12. Beau
Chapter twelve
Beau
I ’m in Ignacia’s bed. Again. I’m sleeping just a few feet away from her, although sleeping is a relative term, and it doesn’t accurately describe what’s going on here in the least. I think she’s asleep. She has been for a while.
But it changes radically when a loud bang comes from outside.
She jerks up in bed, her eyes wild and frightened, and something happens to me that isn’t driven by work or fueled by skill or duty. It’s not just me putting myself between the client and harm. It’s an instant and immediate rage that makes no sense. The rage is brought on by whatever and whoever is out there. If it’s a what, then nature is just an asshole, but if it’s a who and the who means to harm this woman, then they are going to be flat on their back in a matter of seconds. And as soon as I can get my hands on them, my hands will be choking the life out of them. Sure, I’ll go to prison. Even rich people can’t murder someone and get away with it, and murderous rage can hardly be called self-defense. But I’ll go. It will be worth it if it means Ignacia is safe.
I think about all that as I spring from the bed and dash downstairs. I have my gun out and ready in front of me. Ignacia would also kill me if she knew it was in the top drawer of the nightstand. She hates guns.
The same pudgy raccoon from the other night is out here again. I swear it’s the absolute same beast of a devil.
“Hey!” I yell at it and stride forward to the metal trash can that’s been knocked on its side. “Get out of here.”
It looks at me like it’s taunting me to finish that statement with before I put a bullet in your hide. Yeah, the bastard is calling my bluff. It knows I’m not going to shoot it. That I’m not going to shoot at it. I don’t discharge a weapon for anything less than immobilizing a threat to my life or my client’s life.
“Get going.”
More raccoon staredown happens. Then, the rotund creature stands on its hind legs, sticks one of its front legs down, and scratches its own nuts.
My jaw drops.
“That’s crude, man,” I say.
More staring takes place. At least it’s not hissing. Or springing. Rabies shots suck, and I don’t want to get one on the off chance this jerk is packing more than an alarming-sized set that he’s very eager to show off.
“Great. It’s established. They’re officially bigger than mine. Good job. Now, can you leave the trash for another night or just come for it quietly next time?”
The raccoon turns and ambles away so very slowly that it’s like the animal version of two fuck you birds flying high in the air. This guy clearly knows he’s won the battle, even if he has to leave the trash for another war and another night.
I right the trashcan and get the garbage bag back in. This time, I take it to the porch and tuck it inside the screen door. It has a latch on it, but I do wonder about the wisdom of what I just did. That raccoon doesn’t look like it’ll be deterred in the least. It looks capable of getting the door open with furious superhuman raccoon strength and feasting to the tune of incredible messes.
I leave it anyway and head back upstairs. I never took the safety off my gun. There have been very few times I’ve ever needed to.
My heart is still pounding far too crazily, and it doubles its furious rate and refuses to listen to reason when I see Ignacia in her floral granny nightgown with lace at the sleeves and collar, standing at the window with the curtains pulled back. Half of me wants to yank her away from the window, straight into my arms, but the other half says to be rational, and that’s the half I go with. That’s the only half I’ll ever choose. The one that listens to rules and reason and has both our best interests at heart. The one that isn’t insane and reckless and doesn’t want to admit I need a different kind of shot because there’s something about this woman with her big laughter, kindness, easy acceptance, sunny outlook, and perseverance and strength that has burrowed under my skin.
I put the gun back in the top drawer of the nightstand. It’s very token, I have to admit, but hiding it under the mattress doesn’t really work, and I would never ever put something like that under the pillow or leave it in plain sight.
She doesn’t turn around. She stays at the window, her body looking soft, the billowing granny nightgown that covers just about every inch of her somehow the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“You saw the whole thing, didn’t you?” I ask.
“I did. The cameras also recorded it from the angle, I’m pretty sure. I’m going to save that one. I should post it online. Man Stands Off with Well-Endowed Raccoon. Or Ball Measuring Contest Ensues. Or Raccoon Animal Laughs at Man and Promises He’ll be Back to Fuck Up His Garbage. I’m pretty sure it would go viral.”
“You’re not allowed to go viral,” I grumble.
“Aiden already knows where I am. If you weren’t here, I have no doubt he would have tried to come back to cause all sorts of chaos. Maybe what we need is to lure him out. Maybe I should try and contact him and go into town and—”
At those words, I could barely stop myself from lurching forward, grasping her arms, and pulling her against me. I’d never shake sense into her, but I could bury my fingers in her hair and try and kiss it into her. Try to chase away my fears that something bad would ever or could ever happen to her and promise her silently that I’d put my body between her and whatever threat it was, even if it were a bullet. In a professional capacity. Obviously.
