away with conviction, resetting my attention on the man on the screen next to her. One of The Eagle’s foot soldiers. I slide my knife off my desk and inspect the blade.

“He’ll be at the old scrapyard off the Biscayne Bay docks in an hour,” Goldie says from the doorway.

“Who is he meeting?”

“A dealer from the streets.”

I blink back the glare from the metal blade reflecting off the spotlights. The Bear’s web of control is about to lose another key player on the drugs front. “They replaced The Snake yet?”

“Not yet. They only just found his body in the river. It’s been two years. MPD aren’t exactly the fastest at finding dead men. Vince Roake was the obvious choice. With him locked up and The Eagle dead, who the fuck knows who’ll move up the ranks.”

“Well, it won’t be the man I’m killing tonight.” I turn and face Goldie. “I need you to collect Beau Hayley tomorrow morning from her home address.”

Her face. I’ve seen various levels of annoyance, but this is something else. My expression dares her to challenge me. But I sometimes forget, Goldie loves a challenge. “You want to fuck her.”

I laugh under my breath. There’s absolutely no humor in it. “Yes, I want to fuck her.” I can’t stop imagining that. Fucking her. Tying her up. Blinding her with something other than her mental pain. It’s screwed up on every level. But then again, I long ago accepted that I’m a whole new level of screwed up.

“More than kill her?” Goldie asks.

I pull up, stalling from slipping my knife into its sleeve. That’s a damn fine question. And the answer, the true answer, is fucking frightening. “No.” I make tracks to my bedroom to collect my Beretta. “You can go home now,” I call, stuffing my balaclava into my back pocket as I go.

11

BEAU

On Monday morning, I call Reg while I’m eating a mango and loading the washing machine to let him know I’ll be there soon to collect some things from Dolly.

With my hair pulled into a low, messy bun and my body appropriately dressed in ripped, paint-splattered jeans and a signature long-sleeved, oversized shirt, I leave the house feeling a puzzling mix of trepidation and anticipation. My hand reaches for my tummy of its own volition, rubbing soothing circles as I dip and weave through the forest that is our front yard.