My fingertips start drumming my jean-clad thigh, my mind planning all the ways I’m going to kill Spittle, because one way or another, today or tomorrow, he will die. Brad takes the seat beside me, passing me a tumbler. I can sense some pacifying words on the horizon. There are three things I know about Brad Black: he has a sick sense of humor, he’s a coldblooded killer, and he thinks really hard about his kills. A bit like Danny Black. And me. A thoughtful killer is the deadliest killer. A killer who plays with their prey. Extends their torture. Prolongs the thrill. Although thinking seems to be beyond me at the moment. Has been since Beau became the end game. I just want to kill every fucker who poses a threat and be done with it. Move on. Seal the peace that is eluding Beau and me. I’m technically still dead. It won’t stay that way for long with Danny causing ripples in the underworld.
“Take a breath,” Brad says quietly as I throw the vodka down my throat. “Or a drink.”
The door opens behind us, and we both crane our necks to find Goldie hovering on the threshold. “What is it?” I ask, and she opens up the way, revealing Beau. The sight of her balances me, and I exhale, taking in her lithe body coated in Lycra. I’ve eased her gently into exercise, made a point of it, and her well-conditioned body has handled it well, her muscle memory helping.
I flick my head for her to come in as I rise, meeting her in the middle of the room. “What’s up?” I ask, cupping her head in my hands and pushing my lips to the top of her head, inhaling, closing my eyes, relaxing. I expect the smell of sweat. No sweat, just her intoxicating fruity scent. Calm.
“I need some more bullets,” she says, simple as that, straight-up, no hesitation.
I still, and my eyes snap open. I see Goldie hovering on the edge of the office with Fury, both doing a terrible job of hiding their amusement, and I hear Brad behind me outright chuckling. Yes. Fucking hilarious.
I pull away, although I’m evidently reluctant, and cautiously peek down at her. She’s doing a terrible job of hiding her smile too. Taking my wrists, she pulls my hands down from her face. “Good day?” she asks.
Me? “I’m more interested in yours.”
“Rose and I did target practice.”
My entire being seems to deflate, and Beau starts massaging at her wrist. “Take it easy,” I warn, replacing her working hands with mine, rubbing gently as I guide her to the couch and nod for her to sit.
Otto and Ringo walk in, and Brad stands. “He’s been dragged into the garden,” Ringo grunts. “Something to do with the wedding.”
“Fucking wedding,” Brad mutters. “Worst idea he’s ever had.”
“Apparently the suits are ready,” Otto says, prompting Ringo to glance down his front.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with this one.”
“It’s not a tux.”
Ringo looks across to Goldie. “You got a new suit?”
When I expect her to go psycho on him and his incessant, unexplained need to rile her, Goldie instead lifts her chin. “No, actually. I have a dress.” Her eyes quickly turn to slits, daring any man in the room to question her. So, of course, they don’t. Ringo’s learned his lesson. Almost.
But . . . a dress? Goldie?
Beau laughs beside me, and I turn an interested look her way. She shrugs. “About those bullets.”
“I’m living in a fucked-up version of Little House on the fucking Prairie,” Brad snaps. “I’m going to smack some balls over the net. Let me know when Romeo’s finished pacifying Juliet.”
“Say that to Rose,” Beau shouts on a laugh.
“No fucking way,” he calls back, pushing his way through the men. And woman.
“So, the bullets.”
She really wants those bullets. It’s the third time she’s asked, and I’m worried, especially after she nearly shot me when she found out I was there the night her mother died. Nearly, being the operative word here. If Beau hadn’t been sporting a broken wrist, I wouldn’t be sitting here now. And since she’s not averse to getting trigger happy with me, perhaps I should rethink my desire to ensure she can protect herself. Being in a relationship with Beau Hayley is perilous in every way. “No bullets,” I say, looking up and giving Goldie and Fury a nod. I’ve got this for now.
Goldie pulls the door closed, and I return my attention to Beau. “How’s Lawrence?”
She wilts before my eyes, which tells me all I need to know. Not that I need Beau’s reaction. I have it from a good source—namely, Doc—that Lawrence is still in his suite here at Black’s mansion. He’s not eating. Not speaking. “I don’t know,” she says on a sigh. “He won’t let me in his room today. He’s locked himself in. I don’t even know if he’s taking the meds Doc has prescribed.”