“Right now?”
“Yes, right now.”
Danny’s eyebrows rise, and we wait, curious. “Right now, I’m staring at legs that go on for years wrapped beautifully around a shiny silver pole.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, as Danny laughs his way to his own locker and strips out of his wetsuit. “Enjoy.” I hang up and join him getting dressed. “You heard from Rose?”
His smile is knowing as he fastens his jeans. “Stop worrying.”
“I’m not worrying.” I’m really worrying. Trying my best not to, but with bombs and bullets firing at us from every which fucking way, it’s a challenge. “I’m not worrying,” I affirm when his eyebrow cocks. I yank my jeans up, slipping my gun back into place.
“We can’t keep them locked up.”
I laugh, my head thrown back. “Coming from the man who kidnapped his wife? Your relationship with Rose has Stockholm Syndrome written all over it.”
“Oh, we’re talking fucked-up relationships, are we?” he asks, and I brace myself for the hit. “From the man who tied his girlfriend to a chair in an opera house so he could slip off and murder a judge.”
“How the fuck do you know that?” I grab my T-shirt and thread my arms through the sleeves.
“Women talk, mate. And apparently ours never shut the fuck up when they’re together. Which is how I also know that you’re partial to a self sex tape or two.”
I still, my head caught in the neck of my T-shirt. What the fuck? I can hear his silent laugh. Slowly pulling my T-shirt down, I eye his smirking face. Women talk, okay. But do they show? Those tapes are private. They’re for me and me only, because I’m the only person who should see Beau’s naked body, especially during the throes of passion. “If you tell me you’ve seen those tapes, I can’t promise I won’t shoot you here and now.”
“I’ve been shot at for less.”
I reach back and pull out my gun, disengaging the safety and aiming it at Danny. “Don’t piss me off.”
Hands up, he laughs, moving back. “I’ve not seen the fucking tapes, mate. Chill the fuck out.”
I snarl, stowing away my weapon. “I know you know shit like that ain’t funny,” I mutter, stomping out of the changing room. “And the reason I know is because you killed one of your own men for daring to touch Rose.” I look back, hitting him with a grin to match the ones he keeps tossing around. “They really do talk.”
He does a terrible job of concealing his surprise, and an even worse job of hiding his anger. “Fucked any women while their husbands watch lately?”
“Past life,” I hit back, unmoved, carrying on my way. “Burnt your wife’s hand on the toaster recently?”
“What the fuck?”
I smile as I pass through the café, seeing Leon showing the kid around. “J-Boss,” he sings. “This is Jerry. Jerry, this is J-Boss. Oh, and here’s D-Boss.” I look back and see Danny stalking out of the changing room, his face like thunder. “D-Boss, this is—”
“We’ve met,” Danny barks, making Leon and Jerry recoil. “The toaster was a point.”
“What about the stinger of a slap the night you met her?”
He’s getting progressively more wound up and, sick fuck that I am, I’m enjoying riling The Brit. “Another point.”
“Parading her around naked in front of your men?”
His mouth falls open. “I’m going to sew her fucking mouth shut.” His finger comes up. “That woman has caused me more damage than I’ll ever cause her.”
I slap his finger away. “Chill the fuck out,” I say over a laugh, watching as his scar gets deeper and deeper, his eyes colder. I note the clenching of his fists. The roll of his jaw. Leon and Jerry wisely step back, out of the danger zone. “And would you mind putting my razor back?” I add.
My final blow is the final straw, and he launches a right hook that nearly takes me off my feet. Jesus. “Go fuck yourself,” he yells. “Or burn yourself.”
Oh, he did not. I charge, tackling him around the waist, sending us crashing to the ground, our phones scattering along with the loose change in my pocket. I straddle his waist and punch him square on the jaw. “Fucking pussy,” he spits. “Rose hits harder than you.” He shoots up, taking me to my back, and we roll and squirm around on the floor, our flying fists out of control, only the odd one connecting.
“Phones!”
I still. I’m on my back, Danny’s palm’s around my throat, while my palm’s splayed and pushed into his face. The sound of two mobiles ringing fills the silence. In unison, we each give up and frantically search out our phones. I spot mine, Danny spots his, and we scramble on our hands and knees across the café floor, seizing them and answering.
I roll to my back. “Hey beautiful,” I puff, knackered.