by Megyn Ward
“Oh, shit. I forgot.,” he says, jerking the knot in the tie all the way loose. “Huddle up, team. Dec—bring some glasses.” He looks at Tess. “Grab my jacket, Tessie? I’ll pay you in sweet, sweet lovin’.”
Tess makes a gagging noise as she lifts his jacket from the hook near his booth. “You’ll pay me in pancakes, perv.”
As soon as we’re all gathered around the foot of the stairs, Con hands the bottle of whiskey to Tess. “Don’t be stingy,” he says, while she pours and Declan hands out glasses.
“So, surprise, surprise—I did not have the security footage Jackson Howard promised me by the end of the day, yesterday.” Digging a pair of small manila envelopes from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, Con holds them out. One for me. One for Cari. “What I did have was a request for a private meeting at his office—don’t open that yet,” he says, wagging a finger in Cari’s face when she slips a finger under the flap. “When I get there, Howard tells me that he’s so very sorry but that he can’t turn over the security footage because there was a malfunction with the cameras on Templeton’s floor—”
“That son of a bitch,” Tess belts out, tiny fists balled up into fists. “I’m gonna find that asshole and flay his balls with a —”
Before she can finish, Con leans over and taps the tip of her nose with his finger. “Has anyone ever told you how completely adorable you are when you talk about torturing corporate scum?”
“Get on with it,” Declan grumbles. At the sound of his voice, Shad yowls at Declan’s feet, and he bends over to pick her up. The cat stops yowling and starts purring, rubbing her face against Dec’s stubbled chin while he coos at her. “There’s my girl... did she miss me?”
Tess glares at the pair of them like she’s been betrayed. “Put my cat down.”
“Make me,” Declan says without sparing her so much as a glance, the biggest six-year-old I’ve ever seen.
Tess makes a sound like she’s being strangled and takes a step toward him. Con catches her by hooking his fingers into the waistband of her jeans, hauling her back. “Anyway.” Con rolls his eyes. “He can’t give me the footage.” He smiles. “But I tell him, that’s okay because as a precaution, I took the liberty of remotely installing a motion activated camera on Templeton’s computer that would record sixty-seconds of video every time the computer was accessed, before the video’s release.”
Reaching into his breast pocket, Conner pulls out a stack of still-frame photographs. “You will never guess who I caught using James’s computer. At 3:57 AM, yesterday morning—” He holds the pictures out of reach. “Okay, you’ll probably guess.”
I grab the pictures out of his hand. They’re all of Sara.
I knew she did it, she all but admitted it, but it still sucks to see the proof right in front of me. I pass the photos to Cari, and she takes them.
“You obtained these illegally,” she says. Her voice is scratchy. Throat tender from where James throttled her. Hearing it makes me wish I’d killed him. “They're inadmissible.”
“Well, well, well—look who watches CourTV.” Con took the pictures from her to flip through them, admiring his handy work. “But you’re right. That’s why I didn’t use them to file a lawsuit. I used them to settle one.”
“What did you do?” Declan says, wary.
Con divides a grin between the four of us. “I blackmailed his ass.”
Beside him, Tess claps her hands like a kid on Christmas morning. “I change my mind—adulting is fun.”
“You what?” I feel my jaw unhinge.
“I. Black. Mailed. Him.” Con says it slowly. “Which brings me to your door prizes.” He motions toward the envelope in my hand. “Open it.”
I rip my envelope open and pull out the slip of paper tucked inside.
No. Not a slip of paper. A check.
“Oh, my god.” Beside me, Cari stares at the check in her hand, the other pressed against her gaping mouth. “Does this say one million dollars?”
“It sure the fuck does.” Conner beams, like extorting one of the most powerful men in Boston for two million dollars is his crowning achievement. “And don’t get your panties in a twist,” he says, looking at his brother. “It’s all legal-ish. Once I showed him my evidence and explained how WikiLeaks works, he was more than willing to settle out of court.”
Declan laughs. “You sneaky little shit,” he says, almost in awe.
