Conquering Conner

by Megyn Ward

  When I look down and my hand, I see Jeremy’s ring on my finger.

  Fifty-six

  Henley

  I’m sorry, Jeremy. I’m sorry, but I can’t marry you. I’m in love with Conner and I want to be with him.

  That’s what I’m going to say.

  I’m going to tell Jeremy no. That we’re only twenty-five. That we have time to find someone else. That we’ll order him a mail-order bride from some sketchy internet sites if we have to. We’ll find a way, but that my mind is made up.

  I’m not marrying him.

  I’m choosing Conner.

  But what about your mother?

  What about the money?

  Five-hundred million dollars in a lot of motivation.

  The money is for my mother.

  When Jeremy made me the offer, half a billion dollars in exchange for five years of marriage, I imagined giving it to her, telling her it’s hers, that she can have it, as long as she lets me go.

  She’s never had any of her own and even though she seems content to run through my stepfather’s money like water, I know it bothers her. Spencer is twenty years older than her, and he’s made no provisions for her in his will. When he dies, she’ll be left with nothing. His children hate her. They’ll toss her out on the street before his grave is even dug and she know it.

  It’s the reason she took me with her.

  Why she insisted on plastic surgery and dental work. Finishing school and dermatologists. Clothes that I hate and a life I don’t want.

  So, she could pimp me out. Find someone with money who’d want to marry me.

  I’m her insurance policy.

  And I let her because she was all that I had. Because I chose her. Let her take everyone else away from me. Because without Conner, none of it mattered. Who I married was irrelevant because whoever it was, it wouldn’t be him.

  I remember looking at myself in the mirror, face bruised and swollen from where the plastic surgeon took a chisel and mallet to my nose. Mouth aching from hours in the dental chair and I didn’t see myself. I didn’t even see the person I was letting her turn me into to.

  I saw Conner, his brow furrowed. Irritated with me because I wasn’t listening. Wouldn’t believe him.

  I like your face.

  If he saw me, he’d be furious.

  Hate me for letting her change me.

  No matter how angry he’d be or how much he hated me, it wouldn’t be more than I hated myself.

  Don’t be childish, Henley. Do you really think someone who looks like Conner Gilroy could love someone who looks like you?

  I thought about killing myself more than I like to admit. Because I was a coward. I couldn’t stand up to my mother but the thought of being forced to live her life was too much to consider.

  Jeremy saved me from that.

  That’s why I owe him. Because whether he knows it or not, he saved my life. Even if the situation we’re in now was designed for his benefit, even if he’s selfish and spineless and shallow, Jeremy kept me afloat.

  So, I was going to marry him.

  I was going to take the money and give it to my mother.

  And then I was going to be free.

  “Jeremy,” I call out, even before I have the front door to the apartment open all the way. I toss my keys on the counter and turn. He’s still in bed. Probably went back to bed after Conner left. “Jer—”

  He’s not in bed.

  Jeremy’s wide awake, sitting on the couch.

  He’s not alone.

  “Mother.” I’m surprised how steady I sound. How calm. “I thought you were in Paris.” I look at Jeremy, but he won’t look at me.

  She’s standing at the window, her back to me. Hands clasped behind her back. Hearing me, she turns. “And I thought you were in Chicago.” Her gaze flicks over me, my jeans and sweater. My boots and my ponytail. “Imagine my surprise when I get a call from Janice Horne, telling me you were here.”

  Janice Horne. Dalton’s mother.

  The friend from New York I ran into my second night here. I introduced him to Conner. Told him the truth about me. Everything my mother worked so hard to keep hidden. That I wasn’t the daughter of some dead foreign diplomat. That my mother wasn’t a widow. That I didn’t go to Swiss boarding school.

  “Mother, I—”

  “Save it,” she snaps as me, her spiked heels sinking into the carpet as she crosses the room in long, angry strides. “You think I didn’t know?” she closes the gap between us, laughing at the way my mouth falls open and flaps like a fish out of water. “I’ve known since the moment you bought your train ticket, I just hoped some of Jeremy’s discretion had rubbed off on you.”

  She knows.

  I look at Jeremy. He still won’t look at me.

  “Jeremy.”

  “He won’t answer you.” My mother’s hand snaps out, fingers wrapping around my chin, hard enough to hurt. She turns my face, angling it under her scrutinizing glare, lip curled in disgust at my freckles. The mark Conner left on my neck. “And still with that Gilroy boy. You’re like a sad little homing pidgeon…” She clucks her tongue at me. “Would you like to know what Dalton told his mother?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Well, you should.” Her fingers dig in, squeezing my face. “He told her that you let that trash fuck you in the bathroom in some sleazy bar, like a common whore.”

