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)
“Could I be talking about yours?”
“She’s not my wife and she’s not pregnant.”
I smirk, and he eyes me, knowing I’m about to hit him with some sarcastic wisecrack. So the fucker jabs be in my chest. “Fuck!”
“You were saying?”
“I was saying,” I hiss, looking down at my wounds. “You’re a cunt.”
“Love you too. Are we sticking these cuts together or are you happy with scars wider than they need to be?”
“Whatever. They’ll still be quite pathetic compared to yours.” Another jab, and I cough over a laugh.
“Seriously,” James says. “We need to talk business.”
“Yeah, I know.” I relent, defeated. “So hurry the fuck up and glue me back together.” I glare at him. “Gently, okay?”
“Okay, sweetheart.” I continue to hiss in between holding my breath as he sorts me out. “I need to ask you something,” he says, not looking at me.
“Sounds ominous.”
“I spoke to Chaka earlier about the next shipment.”
“And?”
“Did you tell him Rose is pregnant?” He looks up at me, just as I recoil, which gives him his answer. Not that he really needed to ask. “So how does he know?”
“Good fucking question,” I muse, falling into thought. Trust no one. I’ve made a few exceptions recently, and one of those exceptions is currently sticking me back together. One of those exceptions is now a solid friend and wingman. I trust James with my life, and not many men have that privilege.
“All fixed,” he says, standing and taking the bowl to the sink. “Get a T-shirt on and I’ll clear up the mess before I get the men.”
I rise from the chair, the unfolding of my body pulling at the skin on my chest. I grit my teeth as I swipe up my T-shirt and grit harder as I pull it on over the bandages he’s done a neat job of fixing over the glued wounds. “Meet you in the study,” I say, wandering away, wondering why the fuck everything hurts so badly at the moment.
Because . . . Rose.
And how the fuck does Chaka, my arms supplier who’s based in a small settlement in the middle of nowhere in Africa, know my wife is pregnant?
I go to the couch in my office but think better of it. So I consider the chair behind my desk and grimace at the low level of the seat. Finally, I resolve myself to standing, resting my arse on the edge of the cabinet. I scan the various bottles of Scotch. I could do with a drink. For fuck’s sake.
When I hear the voices of the men, I remove my palm from my chest and try to lengthen my torso. “Motherfucker,” I breathe, folding again. I’ve proper done myself over this time. “Sit down,” I say as they all file in, each and every one of them giving me a suspicious or concerned look as they do. I know James won’t have murmured a word about the state of my chest and how it came to be mutilated, but I’m not foolish enough to believe that he needs to tell them. They saw Rose. They saw me.
I wait for everyone to get comfortable, noticing for the first time this evening, now the cloud of fury and remorse has thinned, that Goldie is wearing a suit. I frown at her, but she looks straight through me, her eyes telling me to get to business.
“Not joining us?” Brad asks, motioning to the empty chair behind my desk.
I ignore him and push myself off the wood, starting to wander the room as a collection of eyes follow me, waiting for where we might start. Truth be told, I haven’t got a fucking clue, and James must sense that because he clears his throat, redirecting all attention to him. “First things first,” he says. “Tom Hayley is running for mayor of Miami.”
I balk, as does everyone else in the room. “You’re kidding, right?” I splutter.
“Nope.”
“Fucking hell, I think I preferred Adams.” Tom Hayley? Jesus, the man is an egomaniac. And, worse, he hates James and me, so I can only see this going one way. A headache. And we can’t kill the fucker because . . . well, he’s Beau’s father. “Anything else that’ll excite me?” I ask.
I can tell by James’s face another bombshell is coming. “We need to change the delivery date of the next shipment to the Mexicans.”
“Why?” Brad asks, rather than informing James that it isn’t an option. Because James wouldn’t elect to change anything if it wasn’t necessary. You do not alter the terms of a giant arms delivery the day after half the payment is in your possession. It’s not good form, and it also provokes mistrust. The last thing we need is the Mexicans on our backs.
“The Coast Guard has an annual training day on the day Chaka was due to deliver. We need to push to the Monday.”