Chapter 2 – BEAU
BEAU
“Beau Lennox.”
The second I say my name, she flinches, visibly recoils, and closes her eyes with a tiny shake of her head. That wasn’t the name she wanted to hear.
"What’s going on, Red?" I stop midway across the room. I was going to sit beside her but from the way she scurries up the mattress, putting her back to the headboard, it’s clear I’m not welcome anywhere near her right now.
She turns the phone toward me and holds it out at arm’s length.
The screen shows a text about a skip trace I was working on last week, and a lead on a case file I’ve been reviewing on a high-profile bail jumper.
That’s not really my thing anymore, but the money on that one was good enough to tempt me into taking a look.
"And you're a bounty hunter." There’s more than a hint of judgement in her tone that I choose to ignore for now.
"Sometimes."
Deciding I should be dressed for the bad turn this evening seems to have taken, I reach for my boxers and jeans. The easy intimacy of seconds ago has soured fast, and whatever conversation is about to happen, for posterity’s sake, it might be best if I didn’t have my junk out.
“Is that a problem?” I keep my body language relaxed despite the dread I feel inside. I’m obviously missing something here, and it’s clearly not something good.
She laughs, but there's no humour in it this time. In fact, it’s positively icy. "And you, of all people, just happened to be at this bar tonight.” She scoffs. “It's a complete coincidence, is it?"
“I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe in fate,” I say calmly, but the twist of her lips tells me she’s not in the mood for that debate right now.
"And I just happened to be at this bar because I'm staying in this hotel. And I’m staying in this hotel because it’s right next to my work.
" Unease trickles down my spine as I straighten.
"What exactly are you accusing me of? Did you skip bail or do something naughty, Red? "
My attempt at lightening the mood falls flat.
She reaches for her purse and, shoulders slumped, pulls out her badge.
"I'm a detective. This bail jumper was my case." A massive sigh. “And so was your father’s.” She's out of bed now, snatching her clothes up from the floor and clutching them to her chest. "You expect me to believe you didn't know that?”
Our conversation at the bar makes more sense now, and I replay it again in my mind, seeing her words in a new light.
Everyone's assuming that she'll turn up in rehab. I thought she meant the media, but she meant law enforcement. She was talking about everyone who’s working on the case, including her.
“Oh,” I say, finally understanding. “I swear, I had no idea. How could I? And more importantly, why does it matter?”
She doesn’t find my attempt to ease her worries even remotely charming. In fact, it just seems to anger her more. “Of course, it matters.”
Dragging a hand through her wild tangle of hair, her agitation grows, rapidly approaching panic as she fumbles around the sheets for her underwear, which are still dangling from the doorknob.
“This is so inappropriate. Fuck!” She glares at me, cheeks flushing, when I helpfully tip my head toward the door, and she spots her panties hanging there.
“Years, I spent years trying to get your Dad. We still have old cases we’re trying to connect him to.
This is a massive conflict of interest. Jesus, I shouldn’t even be telling you that. ”
When she scowls at me, scooting to the edge of the bed with the sheets clasped to her chest, I close my eyes and listen to her tiptoeing across the carpet.
“Oh god, someone might have seen us downstairs! What was I thinking?”
Not sure whether she actually wants me to answer that, I open my eyes in time to see her angrily stepping into her panties, holding them out with one hand and hopping on one foot as she tries to keep her balance while simultaneously gripping the white sheet under her chin.
“What if they say we were in cahoots? That the reason I could never catch him was because I was in a relationship with you?”
I get that she’s spiralling, but that doesn’t even make sense.
"I didn't know you were a cop. Didn’t know you at all until today." It comes out harder than I intended, but my bear’s anger is bleeding through.
The look she gives me is scathing. “That’s not the point. Even the mere suggestion of impropriety, just a whisper about an investigation or any wrongdoing on my part, and my career is over.”
She stops abruptly, mid-way through shimmying her panties up her thighs.
"Is that why you’re here? To discredit me. So that I’d be thrown off any case to do with your family?” Her porcelain skin turns even paler as the idea that this was my cunning plan all along takes hold. “Oh my god, oh my god.”
She’s so pissed off now that all attempts at modesty are forgotten as she flings away the covering and snatches up her jeans.
“You’re the one who didn’t want small talk, remember?” I snap, throwing my hands up at my sides in disbelief. If it weren’t for the very real scent of fear coming off her, I’d swear this was a joke.
