Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
A veil of menace drops at the mention of the arsehole. “Not that she’s said.”
“She’s here,” Brad says, passing us and heading outside. “And we all know she wouldn’t be if she’d heard from Burrows.” He’s right. She’d be off playing detective, and that would be the perfect opportunity for Burrows to try and worm his way back into her affections. So where the fuck is he?
James and I follow Brad out into the sunshine. “Rose hasn’t mentioned anything?” James asks.
“All Rose has done this past week is be difficult.” I look at him. “In what fucking world do we depend on the girls for enlightenment?”
“This fucking world,” he mutters. “I’ve got Otto keeping tabs on Beau’s phone.”
I laugh. “Does she know?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you haven’t told her, but she knows.”
“Of course she fucking knows.” He looks out toward Beau, and I follow his line of sight, seeing Rose tugging some denim shorts up her legs with heavy hands. She leaves them undone, and I smile. She can’t get the buttons fastened anymore. “Good girl,” James says as Rose picks up a bottle of sunblock and squirts some in her hands, rubbing it into Beau’s arm while she obviously slags me off. We make it to the other men and pull up chairs; as Otto taps away on his laptop, Ringo chomps his way through some chips, and Goldie sips tea, very ladylike as I draw on my Marlboro.
“What?” she asks, the cup at her lips. “What are you looking at?”
“You had a haircut?” I ask.
Her spare hand goes straight to her hair and smooths it behind one ear, then the other. It’s shorter, probably as short as it could be without losing the convenience of being able to tie it back. “A trim,” she says on a scowl, hating me for noticing she’s done something so girlie like have a visit to a salon.
“Looks nice,” I say honestly, feeling James watching me, probably waiting for me to crack a joke. I have no intention. I’m being genuine.
“Thanks,” she grunts, taking some tea. “You could do with a cut yourself.”
I feel at my hair. It’s been weeks, but my wife claims to love the longer look on me, and hair is something I can give her, so I’ll carry on poking up with the tickle on my nape. “Rose likes it like this,” I say, running a hand through it and knocking my shades off my head. James dips and picks them up.
“You too,” Goldie says, nodding to James, who freezes in his half-bent position, looking at everyone as everyone looks at his longer-than-average hair.
“Letting yourselves go,” Otto grunts, not looking up from his laptop but feeling at his neat, well-groomed beard. He’s lost the cap, the egg on his head having gone.
“Did we meet for coffee and girlie chit-chat about hair and beauty, or did we meet for beers and a briefing on what the fuck is going on and where the fuck The Bear has disappeared to?” James asks. It’s been over a week since he called James and advised him that our parents had been dug up. Since then, we’ve had The Ox ask us to back off with our deal with the Mexicans, which he paid for dearly, and The Shark called soon after asking for guns.
I smile and take another hit of nicotine before stubbing it out in the ashtray. “Over to Otto,” I say, blowing my smoke his way. His lip curls, but he doesn’t look at me.
“The detective who got in touch with Beau over her father’s death . . .”
“Collins,” James says, reminding everyone. “What about her?”
“Hungry,” Otto replies. “Very fucking hungry.”
“Something to prove,” I say, resting back in my chair and kicking an ankle up onto my knee. “Why? Apart from being a woman in a man’s world?” I look out the corner of my eye to Goldie when I feel a pissed-off glower pointing my way. “Did you have highlights too?” I ask, making her swipe up a bottle of water, unscrew the cap, and throw it in my face. I laugh, wiping at my eyes.
“You asked for that,” James says, looking at me with a shake of his head.
“I’m playing.” I stand and round the back of Goldie’s chair, taking her shoulders, feeling her tense beneath my hands. I dip and kiss her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“Get the fuck off me before I—”
“Before you what?” I ask, interested and sounding a little bit ominous. Something tells me I might regret it.
“You sure you want to have this conversation?” she asks.
“You started it,” I snap like a child.
“I’m giving you an opportunity to back down.”
I laugh. “Never.”
“Fine. Before I tell your wife that you told your mother that your wife wants Daniel to stay in St. Lucia.”
What the fuck? I stare at Goldie as she tucks her freshly highlighted, freshly cut hair behind her ear again. She didn’t need to. It was already perfectly tucked; she was merely making a point. How the fuck does she know that?