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)
She shoves her feet into some flip-flops. “I don’t know. He sounded upset.”
I get up and join her in getting dressed, coming to terms with the fact that my pleasure isn’t Beau’s priority right now. “Angry upset or worried upset?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she replies as she runs out of the bedroom. “Both.”
I fasten the fly of my jeans and traipse after her, thinking I’ve had about enough of the drama. Beau swipes up her keys from the table, and I swipe them right out of her hand. “I’ll drive you.”
She doesn’t argue, surprising me, instead hurrying out to her Jeep. She’s really worried, which only makes me wonder with increasing worry what the fuck is going on. “What did he say?” I ask as I slide in and pull away. “Put your seatbelt on.”
“That I need to go there immediately.”
I look across to her. She’s beautifully disheveled, but I can’t appreciate it past her apprehensive expression. We all know Danny wouldn’t hurt Rose, but no one can say with any confidence that Rose isn’t capable of something stupid, especially when she’s emotional. Her stunt at dinner earlier with the kid’s mate’s father case in point. She has a very bad habit of pushing Danny’s buttons. So could he have finally lost the plot with her? I roll my eyes to myself. Of course not. Those two might behave like they hate each other at times, but they’re ridiculously in love. So what the fuck is going on if they’ve not murdered each other?
When we pull up outside Danny and Rose’s villa, I listen for the sound of breaking glass or screams. Nothing. Beau is out in a flash, darting up the path as I follow on her heels. She bursts through the door, and we find Danny pacing the kitchen in his boxers, his expression grave, his blue eyes haunted.
We both slow to a stop, and I watch as Beau looks from him to the bedroom door over and over. She’s scared to ask. Can’t find her words. “Danny?” I say, moving forward, troubled by the glaze in his eyes.
“There was no blood,” he croaks, raking a hand through his hair. “No blood. And then . . .” He looks at the door, pain a blanket on his face. “And then I stood her up and . . .”
Oh fuck.
“. . . there was blood,” he whispers, dropping heavily to a stool, as if his legs refuse to hold him up any longer. “Doc’s in there with her. I couldn’t see her like that.”
Fucking hell. Painfully, I know exactly what he means. I look at Beau, my throat clogged with warranted worry, with pain that had briefly subsided, and see she’s frozen and quiet. Staring at Danny. I can feel square one on the horizon, waiting to claim Beau from me. Shit. I pace to the cabinet across the room and pour a Scotch, taking it to Danny and putting it in his hand. He’s visibly shaking. “Drink,” I order, scratching around on the worktop for his cigarettes and lighting one. I exhale and slip it between his lips, turning to Beau. She’s still motionless, her eyes now darting across the floor. I go to her, taking the tops of her arms, snapping her out of her trance. She looks up at me. I have not one fucking clue what to say to her. I can’t remove her from this situation. I can’t take her away from the impending hurt. I can only hope she sees the pain in me as I know she feels it in herself. Together. Always together.
And when she focuses on me, I know she appreciates my hurt. She swallows hard, nods, takes my hand and squeezes tightly, then heads for the bedroom, and although I’m desperate to be with her—hold her, support her—I know I must step aside and let her do what she needs to do. Comfort her friend.
I go out onto the patio and get an ashtray, returning and taking a stool next to Danny, helping myself to a Marlboro and lighting up. I should be encouraging Danny from his seat to get him outside before the whole villa in engulfed in smoke, but I don’t think an excavator would shift him. And what the fuck should I say? Again, I don’t know, so I just sit here watching him pull hard on his cigarette in between sips of his Scotch, his gaze set on the floor, his hands still shaking.
Ten minutes later, he’s on his second Marlboro and drink, and he’s still not murmured a word. I get up and take two steps toward the bedroom, but just as quickly halt, wondering how I’m going to handle what lies beyond. I’ve got a girlfriend who’s gone from happy to haunted in the space of a phone call, a best mate who looks like he’s on the edge of a breakdown, and his wife, my girlfriend’s best friend, who is in that room distraught. I can hear her sobbing over Beau’s soft hushes.