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)
“Ooh, smells yum in there,” Leon says. “Jasmine?”
“Who the fuck knows, but it’s better than stale piss.”
James slips in, grimacing, lifting his arse out of the leather seat when it squelches. He tosses the bag on my lap, and I grunt.
“What is this?” I ask, looking inside, seeing stacks and stacks of soaking wet cash. “The fuck?” I blurt, looking at James. “In the midst of all that, you managed to get this out?”
He shrugs. “We’ve got ten new mouths to feed, dear.”
“Hey D-boss,” Leon says, leaning in through my window. “I was thinking we need a few more water sports on the cove. Paddleboarding, scuba diving, that kind of thing.”
James and I both let out a bark of laughter. Scuba diving? Jesus, it must be like a mass graveyard on the seabed of this cove. “No,” I say shortly, dipping my hand into the bag and pulling out a handful of bundles, maybe a hundred grand. “Share this between you and Jerry,” I say, stuffing it into his chest. “And lose this in the accounts.” I toss the rest of the cash at his feet and cluck his cheek. “Good work today.” I face the windscreen as my mobile rings. “Nolan.” I answer and get straight to the point. “Brad’s been shot.”
“What?”
“Shot, Nolan. He’s been shot.”
“Oh my God, I’m on my way. Where? Where am I going?”
“Nowhere. He’s fine. Doc’s seeing to him back at the house. We need you to keep things ticking over there. I’ll keep you updated.”
“Yeah, okay.” He sounds completely bewildered.
“He’ll be okay, kid.” I say, softening, before hanging up and letting my body go heavy in the seat. “Now get me the fuck home.”
James smiles at the wheel and pulls off, and I relax back, bracing myself for the next shitstorm.
20
ROSE
I follow Fury toward the kitchen, mentally estimating how much weight he has hanging from his arms in the form of groceries. A whole cartful. “Are we feeding five thousand?” he asks as he heaves them upward and places them on the island.
“Every time I come home it feels like someone new has moved in.” I drop my purse on a stool and start sorting through the bags. “I miss Esther.”
He drops to a stool and flexes his hands. “I’ve missed the boy.”
My working hands falter, my heart squeezing. Soon. He’ll be here soon. “Me too.” I smile and pull out a bottle of orange juice, holding it up. Fury nods, so I fetch a glass and pour him some. “And you must miss Tank.” I push the glass toward him, and he drinks it all before answering.
“Not as much as you,” Fury says with a hint of a smile. “You have me until you get him back.” He looks at his watch, as I roll my eyes. “What time do they land?”
I glance at the clock on the stove as I pull out a huge bag of pasta. “About now.” Excitement flutters in my tummy. “You want to slice some zucchini?” I take one of Esther’s aprons and slip it on.
“Suits you.”
I raise a brow and he opens his arms, welcoming my offer to join me in my domestic . . . bliss.
“You got an axe?”
I laugh and fetch a knife and chopping board, placing a bag of vegetables in front of one of our resident Vikings. “Here you go. Nice and thin, please.”
Fury gets to work while I unpack the rest of the shopping and start preparing a feast. I try not to look at the wine longingly as I set it on the middle of the island. I catch Fury with a half-smile behind his wild beard, eyeing me in between slicing. “Stop grinning,” I mutter, collecting a pan and filling it with water, setting it on the stove. “I’ve been meaning to ask you.” I sound casual, as intended, though he still peeks up at me cautiously. “What are your names?”
“Tank and Fury.”
I turn, armed with my bag of pasta. “Your real names.”
“Tank and Fury.”
“Come on.”
“It’s Tank and Fury.” He doesn’t look up from his slicing.
“Right.” I sigh and give up, getting back to cooking, and the next hour passes by in a comfortable quiet, Fury chopping, me cooking. Or trying to. Damn, I really do miss Esther. I push the dish into the oven to bake for a half hour and turn back toward the kitchen.
And cringe.
“You cook like a man,” Fury says, laughing, casting his eye over the mess with me. I hear a car in the driveway.
“Shit.” Suddenly, the mess looks . . . messier. “You get the dishwasher, I’ll start clearing.” I push everything cluttering the island toward the dishwasher so Fury can load, and dash around like a madwoman, wiping down the countertops. In only a couple of minutes, we’re in far better shape. I dust off my hands.