  People knows I’m with Conner.

  That we’re together.

  I’m supposed to be ashamed. I’m supposed to be afraid of the scandal. Of what people are going to think, but I’m not.

  What I am is relieved.

  “Conner isn’t trash.” I shove her hand away, jerking my face out of her grip. “I love him.”

  “Love him?” She laughs at me. “How stupid can you possibly be?”

  “I’m not marrying Jeremy.” I say it out loud. “I’m staying here.”

  I forgot how fast she is. How quickly she turns. Her hand lashes out again, this time she doesn’t grab me. She slaps me, hard enough to knock me back, into the wall. “Who do you think you are, you ugly little slut?” She glares at me. “Everything you have—your education, you face, your precious Spencer—you have because I gave them to you. You have nothing—you are nothing—without me.”

  My heart twists painfully in my chest when she says Spencer’s name. He’s not my father. I’m nothing more than baggage that my mother carried into their marriage. I know he’s fond of me but…

  “I’m not marrying Jeremy.” I shake my head, mind made up. “I’m staying here.”

  I brace myself for another slap, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she smiles at me. Smooths her hands down the front of her skirt before folding them in front of her. “You will marry Jeremy. You will, or I’ll call his father and tell him all about Dr. Gregg Deaver.”

  My mother must see my resolve crumbling because she smiles. “I have photos, Henley. Photos that will ruin both of them. I have several friends on the board of directors at Manhattan General. Friends who won’t want their hospital involved in a scandal of this magnitude. Your friend won’t be able to get a job at a free clinic by the time I’m through and Jeremy…” She casts him a pitying look. “Jeremy will be ostracized. No family. No friends. No money.” She looks at me again and shakes her head. “All so you can keep screwing a man who rotates tires for a living.”

  “Dalton’s mother,” I say, grasping at straws. “She knows about Conner. She—”

  “Janice Horne had been dealt with and so has her son.” She brushes her hair over her shoulder and smiles. “Everything is going to go on, according to plan.”

  I look down at the ring Conner put on my finger this morning.

  Not his ring.

  Jeremy’s.

  Don’t worry. You got what you came for and, in a few weeks, you’ll get to go home.

  You can pretend I never happened.

  I don’t want to.

  I want to stay.

  But I can’
t leave Jeremy and Gregg to clean up my mess. My mother is my responsibility.

  My mother gives me a rare, approving smile.

  I don’t have to tell her she’s won.

  She already knows.

  Fifty-seven

  Conner

  It’s 10AM and I’m sitting in my booth at the bar, getting drunk.

  And even though it’s over, even though I ended things, it still feels like a betrayal. Like I’m breaking promises no one is holding me to but me.

  Because I’m the only one they matter to.

  The most fucked-up part of all of this is that a week ago, I would’ve said yes. Hell, before last night I would’ve jumped at the chance to keep her, even if it meant diminishing and perverting everything I feel for her. Living with pieces. Being invisible.

  I would’ve done it because I’m a pathetic shitsack. I would’ve been miserable, and I would’ve hated myself, but I would’ve done it.

  Anything for Henley.

  Anything.

  As long as she’ll let me stay.

  But then she fucked everything up. She asked me to stay with her. Asked me to read her and let me hold her while she slept. Told me she loves me. Wanted to choose me.

  I knew it was a lie, but it didn’t matter because I wanted it to be true. I wanted it so goddamned bad that I let myself slip.

  Let myself hope.

  And there was no going back after that. The second I crossed that line, it was over. The moment I let myself believe I mattered to her, I couldn’t go back to pretending I didn’t deserve to.

  So here I am, working my way toward a good, blackout drunk, hoping I get there before the idle thought of setting fire to every place I ever kissed her goes from idea to action.

  “What are you doing?”

  I look up to find Patrick standing over me wearing jeans and an old team shirt. He’s got a hammer in his hand and drywall dust in his hair.

  “Thinking about burning my garage down.” I lift my glass and drain it before setting it down again. “Maybe my parents’ house too. And the library.” I tip my half empty bottle over its rim and give it a refill. “You?” I know what he’s doing. I’ve been listening to him, banging and sawing, upstairs for an hour now.

  “Curing cancer.” He tosses his hammer on the table in front of me. If my arson plans concern him, he doesn’t show it. “You plan on drinking all that?” He jerks his chin at the row of Jameson bottles I have lined up in front of me.

  I shrug. “It’s important to have goals in life, Cap’n.”

  He sighs, running a hand over his hair, the gesture sending a flurry of drywall dust spinning through the air. Some of it lands in my glass. Sliding into the booth across from me, he frowns. “That’s about a thousand dollars in profits and you’re just gonna end up pissing ‘em out.” He doesn’t give a shit about the money. He’s trying to apply to my practical nature.