Minus all the other stuff. Also obviously.
That’s what I need to tell her. She needs an update on the job. She’s hanging in limbo, and she’s worried. Afraid even. She wants her old life back. She wants all of this over. The anxiety is probably eating away at her, festering like a nasty wound, and like a thoughtless imbecile, I’ve let it. I thought no news would be good news, but she needs more than me telling her I don’t have anything yet, and neither does my team.
“For all Aiden knows, I’m a hired thug. He’s so confident in throwing you under the bus to declare his own innocence that he hasn’t even gone into hiding yet. My team is monitoring his every movement. You know that. I would have told you if he disappeared.”
She doesn’t get away from the window. I know there’s no danger out there, but I still want to get between her and whatever might be out there. I do. Professionally. Because I’m a professional with zero feelings of any sort.
“It takes time to build an airtight case against someone, and we won’t move until we are certain you are one hundred percent off the hook,” I add.
“Then why are you standing there like he’s waiting outside with a sniper rifle?” she questions.
“I’m—I don’t know what you mean.”
She gives me the yeah, I two hundred percent believe you face. Then, the maddening woman sweeps the curtains aside and opens the window. Leaning forward, she punches the screen outward. It clatters onto the roof, and all I can do is stand there, frozen in bewilderment.
Oh, fuck no. She’s not…
Yes, she is. She’s doing it. She’s bending down and going through the window.
She rushes fast in the granny nightgown that is far too long and trip-worthy. Then, after she’s made enough room on the roof that is a straight drop to the bottom, and a good fifteen-footer at that, she turns her face to look at me, sweeps her hair to the side, and grins at me like a total badass.
“Get out here, Beau. It’s a lovely night, nice and warm. Look.” She points to the moon in the sky. It’s half full, and even I have to admit that, out here, surrounded by stars a person can actually see , it’s beautiful.
No, not just beautiful.
It’s breathtaking.
Both the moon and the woman bathed in silver light on her damn roof.
“Turn off the lights before you come out. The stars are so much better that way.”
I stick myself halfway out the window and plant my hands on the peeling shingles. “Are you kidding me? You’ve done this before?”
She wriggles her bare toes from beneath the hem of the nightgown. “Obviously. Who wouldn’t take advantage of this view? Also? It’s not like there’s a whole lot going on out here. I kind of have to take my amusement and entertainment wherever I can find it.” She turns her face to the moon, then slowly looks back at me. Her eyes are shining, dancing in the moonlight, and lovely. She’s ethereal, and my whole being freezes. She might not be asking me to jump off a bridge, just potentially fall off a roof, and the answer is yes.
I’ve already made so many bad decisions where Ignacia is concerned. I should pull her back in, fit the screen back into place, slam the window, pull the curtains, and insist she go back to bed.
Instead, I’m going to shut off the light, calculate how many hours it will be until sunrise—two hours and probably forty minutes—and then jam my huge body through a window that is far smaller than it looks.
“Careful.” Ignacia’s hand suddenly hovers over my head. Now, she’s the one who sounds protective. Her knuckles hit the top sill of the window, which would have taken off a good layer of skin if she hadn’t been there to urge me to duck down just a little further. “There.” Her fingers brush my bare arm, and my muscles coil and heave on instinct.
Is there any part of me that doesn’t want to be inside this woman?
What the fuck? Jesus.
The unfamiliar heat of a blush steals up my neck, and my stomach twists. I force myself to look at the moon, but the thing has nothing on the woman beside me. She rearranges herself, wraps her arms around her bent knees, and plants her feet hard on the shingles. They’re quite sticky. Sticky enough that they’ll keep us from careening down the incline and over the edge. Thank god.
I park my ass on the shingles as my stomach wavers. I’m usually not afraid of heights, but this seems like a straight ticket to a face-first landslide, eating grass, and getting all my teeth knocked out kind of trip to the dentist. I might have the money, but going to see a dentist isn’t my favorite thing in the world.
She looks right at me, doing that burn-a-hole-straight-through-my-head thing. I’m not focused on the moon or the stars anymore because they have nothing on her. I know I’m in trouble when I can’t tear my attention away, even when I want to.
“I know you’re not a narcissist or a chauvinist. And you’re not toxic. You don’t want to hurt anyone else,” she murmurs.
That can’t be out of left field. She’s picking up our conversation from two days ago. She’s continually looking for signs that I’m a good person or that I’m worth doing the one thing no one else should ever have to do for someone.
“I think you want to save people. It’s noble, but it can also be incredibly stupid,” I say in reply.
