“A few scratches. She was on the street. We were nearly on the street.”
“Why wasn’t Beau with you?”
“She and James had an argument. Her ex was there when we charged in, so James’s already boiling blood bubbled over. Beau stormed out. We were a few too many paces behind.”
“So you only got out alive because James and Beau had an argument?” she asks, and I nod. That’s the crux of it. Although we only made it out by the skin of our teeth. “Danny, I feel like he’s getting closer and closer.” Her worry is warranted, and I won’t insult her by claiming otherwise. I puff out my cheeks, taking her hands and standing us up.
I get under the spray and soap myself down. That’s enough. “How was your day shopping?”
“Fine.” She sighs, frowning as she starts shampooing her hair. “We need to talk about Daniel.”
I still, worried. “What about him?”
“He’s a smart kid, Danny. There’s only so long we can keep the truth from him.” Her worry slips into a small smile. “He loved his jet ski, Mister.”
I nod, like it’s nothing. “Good,” I say gruffly, rinsing. I seize her jaw and her hands freeze in her hair. “Don’t worry about Daniel,” I order, kissing her hard. She should know better. I’ll protect that kid as vehemently as I protect her. “Now the boatyard’s nearly finished, he can try out his new ski.”
“I’m not comfortable with him being at the boatyard, Danny.”
I suck my bottom lip between my teeth as I step out and reach for a towel. I can’t claim being with us is the safest place for Daniel to be when there are bombs going off left and right. “You know me, Rose. I won’t allow him to see anything he shouldn’t see.” It’s a stark contrast to my childhood, where I saw all the things I definitely shouldn’t have seen.
She sighs. “I should check on Beau.”
I laugh a little. “Not tonight.” I dry off, our bed calling. Sleep calling. “We’re going to bed.”
She smiles, but it drops as she takes a soapy hand to her stomach.
I falter drying myself with the towel. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” She shudders. “I feel like I’ve been pounded by a very hard, very large dick.”
I grin. “You’re welcome,” I quip, satisfied and semi-sated. “I could binge on you forever, baby, and never feel full.” Her nose wrinkles as she steps under the spray to rinse her hair. “Meet me in bed. Naked.” I grin. “And let’s see how long you can resist me.”
* * *
I slept like a baby, but I don’t wake feeling refreshed and revitalized. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I drag my palms down my rough face, exhaling heavily. Rose is sprawled beautifully across the sheets. So peaceful. At least, she looks it. I fear she’s as churned up inside as I am.
Leaving her sleeping, I shower, dress, and make my way downstairs, texting Tank as I do, my face in my phone as I take the steps. I frown at the missed call from Leon ten minutes ago and call him back. “What’s up?” I ask, frowning harder when he starts to explain.
“You serious?”
“Dead serious, D-boss.”
“I’m sending Len over. When he gets there, you help him put the fucker in the yellow container.” I hang up and text Len as I hit the marble.
Look up.
And freeze.
What the fuck? I immediately move a step back. Actually, who the fuck? I take in the back of a slight, tall figure of the woman, her masses of blonde, tumbling curls cascading down her back, skimming her arse. Her sequin-embellished catsuit is blinding, her platform stilettos skyscrapers, putting her at least half a foot taller than I am. The new in-house whore?
I frown. She has rather large feet. And, come to think of it, wide shoulders.
I inhale, ready to ask her who the fuck she is and what the fuck she’s doing in my house when she swirls around.
I recoil, my mouth snapping shut.
“Oh hello,” she sings, dramatically flicking her hair over her shoulder. “And who might you be?”
I don’t like the cheeky smile, or the delight in her eyes. Like a goldfish, I stand there, blank, my feet automatically taking another step back. “Danny,” I murmur like a twat, looking around, before turning my wary eyes back onto her. Him. The man. The woman. What the fuck is going on? “And who might you be?” I ask, tilting my head, my persona no doubt nervous. I don’t do nervous, but it’s the way she’s . . . he’s . . . looking at me. Like I’m lunch.
“I’m—”
“This is my aunt Zinnea,” Beau says from behind me.
She’s coming down the stairs, her hair wet, an amused smile on her face. Aunt? “Ohhhh,” I breathe, clicking, wondering why the fuck no one thought to tell me. I would have been more prepared. Less obviously shocked.