“Oh well that’s convenient,” she sneers.
"Convenient? Are you for real?" I stare at her, irritation growing that she’s ruining this for no reason, while her heat and scent still linger on my skin. But she’s not listening.
I stagger back, stunned she could think that after what just happened between us.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask, resting my hands on top of my head as I watch her wriggling into her jeans and shoving on her top inside out in her haste to escape.
My brain is struggling to catch up. “My father is in jail. The case is over. And I’m nothing like him.
No criminal record. Never even been arrested. ”
“Yet,” she snaps, immediately looking shamefaced but too het up to apologise.
I’ve worked my entire life to escape the legacy my father left for me, yet he’s still ruining my life, or at least, his name is.
But actually, no, in this instance, he’s not. She is. Because I am a good man, and I’ve done nothing wrong.
“Just stop. Please. Everything that happened tonight was real. We’re…"
I take a step toward her then stop. The word I was going to say catches in my throat because saying it out loud will make it real when it’s just about to be over before it starts.
“You’re making a mistake,” I say quietly, fighting back the anger that’s building inside me. It isn’t supposed to be like this. "Because THIS, this doesn't happen to me."
I drag a hand through my hair before gesturing back and forth between us.
“No, I don’t think I am,” she says, looking me dead in the eye, before muttering, “I knew this was too good to be true,” to herself as she belatedly finds her bra and shoves it into her purse.
She slips her feet into her shoes and tucks her purse under her elbow, eyes on the door, clearly itching to get out of here.
“You can’t tell anyone about this,” she insists, chin held high, awfully haughty for a woman with her unmentionables sticking out of her handbag. She looks nothing like the woman who was moaning in my arms ten minutes ago. This is the detective, stern and bossy, but not in a fun way like before.
Narrowing my eyes, I feel my temper rising. I’ve faced this shit all my life, and it pisses me off.
“Fine by me,” I snap, a familiar shame burning inside me, even though the only thing I’ve ever done is fight every damn day to prove I’m nothing like my criminal family.
She hesitates, maybe doubting herself a little, but not enough to stay.
"I should go. I have to go." Her voice is quiet, sad, and I feel like punching the wall in frustration. She’s made up her mind, and there’s nothing I can do.
And with a mixture of anger and humiliation bubbling inside me, I don’t try to convince her to stay.
Maybe I’ve got this all wrong, and she’s not who I thought she was. Because surely the one for me wouldn’t treat me like this, wouldn’t be able to walk away.
"You’re right. You should." Bitterness has overtaken whatever stupid hope I had.
I'm already pulling on my shirt, grabbing my jacket, and shoving my wallet back in my pocket. I can't stay here and sleep in sheets covered in her scent. I guess tonight’s my first night crashing at the office.
She's still standing at the door when I march toward it, her hand on the knob, and for a second, she looks as torn as I feel.
We stand face to face in the narrow hallway where I had her pinned to the door just hours before. I can hear her heart pounding. I wait, giving her one last chance to change her mind and stop this madness.
Instead, she says, "This is your room. You don’t need to walk me out.”
"I’m not,” I say dryly, “but I’m definitely not staying here."
She nibbles her lip and lifts her hand, like she’s going to reach out and touch me, before curling her fingers into her palm and stepping back. "Look, maybe I… I mean, you understand…"
I cut her off, too wounded now to hear whatever justification she's about to offer. She’s more worried about what people might say than about what this could potentially be, and that tells me all I need to know.
“What it’s like to have people treat you like shit because of your last name? Yes, I understand completely.” I tip my head at the door, the animal inside driving at me to get out and get away. “Move.”
She doesn’t. “Whisky, I… it’s my career…” She pauses. “I don’t want to leave it like this.”
I cringe at the endearment, which now makes what happened here feel cheap and sleazy. Maybe it’s because she’s human, or maybe it’s because it’s not really there, but either way, she clearly didn’t feel the same things I did.
This was nothing but a one-night stand for her.
"You know what? I haven't done a single thing wrong. You’re the one who fucked this up, so don’t make me feel bad for leaving.” I reach past her for the door handle. “Move, please.”
She steps aside slowly, eyes lowered.
“See you around, Detective.”
I step out into the hallway, slamming the door behind me. I’m halfway down the hall when it reopens, her soft footsteps muffled by the thick carpet as she steps out into the corridor, but she doesn’t follow me or chase after me and beg me to stay.
So, I don't look back.