She doesn’t wince, even though that’s not my finest moment. I probably deserve a good swat upside the head. I’d suggest it myself if it wouldn’t throw her off balance up here on the damn roof. If I really wanted to keep her safe, I never should have come out here. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t have a plan, and I’m not in control right now. This is more epically stupid than if I took a running leap off the roof, thinking I could sprout wings. The result is probably going to be the same.
“Let’s go inside.” One of us has to be rational, even if it’s not fun.
“No,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The wind is blowing gently, but it might as well be enough to send a ship off. We’re on the damn roof . “I know I’m too tenderhearted. I can’t stand seeing people in pain. I always want to help. I don’t want to lose that and become hard and unmoved, but I know how it’s sometimes not a good thing. Look at Aiden. I knew there was something missing. I knew there was something wrong, but I didn’t listen to my gut. My blind care just enabled him to do what he did. But you? It’s different.”
“It’s not different,” I say firmly.
“Isn’t it?”
I feel physically sick. She’s reading too much into this. Into me. This isn’t real. I’m not who she thinks I am, and even if I were, I haven’t told her everything because I can’t tell her everything. It’s still coming, but she doesn’t know it yet. She still has some misplaced faith in me. Maybe some feelings. I can admit we’re attracted to each other. Fuck, we popped off like a barn burner, and the whole damn house could have come down around us the last time we put the sharing in sharing a bed.
The heart I’m so unused to using, the heart I don’t want to use other than for regular bodily functions like exercise and living and breathing, rattles in my chest, beating strangely. “No. And I don’t want to change. People can only be helped if they truly want it. I don’t.”
Her small, sad smile makes me want to take it back. It makes me want to be better and to turn around and get back inside to safety and haul her with me. Right now, she’s not looking at me like I’m her bodyguard. She’s not looking at me like I’m an asshole. And she should be. She’s actually studying my forearms, and she has that glossed-over, sensual look on her face. I can tell she likes what she sees. I know forearm porn is a thing, but this can’t lead to anything ever again.
“I think you might be lying to yourself,” she informs me in the gentlest tone possible.
“I’m not lying—”
The wind gusts over both of us, tugging at my T-shirt and rippling her nightgown.
That’s it. We’re going back into the house right this second.
I go first without announcing it. I just turn and head directly for the window. I plan on getting there first and offering her my hand, and I’m not going to take no for an answer. This is crazy. We can see the damn moon without sitting out here on the shingles.
My fingers are nearly on the windowsill when my foot flies out from under me on a curled piece of shingle that doesn’t have as much grip as it should.
I haven’t been on a slide since I was a kid, but this is pretty much the adult version, with all the usual horror attached. At least, as a kid, I just worried about going down too fast and knocking myself unconscious. As my face grates against the shingles like they’re cheese graters—and shit, there’s enough traction there—I get a one-way ticket to my life flashing before my eyes.
Though it sounds more like a suspended scream above me.
Ignacia.
I might be going to die, but she’s the one who is going to have to see the splatter.
Fuck.
I rapidly get my hands to cooperate. My nails dig frantically, looking for a handhold. It’s funny how such a short drop seems to take forever when you’re going to die.
You’re not going to die. You know how to fall. You’ve been trained for worse.
My brain finally kicks into survival mode, giving me enough adrenaline that my reflexes wrench into overdrive. I can’t die before I finish this job. I can’t die before I tell her the truth. She’s going to find out after the fact and hate me, and dead Beau can’t defend himself. I shouldn’t want to defend myself, but I do. I don’t want her to hate me. Ever. And coming back as a ghost isn’t appealing. The first time around as a living being was rough enough, thanks.
My hand shoots out as I go airborne, and my fingers grasp the edge of the roof. There aren’t any eaves. Fuck. If there was just that lip, it might have saved me, stopped my fall, or slowed me down enough to get to the ground without breaking my skull.
Yeah, no.
I hit the air, twist as much as I can, and hit the ground on my feet. My legs crumple beneath me, taking the impact, but it’s okay. That crunch is all good. I can live with a broken leg, but I can’t live with a bashed-in face. Or rather, I don’t want to.
For however long the fall seemed to take, the ground came fast. Before I know it, I’m on my side and heaving into the grass, which is in my mouth. There is dirt and grass between my teeth, and it tastes like copper. Wait, no. That would be my own blood. My cheeks feel wet. Shit.
I lift a hand that feels completely numb, like it’s detached from my body, and feel. Yes, it’s wet. Am I crying? That would be a damn first. My fingertips come away red, and then I feel the burn. The nasty scrape from the shingles. Road rasp. Or rather, roof rash. Whatever. It did a number on me. The wetness isn’t tears. It’s blood. And the good news? My hand seems to be attached to my body, even though I can’t feel it.