“Well,” Con’s smile sharpens slightly, gaze darting toward Tess before refocusing on his brother. “Don’t be too impressed—I got the peeping tom idea from you.”
Twenty-one
Cari
One Million Dollars.
I stare at the check in my hand. Two commas. Six zeros. My name typed neatly into the space that says Pay to the Order of.
I grew up poor in small town Ohio. My parents never had much but worked hard to provide for my sister and me as best they could. They made sacrifices so that we never went without. Even though I never knew what it was like to need, I grew up wanting.
Wanting more. Wanting better.
But I never believed I deserved it. That I had what it took to earn it on my own. That was the allure guys like Trevor and James held for me. They exuded more. It practically seeped from their pores, and I lapped up their left-overs like a starving dog, hungry for every scrap they tossed my way. Because if guys like that wanted me, that made me worth something.
It made me more too.
I’ve never felt like I was enough.
Me. The person I am.
That’s why I did it. Why I flaunted myself in front of Patrick. Why I pushed him. Played games instead of being honest with him about how I feel. Because my body is the only part of me, that’s worth something.
Sitting here with a million dollars in my hand, I realize something.
Having money doesn’t change that.
I let it go, and it flutters into my lap. My head jerks up like I’m surfacing. Like I’m drowning. Coming up for air. Tess and Con are playing pool—she reaches over and snaps his suspenders while he’s bent over, lining up a shot. He drops his cue and chases her around the table, both shouting and laughing. Declan sits in the same booth as I am, legs kicked up on the bench seat opposite of where I’m sitting. Half-empty bottle of Jameson at his elbow, Tess’s cat curled up on his chest, purring like he’s her long-lost lover. He’s watching his brother chase and tease Tess with a look of longing, so sharp it cuts me to the quick.
“You really headbutt that fucker in the nose?”
I look across the table at Declan and try to remember a time he’s ever addressed me directly. I can’t. “I did.” I grin at him. “It was pretty awesome.”
Without looking at me, Declan laughs. “Congratulations, you’re officially a Gilroy.”
I don’t know how to take that, so I just stay quiet.
“She was right, you know? Tess—” He lifts his glass and takes a drink. “we should’ve told you sooner.”
For a second, I’m confused, but then it comes to me. The five of us standing in the office, Tess upset, shouting—her gaze bouncing from brother to cousin.
Tell her... Somebody tell her.
“You’re family,” Declan says, draining his glass, his gaze hooded and fixed on the scene in front of him while his free hand strokes the cat on his chest like his life depends on it. Maybe it does.
“Being family isn’t the same as belonging,” I say quietly because if anyone understands, it’s him.
Declan’s mouth quirks, flashing a dimple I never knew he had. “No, it isn’t.” He pours himself another drink, emptying the bottle into his glass. “How’s your neck?”
I lift my fingers to graze the skin of my throat. It burns. Hurts when I talk. Swollen and bruised. But it could’ve been worse. So much worse. “I’ll live.”
Letting my gaze wander, I find Patrick. He’s behind the bar, washing glasses. Restocking the waitress stations. Checking bottle levels to make sure things are ready for tomorrow. An ent
irely different Patrick than the one he was only a few hours ago. The Patrick who pulled James off me had been feral. Savage. Slamming his fist into James’s face over and over, jaw clenched. Eyes blank. Just when I thought he’d kill him—beat James to death on our living room floor—Patrick stood, hand fisted in James’s hair. Dragging him across the living room to the open door, he threw James down the stairs like he was a bag of trash.
And then he was there, hovering over me, hands, bloody and shaking, against my neck. “Are you okay? Are you okay—Jesus Christ, please be okay.” He said it over and over, running his hands over me, checking for wounds. His hands on my face. My arms and legs. When he was satisfied that I was okay, he sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor and pulled me into his lap, holding me while I shook like a leaf and bawled like a baby, the adrenaline coursing through my veins with nowhere to go, making me hysterical.
I remember hearing footsteps pounding on the stairs. Tess shouting. Con trying to get Patrick to loosen his grip on me while Declan called 911.
