The Resurrection (Unlawful Men)

I’ve worked my way through my glass by the time they get back, and as I watch Rose weave the tables, I notice the obvious flush of her cheeks, and Black behind her discreetly adjusting himself.

She sits beside me, flicking me a small smile. “I’m sorry, I needed to get that out of my system.”

“Which bit?” I ask without thought, the signs of her and her husband getting things out of their system splashed all over her face.

Danny chuckles. It’s quite cute for a killer. And James rubs across his Cupid’s bow, smiling mildly. It’s sexy for another cold-blooded killer. “Shall we order?” Rose says, picking up the menus and handing them out. “The oysters are divine.”

“Oysters?” I ask, taking my eyes to the choices. “I never know whether to suck, chew, or swallow.” I jump out of my skin when Danny and Rose collectively burst into fits of laughter, and I look at them, stunned. Confused. Quiet. “Did I say something funny?” I ask, as they calm, Danny sending his wife a fond smile, taking her hand on the table.

“It’s a private joke.” Rose wraps her hand around his fingers, looking across the table to James. “So what do I call you?” she asks. “James? Kellen?” A sip of her wine, her smile small. “The Enigma?”

James looks down, not answering, smiling, and I relish the sight of his hair flopping forward, his lashes fanning his cheeks. He’s saved by the waiter, not that he needed saving. He was never going to indulge her bold question. It’s fucking weird, though. Knowing people know who he is, which means, technically, he’s no longer The Enigma.

We all order and, oddly, the conversation flows. Not about murder or Miami, but about the island, what there is to do, where we should go.

As I sit back in my chair after our main meal, I watch James, fascinated to see him engaging, talking, smiling. This is so normal, it’s fucking with my head. Two couples having dinner. Chatting, laughing, eating. More than once, I catch James’s eye and he gives me a reassuring smile, either topping up my wine or taking my hand and squeezing. He knows what I’m thinking.

I’m thinking this could be our life. Just us. Here. Being normal. We’ve never had dinner in a restaurant together, let alone with another couple. Tomorrow we’ll go to the local store and pick up some groceries. Then check out the waterfalls across the island that Rose gushed about. James will go out with Danny on their jet skis. Rose and I, apparently, will chill on the terrace at their villa and have cocktails. No, I don’t need a friend. But maybe I want one. Maybe I want this all the time, and the longer I’m sitting here with these strangers, the more I can understand Rose’s earlier animosity. We’ve come here and disrupted her life. Disturbed her paradise, because that’s what this is. It’s paradise.

Killers in paradise.

“So you were a cop,” Rose says, pushing her chair out, glass in hand, and crossing one leg over the other.

“In a previous life, yes.” I look at James, wondering just how much he’s shared about me. About him. About us. His elbows are on the table, a tumbler hanging from his grasp as he swirls it slowly, staring at the liquid, refusing to look at me. I lean over the table to take a piece of bread, not so keen on talking about my previous life.

As I do, my sleeve rides up, and I freeze, feeling all eyes on the monster scar peeking out of the lovely cream dress. I press my lips together and retreat without the bread. The silence is horrific, and it’s in this moment I realize that not once throughout this dinner have I dreaded the conversation. Because it’s been mindless. Free. Easy. That feels like it’s changing now.

I take refuge in my wine, peeking up at James, shaking my head when I find him gazing at me with sorry eyes. Stop it!

Rose moves, and I frown when she lays her arm on the table. I see them immediately under the faint glow of the candlelight. Scars. Scars from many cuts. I move my eyes to hers, and she smiles. Then Danny’s arm appears on the table, and he pulls up his sleeve. I inhale at the sight of the monster slashes all over his tan skin and glance at him. He smirks, stretching the unsightly scar that runs from his eye to his lip.

Swallowing, I turn my attention to James. “I won’t remove my shirt,” he says quietly with an edge of irony in his tone. And what do I do? I laugh. I laugh so fucking hard, and everyone at the table joins me. I’ve never laughed about my injuries. What the hell is this madness? But Rose’s message is clear. As is Danny’s.