“Beau!” Ignacia screams.
I crane my head and see her up there on the roof, frozen, terrified, horrified, motionless, and colorless. Anger surges in me again—anger from seeing her hurting or threatened. This time, I’m only mad at myself. I want to scream at her to be careful, but she tucks herself through the window, and the words die in my throat. I’m not sure I can make a sound anyway. Breathing is hard enough. If I didn’t bust a rib, I’d be lucky. I feel like a hot death. Winded or wrecked? I can’t tell which one I am.
“Beau! Oh my fucking god. No, please. No, no!” A granny-nightgown-clad angel who swears comes rushing out the door, her blonde hair streaming behind her. Then, she drops down on her knees in front of me, her fingertips brushing against my cheek. She’s not scared to touch me, but she knows she shouldn’t move me. Her hands hover by my head anyway. “Beau! Oh my god. I need to call an ambulance.”
“I’m alive,” I rasp. Ooh, words. Yay! Thank god, because I am not going to the hospital. “Unfortunately for you, the contract still stands.” It’s probably not wise to use my breath to goad her and be a jerk, but alas…
“Shut up about the stupid contract.” There’s no heat in that statement. She’s still so white, so frightened. I’m scaring her, and it makes me want to throttle my own stupid self right now. “Is anything broken?” She still doesn’t really touch me, but she leans over me, and wetness splatters my face. Her tears. She’s crying all over me.
I manage to roll myself onto my back and brain scan my own body. Everything hurts, but it feels more like a big bruise. I start flexing everything, and nothing seems broken, as far as I can tell, so I dig my hands into the dirt and get myself upright. My head swims, but it calms down soon enough. Before long, the world rights itself like my breath did after it returned to my lungs. My side aches like a mother, and it feels a lot like my face—raw and scraped to shit. Shingles: One. Beau: Zero. Hmm, no, it’s more like two for the shingles and zero for Beau since I did slip up there as well.
I lift the corner of my shirt up, and Ignacia gasps. Her hands fly to her mouth, and more tears stream down her cheeks. Her eyes look so much bluer at night, especially when they’re filled with tears. I’ve never hated myself more. She’s crying because of me. This is what it’s going to look like when I break the news to her about this job. And it haunts me.
I finally make my eyes track to where she’s looking. Fuck, the pump is gone, and there’s a pretty big, bloody scratch where the shingles had their way with it and me, causing it to tear out. It’s probably destroyed. But no matter. I’ll call someone, and they’ll be here within a few hours to replace it. I’ll even fit it myself.
“You need a doctor,” Ignacia hisses.
“I’m fine. Most of this is cosmetic. Sorry to say, but your roof did a number on my good looks. The upside is that you don’t have to worry because I’m not going to sue. I got up there on the roof of my own free will.” Even if I’m not normally known to make bad decisions.
Ever since I came out here, I can’t stop making them.
“Goddamn it, Beau.” Wow, that had some real heat this time. “You’re such a stubborn asshole.” She yanks my T-shirt down and slips her hand under my arm. I have no clue what she’s doing and then I realize she’s trying to help me up. As if I’m not four times her size. This is like an ant lifting a house, but the ant has some serious strength I didn’t give her credit for.
Some of my strength is returning, too, so I slowly get myself to my feet. I don’t want to lean on her, but I have to. She doesn’t complain. She’s warm and still angelic, and she smells heavenly, like sugar and flowers and her night moisturizer, which definitely contains cucumbers and almonds.
Slowly but surely, we make it all the way to the living room. There, she helps me into a chair and gives me a stink eye that’s unlike any stink eye I’ve ever seen. I know if I get out of this chair, I’ll regret it. I’ve never seen anyone look more afraid yet more fierce at the same time.
Ignacia leaves, and I hear her in the kitchen. Within moments, she races back into the room with an icepack and a wet cloth, her hair flying out all angelic again, her nightgown swirling around her body in a not-so-granny way. Fuck, granny clothes are hot.
She’s hot.
And I’m not dead.
I want to touch her, kiss her, stroke her hair, and bury my fingers in it. I want to sob about things that happened a long time ago. And I want her to kiss me and tell me it’s alright, all patient and sweet. I want to devour her sweet lips and her sweet other places.
Also? I might have a concussion.
The devouring part? Alright, fine, I wanted that before. But the opening up thing isn’t going to happen again. It’s not. And hoping for the future? Me confessing she’s right and I don’t want to be a glass house full of shadows and shit anymore? That’s a weakness. It’s feeling. And I don’t do either of those things. I’m a rich man, but that’s the one thing I can’t and won’t afford.