That’s how the police found us. Me, sobbing, while Patrick held me in his arms, stroking my hair, cheek pressed against my temple. Whispering to me that it was over. He was there, and everything was okay.
“Has he always been like that?” I shouldn’t ask. I didn’t mean to, but it slipped out, and now that I’ve said it, I want to know. “So... protective.”
“Protective? That’s a good word for it.” Declan flicks a quick glance at Patrick, his mouth quirking again. “He’s always had a hyperactive sense of justice. He’s always been willing to get dirty if it means doing the right thing. Protecting things that need protecting. People who can’t defend themselves. Help those who need it... you know how long he’s been chasing Mrs. McGintey’s dog down for her?”
I shake my head.
“Since he was thirteen. While the rest of us little shitsticks were throwing eggs at her door, Patrick was helping her.” Declan shakes his head. “You know how old he was when he figured out she was letting that fucking mutt out on purpose?”
I shake my head again.
“Thirteen and a half.” He takes a long drink, draining his glass dry. “Didn’t matter. He chases that dog down, three days out of five because Mrs. McGintey’s husband died fifteen years ago and she’s lonely. She needs someone to care about what happens to her—that’s all that matters to him. If someone hurt her, Patrick would take them apart—no question. Because he loves that crazy, old bat. That’s who he is—he fights for the people he loves.” He sets his glass down and looks at his watch. “I’ve got to go, girl,” he says to the cat curled up on his chest. Lifting her gently, he lets her rub her face against his for a few seconds before he slides out of the booth. “I’ll see you later, Cari.” He says it like he knows it for a fact, flashing me his dimple again before strolling away, cat draped over his shoulder.
For a second, I think he’s going to take Tess’s cat with him, but he doesn’t. With a last nuzzle, Declan drops her on the abandoned pool table and goes home.
Twenty-two
Patrick
Tess slips me Cari’s keys before she leaves. “She’s ready to go,” she says, pressing them into my hand. “I brought it over and parked it in her spot.”
“Thanks, Tess,” I say. “Don’t forget to give a bill this time.”
She turns my hand over in hers, studying its broken skin and swollen knuckles. “You know what you are, Cap’n?” she says, looking up at me.
I crack a smile. “After my week of behaving badly, I’m afraid to ask.”
“You’re a nice guy,” she says, the corner of her mouth ticking upward when I groan. “Okay... a good man—and if the thought of you naked didn’t make me want to soak my brain in bleach, I’d totally do you.”
“I got an idea...” Con saunters up, slinging an arm around Tess’s shoulders. “How about you do me and pretend I’m him.”
“I’d rather drink the bleach than do you,” Tess quips back. She shoots a quick glance up the stairs Cari climbed a few minutes ago. They said their goodbyes in private, crying and hugging in a corner of the bar before Cari fled. “Now,” she says, looking at Con. “Take me for pancakes or lose me forever.”
“You just want me for my booth at Benny’s,” he says, scooping Shadrach up in his arms.
“Duh.” Tess laughs, shaking her head. “It’s the only thing you’re good for.”
“Give me ten minutes, I’ll show you something else I’m good for.” Con wags his eyebrows at her, and she snorts as he leads her toward the door. “Oh—Cari must’ve dropped this.” He wiggles the fingers draped across Tess’s shoulder. Between them is a slip of paper.
The check.
I snap it from his fingers and nod. “Thanks, man.”
“You gonna be okay?” he says, concern clouding his face. “Want to come flirt with Nora? Maybe score some free pie?”
I consider it. It would be easier. Cleaner if I leave. Stay gone until she’s asleep. Stay gone until she leaves for good.
“No—we’ll be okay.” I walk them to the door and open it for them. “See you guys tomorrow.”
They wave at me, strolling slowly toward Tess’s place to drop off Shad before they head to Benny’s. I watch them disappear down the sidewalk, jealous of how easy things are between them. How simple and clean. Shutting the door, I lock it and set the security alarm. Turn off the lights and give the place one last once-over before I head upstairs.
