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)
Brad squints, straining to think. “I don’t fucking know. All I can see is red.”
Blood. What happened after Beau left the yard with Brad? I’m out of the room like a rocket, flying down the stairs. I rush into the kitchen and find Ringo staring at my pasta bake dubiously with Otto and Len.
“ Danny and James. Where are they?” I demand, making them all look at each other. But no answer.
I growl my frustration and go to my purse on the stool, rummaging through and finding my cell. I see a few missed calls from Esther but ignore them in favor of calling Danny. He doesn’t answer. Neither does James, not the first time I try, or the second or third. “God damn them!” I yell, just as my phone rings in my hand. My heart lunges. And drops when I see Esther calling me, not Danny or James. I place a hand on my forehead, closing my eyes and breathing easy, trying to sound as calm as possible. “Hey,”
“Hi,” she says, sounding chirpy. Because she’s back. “Where is he?”
“Danny?” I look at the others, who, again, toss looks between each other, starting to get worried too, all going to their phones.
“Yes. You said he was picking me up from the airport.”
“Oh God,” I murmur, giving Ringo pleading eyes. I can’t take this anymore. The constant worry. Stress. My blood pressure sky-high.
“What’s happened?” Esther says, not sounding all too easy breezy now. “Rose?”
The cell is suddenly gone from my hand and Otto is guiding me to a stool to sit me down, taking my phone to his ear. “I’m leaving to get you now,” he says, not releasing my arm. I’m becoming breathless. Pathetic! I should be used to this torture by now. Not knowing. Fretting.
“Someone get Doc,” Ringo yells.
“No.” I wave a hand. “He’s busy.”
“Rose, every drop of color has drained from your face.”
Is it any wonder? “I’m fine.” Breathe, breathe, breathe. I cannot fall apart. I must not fall apart. I know my husband. It would take a nuclear bomb to kill him. Oh God. Why am I talking such shit? He’s human, like me, like everyone. One bullet in the right place—instant death. I’m really not fine. I throw my head between my legs and pant.
“Rose?” His voice drifts into my hearing, and for a moment I wonder if I’m imagining it. But then I hear James asking where Beau is, and I fling my head up and find my husband in the kitchen, his wetsuit pulled down to his waist, his hair a matted mess of salt and wind.
“What’s up?” he asks, peeking nervously around at the crowd all watching him.
“Esther’s waiting for you to pick her up,” Otto says, and Danny frowns down at his cell.
“She’s texted me. I didn’t see it.”
“I’m going to get her,” Otto tells him—tells him—a look of pure daring on his face as he passes. Go on, it says. Tell me not to go.
Danny heeds the warning. “Where’s Brad?” he asks.
“In his room,” Ringo pipes up quietly. “He’s okay.”
He nods and I, with a lack of anything else to do but lose my shit—and I’m so tired of doing that—get off my stool and drag the oven dish toward me, starting to spoon out the pasta and slap it on plates. I pass some to Ringo and Len, who both take it gingerly, and put the rest back in the oven to keep warm for the others. Then I head for the TV room to help Goldie and Beau.
Danny’s body turns with me as I pass him. “I’ve had a really shit day at work, baby. I’m starving.”
“Yours is in the dogs,” I spit as I leave the kitchen.
“That’s probably a blessing.”
I stop, outraged, and stare ahead, weighing up my options. Punch him.
Or . . .
Punch him.
I turn.
And find him grinning, his scar deep, his blue eyes gleaming. Asshole. I look at Ringo and Len, who both quickly shove forks full of pasta into their mouths to stop them laughing. Fuckers.
I’m at a loss, my relief making way for anger. And if the pasta doesn’t get it, Danny will. I go to the oven, yank it open, pull out the dish, and pile two plates high with pasta before I go to the French doors and open them. “Cindy, Barbie,” I call. They soon come running and sit at my feet like good little girls, their stumpy tails wagging. I tip the plates, sending the pasta to the ground with a splat, and they gulp it down in a few greedy mouthfuls, licking their lips. I smile and pat their heads. “Away,” I say, sending them off before pivoting and breezing back into a silent kitchen.
He's still fucking smirking. “Why the hell are you laughing?”
“Because, my beautiful wife,” he says, lighting up a cigarette, “seeing, hearing, and being the brunt of your rage is a fuck load better than seeing and hearing your distress.” He moves in, seizes me, and drapes me back across his arm, exhaling a plume of smoke above my head. The smell is comforting.