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)
James laughs. Why’s he laughing? “Yes, I know who you are. You’re a man who’s in the doghouse. Come on, you prick.” He moves in behind me and hooks his arms under mine, getting me up with relative ease, considering I’m fucking legless. “Rose is upset.”
I laugh loudly. “Upset? Is that what we call fucking psycho these days?” I shrug him off and stagger a few paces, but quickly steady myself. I look down. My feet are in the water. And my arse feels a bit damp. “You know what I’m going to do?” I ask. “To fix this fucking mess?”
“Sober up?”
“I’m going to kill The Bear.” I start trudging up the sand toward my villa. “This is all your fucking fault, anyway.” Why’s that only just occurred to me? This shitstorm is all James’s doing, because he’s the fucker who resurrected me. I was quite happy being dead.
I stop. Turn. Sway. Blink. His eyebrows are nearly touching his hairline. “I should kill you too.” Or at least punch his fucking lights out. That’ll make me feel better.
James’s arms open up invitingly, and I clench my fist. He’s goading me. I’m not so drunk I don’t recognize that.
“I’ve always wondered who’d come out on top between The Brit and The Enigma.” His head tilts. “So let’s find out.”
He has? I thought we were friends. The fucker. I draw back my fist, narrow my eyes, and swing, intent on planting a precisely placed fist on his jaw.
But it hits precisely . . . nothing. “Fuck,” I mutter, spinning on the spot before face-planting the sand. I roll to my back and find James looming over me.
“You done?” he asks as I spit out endless grains of sand. “Or do I have to knock you out and drag you back to your wife?”
“I’m staying at yours.”
He laughs. “You’ve got more chance of digging a hole here on the shore and finding The Bear.” He offers a hand. “I’m not joining you on the wrong side of your wife. Give me your fucking hand, you dick.”
I huff and throw out a disorientated arm, taking a firm hold, and James hauls me up, but this time he doesn’t let me go, supporting me as I stagger up the beach. “How’d Beau take the news?” I ask, hoping James is in the doghouse with me.
“You mean the news that the man who ordered the death of her mum and my entire family is, in fact, alive when we all thought we’d just executed a pretty fucking seamless plan and killed the fucker?”
“No, I mean the news that you’re a sarcastic knob.” I shove him away. I can walk on my own. “Yes, that news,” I grumble. “I was having a lovely evening until he called to let us know we killed the wrong man.”
“Me too,” James muses, and I look at him, albeit through drunken eyes, but I see the lost man who’s still lingering. For a brief moment, he and Beau had their peace. For a brief moment, it was sunshine and smiles. For a brief moment, we all thought that part of the story was over.
But when you’re me and James is James, it’s never really over.
So, yeah, we’re all shook up. Some of us—like my wife—are fuming. Some of us, like Beau, are quietly contemplative. Others, like Brad, Otto, and Ringo, are thirsty for blood again.
And then there’s me.
Drunk.
But the alternative is a bloodbath, and I’ve not quite recovered from my most recent rampage in Miami. I need a rest.
There’s no rest for the wicked, kid.
“Oh fuck off,” I slur, making James recoil. “I’m not talking to you.” I stagger away, willing my dead father to leave me the hell alone. I do not need his input right now. “Call the men,” I order, throwing a hand in the air, as if all of them might see me beckoning them. “We need a mee-ee-ee-ting.” Let’s figure out some shit, make a plan, and kill that fucking bear.
Again.
“For fuck’s sake,” James breathes.
“Fuck.” I trip up nothing and land face first, getting another mouthful of sand. I start to spit and splutter as I get myself back to my feet again, marching on, determined. “I want meetings with . . .” I frown and turn to find James. “Who’s still alive?”
He shakes his head, in despair, I think, but he doesn’t get a chance to answer. Mum appears from nowhere and seizes me. “Where the hell have you b—” Her nose wrinkles. “You’re drunk.”
I roll my eyes. Or try to. “Just trying to numb the pain.”
“You’re hurt?”
“Yes, I’m fucking hurt. Didn’t you see my wife’s fist meet my fucking nose?”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, th—”
“Oh good, you found him,” Otto grunts, and isn’t he like a red fucking flag to an angry bull? I don’t want to see that fucking fuck head. I watch as his hand meets my mother’s arm. “Where the fuck have you been?” he asks.