At the top of the stairs, is the pizza box I dropped, its cardboard lid splattered with blood. The door still hanging open, the snapped chain dangling uselessly from its frame. The coffee table is destroyed, exploded into a pile of splintered wood. Looking at it, I get a flash. Me, lifting James by his throat. Flipping him over, slamming him onto the table while Cari choked and gasped for air behind me. Like it was happening all over again, my jaw fuses shut. My ears start to ring. My chest feels tight. Dragging my gaze up from the ruined table, I find Cari. The moment I see her, everything else fades.
“Hey,” I say, stepping past the mess I made. “Con found this.” I hold the check up, and she looks at it like she has no idea what it is. Her hand comes up slow, her wrist slack as she plucks it from my fingers. I have a bad feeling about giving it to her.
“Thanks,” she says, barely sparing me a glance. “What do you see when you look at it?” She keeps her gaze fixed and steady on the painting, hanging on the wall, a few feet away from us.
I can’t even force myself to look at it let alone dissect the feelings that looking at it invokes. “I think you need some sleep, Cari,” I say, ignoring the question completely.
“Are you a better person now that you got fucked by a boy scout?” she says, still staring at the painting. She turns her face and looks at me. “That’s what James said to me. Like I’m not capable of being something good on my own.” The corner of her mouth jerks upward, more grimace than smile. “Maybe he’s right.”
The ringing in my ear resurfaces. The tightness in my chest. It starts to pull me under, but I shake it, focusing on her to ground myself. “You’re the best person I know.” It’s true, but I know she doesn’t believe me.
Can’t.
She looks at me, laughter bubbling on her lips. “How can you say that after everything I’ve done?” She jabs her finger at the painting. “After what I made you do?”
“Fuck me,” I groan, running my hands through my hair, barely curbing the urge to pull it out. “You aren’t the lone gunman here, Cari—I’ve been with you, every goddamn step of the way, giving as good as I get. You didn’t make me do anything.” I can say it now because it’s the truth and it’s high fucking time I own my behavior instead of pushing it off on her. “I’m in that painting too. My choices. My mistakes.”
She shakes her head, instantly rejecting everything I just said. “Would you have—” Her neck flames red and gaze shifts just over my shoulder. “Would any of it happened if I hadn’t pushed you into it?”
I drop my ha
nds and look at her.
No. I never would’ve touched her if she hadn’t opened the door. Made me angry enough to forget who I am—who I pretend to be. That’s what she does to me. Makes me forget. Makes me want.
“That’s what I thought.” Her hand snaps out and yanks the painting off the wall. I watch her, rooted in place as she stalks into the kitchen, rifling through the cabinet under the sink. The drawer next to the dishwasher. Painting in tow, she disappears down the hall. I follow her, just in time to see her disappear into the bathroom.
When I get there, she’s tossed the painting into the tub. “What are you doing?” I sound dumb. Like I’m too slow and stupid to put the puzzle of her together.
“What does it look like?” she said, the bottle of starter fuel I use to start the BBQ when we grill, in her hand. She flips open the nozzle, squirting a long, thin stream onto the painting.
And then she sets it on fire.
The flames shoot up, the muffled whomp! of it blowing at her hair, pushing her back. Fire licks at the ceiling. The shower curtain blackened almost instantly. Lifting her hand, she steps closer to the tub. Too close. The shower curtain is engulfed in flames, smoldering plastic dripping onto the bathmat. She throws the check into the flames.
I lunge at her, dragging her out of the bathroom as it fills with thick, black smoke. Above us, the smoke detector starts to screech. Darting into the bathroom, I stick my hand into the flames, hair and skin instantly singed while I feel around for the faucet. Finding it, I crank it open, dousing the fire, putting it out almost instantly. Jerk the shower curtain down and toss it into the tub. The bathmat too.
Spinning around, I stride into the hallway. Reaching up, I curl my fingers around the lip of the smoke alarm, ripping it off the ceiling. I fast pitch it into the bathroom where it explodes against the tile before falling into the tub full of water and smoldering debris.