“You’re bleeding from your mouth,” she murmurs as she dabs at my bottom lip carefully.
“I think I bit something in there.”
She studies me, her eyes narrowing and her brows turning into a series of lines I want to kiss away. “Your lip, I think.”
I run my tongue along the inside of the bottom one. Ouch, it stings. “I think so.”
She frowns. “I’m so sorry about your face. It looks bad, Beau.”
“How bad?” I ask.
“Like you had a fight with a rusty cheese grater.”
“Wow.” I had the same vision as I was falling.
“It’s only the one side, though,” she tells me as she sweeps her head around. “Yeah, not your best side. You’re safe there. The other side still screams cold, hard, unfeeling, and hot as hell arsehole. Your game face is in place. Plus, the whole fight with the roof thing is serious. It makes you even more of a badass. Not that you weren’t before. I know you are. But…scars are hot, I guess. Not everyone can say they fell off a roof and survived.”
I did survive. Thank dear freaking trash-eating raccoons that she’s not scraping me off her front lawn with a shovel. She’d be scarred for life.
“You know,” she whispers, all raw and wide-eyed now. She dabs at my lip again and hands me the icepack so I can stick it on my own face. “Life does things to people that make them hurt—”
“Don’t make this into a metaphor,” I interrupt her. I have to be an asshole because there’s a whole lot of tenderness going on, and it needs to be dialed way down on both our parts, especially mine. I survived falling off the roof. Now, I have to survive this woman, too. My team is close. Colin is close. Just a few more days, and I can get out of here. I want that. I. Fucking. Want. That. It’s everything I want.
So why do I feel so unsatisfied?
Right. Concussion multiplied with blue balls. My hormones and head are both scrambled.
“I’m alive,” I grunt. “And I’m happy that way. It’s good enough.”
I expect another lecture about being alive versus living, but it never comes. Instead, her blue eyes get even bluer and even wetter and softer, and they never leave my face. Then, her hand comes down and cups the back of my neck with enough sensual grace to knock the breath right out of me all over again. “Okay.” She rubs my neck, and fuck, it feels good. Like I just fell off a roof and she’s rubbing out the kinks kind of good. “Okay, Beau. I’ll talk about myself then.”
Her hand, the pain. Her hand, massaging it away.
It’s all I can do not to moan and whimper and beg her for more. I could have a professional masseuse and any doctor I want here in a matter of hours. But the only touch I want is hers.
She runs her palm down my back, over my T-shirt, and back to my neck. “It’s been eleven months since I last saw my family. I know that when I finally do get to go back home, or they come out here, they’ll have aged. I’m at the point in my life where I’m adult enough to realize that everything and everyone gets older. People start falling apart, and they’re not here forever. I hate that I’ve already lost almost a year with them. I’m worried about them. They’re worried about me. I miss them terribly. I guess…I guess that’s me talking about me.” She stops massaging and cups my good cheek, tears dancing in her eyes. “I’m worried about you too. You’re so rock hard that you survived plummeting off my roof, but I think at the center, you’re not so hard.”
I take the cloth from her hand and dab my lip, keeping the ice pack in place. I need my phone to make some calls. I’ll tell her where it is, so she can help me get it. I’m not going to expire on the spot, but I need another pump, or at the very least, some insulin, the pen needle, and something to check my blood sugar until I get the pump up and running to do it for me again.
“Good thing I have a tough shell, then. Nothing reaches the squishy parts,” I say.
I lift my shirt basically as a distraction, but then I survey the destruction, and…it’s not pretty. It’s worse than it looks. Ignacia doesn’t faint, but she does gasp again. “That’s going to need some hydrogen peroxide.”
“Yeah.”
“And some stitches,” she adds.
“No, just a first aid kit. I have one in my room. And my phone. Could you help me get them, please?”
She wants to talk more and break me with her soft words falling from her sensual lips. She also wants to share her huge, wonderful, sunny, and happy heart with me. But I can’t let that happen, so I keep my T-shirt lifted, letting all the gore show.
“Yes.” She swallows so hard that it sounds like she’s choking. “I’ll be right back with the stuff.”
Falling off the roof saved me from having a heart-to-heart up there. I’ve done a lot of things in life to avoid getting mushy, but that’s a first.
Hopefully, it’s the last.
A few more days. I need to manage not to get myself killed. I need to remind myself to use my brain, not do silly things like climb out of windows, let Ignacia climb on top of me in bed, or let her tell me I’m worth something, something great. I can’t let her think that. Because she’s wrong.
Soon, she’ll find out how not worth something I am.
Too soon.
Fuck.