* * *
Workout?
* * *
Fuck off. I’m not talking to you, DADDY.
* * *
See you there.
* * *
I head to the gym, the house quiet, obviously—it’s five fucking thirty—and stop off in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. The island is no longer cluttered with used glasses and empty snack bowls, but now decorated with every pastry imaginable. Coffee pots are evenly placed and, of course, a few teapots too. Did Mum actually sleep last night?
Neither my wife nor my mother looks up from the laptop when I enter. “I’m just getting some water,” I say, passing them and opening the fridge. No response. “In case I die of thirst,” I add, unscrewing the top. Still, nothing, from either of them. “Just popping out to murder someone,” I mutter, passing them again on my way out.
“Danny,” Mum moans, sounding wholly disapproving. “Not today, please.”
I drop my head back, laughing my way out of the kitchen. “Not today, Mother,” I call, taking a swig of water as I pass back through the foyer. I look up the stairs when I hear the clicking of . . . heels?
Coming to a slow stop, I watch as Zin . . . Lawrence hurries down, fastening the belt of a silk robe that’s embellished with flamingos, his actual real hair suffering a serious case of bedhead, his face free from makeup, but his lashes still unfathomably long and curled. “Morning,” I say, making him look up from the careful placement to his kitten-heeled slippers on the marble steps. I smile at his hairy leg poking out of the robe.
“Oh, morning,” he says, starting to faff with his short hair, as if he’s got someone to impress. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing so urgent you couldn’t have taken the time to get your stockings on.” I smirk when he rolls his eyes.
“You’ll go to hell, Danny Black.”
“If I’m lucky,” I reply, leaving Lawrence rearranging his robe around his legs. “They’re in the kitchen. Brace yourself.”
When I near the gym, I hear a constant, loud thumping sound. I push the door open a fraction, looking through the small gap. I catch Beau in the middle of a roundhouse kick. “Jesus,” I whisper as the leather punch bag swings, so hard it nearly puts a hole in the ceiling. And she doesn’t stop there, proceeding to knock ten tons of shit out of the swinging target, punching, kicking, generally looking like she wants to kill the cow all over again. She eventually lays off, hugging the bag, panting.
I make a point of closing the door loudly but, clearly beat, she only manages to turn her head to find out who’s joined her. “I work out alone,” I say, wandering over to the bench press.
“Me too,” she replies, pushing away from the bag and removing her gloves. “So are you leaving?”
I smile, setting my water on the rubber mat. “What did the bag do to you?” I ask, reaching for a fifty and loading it on one end of the bar. She shouldn’t be over-exerting herself like that. She’s not my responsibility—I wouldn’t ordinarily give two shits—but she and Rose have grown close. And . . . well, that’s it.
Beau, out of breath, looks at the punch bag and jabs it lightly with her bare fist. But she ignores my question. “I never got to congratulate you.” She doesn’t look at me, going to the unit on the far side of the gym and dumping her gloves. “Congratulations.”
I study her back as I collect another fifty, splitting my attention between her and the bar. That’s not strictly true. She told me she was happy for us. Same thing. “Thanks,” I say quietly as she remains facing the wall, unwilling and unable to look at me. I take no pleasure from her pain. None at all. I’m elated, Rose is elated. It’s a tricky balance to find a happy medium between that and compassion for Beau and James.
I settle on the bench, pretty fucking stumped. What the fuck do I say to her? “Are you okay, Beau?” I ask, and immediately kick myself. What a stupid fucking question. I saw her when she joined us in the kitchen last night. I watched her embrace Rose and fight with everything she had to show nothing but happiness while on the inside I know she’s dying. And I watched James collect her and make their excuses to leave, seeing his girlfriend grow closer and closer to revealing her true emotions. And I ask if she’s okay? Shit.
“All good,” she says, still facing away from me. I see her reach for her face, trying to be discreet with her quiet sniff. My eyes fall briefly to the punch bag. That bag was a number of men. Dexter. The Bear. Her ex. Maybe even her father. She swings around with an air of confidence that I’m so not buying. “Nervous?” she asks, and immediately frowns to herself.