  Lifting my glass, I slam whiskey and construction debris in a few hard gulps before dropping my glass with a hard bang. Reaching into my front pocket, I pull out a wad of cash as big as Declan’s fist and toss it onto the table. “Keep the change.”

  “Jesus Christ.” His eyes bulge, bouncing between the money and my face. “What the fuck did you do?” The question and his concern are valid. There are about a dozen things I could do in the space of thirty minutes that would land me that much cash. At least half of them would put me in a federal prison.

  “Sold my Cuda.” I refill my glass, but don’t take a drink. There’s been a guy sniffing around, waving his money in my face for months now. I called him as soon as I left my parents’ house and told him if he could meet me at my shop in ten minutes, it was his. He was waiting in front of the roll-up when I got there.

  “What?” He’s back to frowning at me. “Why? You love that car.”

  Why? Because it’s where Henley looked at me and asked me to stay with her and now I can’t even put my key in the ignition without wanting to drive it off a goddamned bridge.

  I push the glass away completely.

  “What happened?” More frowning.

  I look at his face and it’s like looking in a mirror. On the surface, my cousin and I are as close to identical as two people can possibly be.

  Same eyes.

  Same nose.

  Same jaw.

  Same everything.

  “Do you really think Cari is coming back?” I look at the hammer on the table between us before aiming my gaze at his face. “Do you really think she loves you or was it just about fucking with you?”

  I watch a muscle in his jaw twitch, pulsating every time he clenches his teeth, like he’s chewing on nails. I think he might hit me. Maybe with the hammer, and that’s okay. I kinda want him to.

  Finally, the tension in his jaw relaxes enough for him to unhinge it. “Cari loves me and she’s coming back.” He gives me a haphazard shrug. “Ask me again in five minutes and I’ll probably give you a different answer.”

  “I hope she does,” I say, and I mean it, even though the thought of it fills me with an envy so thick and poisonous, it feels like venom, coursing through my veins.

  “Either way, I wouldn’t change what happened.” He shakes his head, sliding out of his seat to stand over me. “The last six-months have shown me some uncomfortable truths. Things about myself I didn’t really want to face.” He picks up his hammer. Instead of hitting me with it, he slides it into the loop on his tool belt. “What happened with Cari made them impossible to ignore. She made me realize that it’s okay to be who I am, even if it means I’m not perfect.”

  I reach for the glass I pushed away and grin at him because even though this is where I steered it, this conversation is suddenly too much. Too close. “Sounds like a lot of hard fuckin’ work, Cap’n.” I take a long drink, gulping whiskey like it’s water.

  “It is.” He wraps his knuckles on the table, casting a long look at the bottle I have line up. “It’s hard and it hurts, and I hate myself half the fucking time, but I get to be me and that makes it worth it.” He cuts me a look that tells me he knows. He knows everything, and he feels sorry for me. “Don’t drown,” he says before heading back upstairs. “And don’t burn down my bar.”

  Fifty-eight

  Conner

  February

  She’s been gone for sixteen weeks.

  That’s how I measure time now. Every morning, I watch the sun come up and count another day without her.

  It sucks.

  Every goddamned day.

  But I’m trying.

  I’m eating.

  I’m sleeping. At least what passes for sleep where my fucked-up brain is concerned.

  I’m running with Cap’n every morning. I even let him talk me into volunteering at the library, a few days a week.

  I wear the stupid watch Tess bought me and let it tell me where to go and what to do.

  It’s shitty and fucked-up and I hate everything and everyone.

  But I’m doing it.

  No booze.

  No women.

  No blood.

  The first and third because I’ve finally accepted that they hurt more than they help.

  The second because I can’t.

  I don’t want to.

  The fact that my dick seems to be broken, notwithstanding, I’m doing okay. I’m solid.

  I work on cars.

  I go to Benny’s with Tess.

  I work my shifts at the bar and pretend that the thought of touching another woman doesn’t make my skin crawl.

  I volunteer at the library and somehow manage to walk through its doors a few times a week without burning the place to the ground.

  But I did set my futon on fire.

  I hauled it out to the alley behind the garage, the same day I sold my Cuda.

  Tore a page out of Leg’s playbook.

  Threw it in the dumpster and torched it.

  Drank a beer and watched it burn.

  Shit felt good.

  And I got a new ta
ttoo.

  That shit felt necessary.

  But that was it. The full extent of my freak-out, which means everyone is waiting for me to properly lose my shit. It’s like someone took off my training-wheels and they’re all standing around, watching me wobble down the road.

  Holding their breath.

  Waiting for me to fall on my face.

  I can’t say it won’t happen. All I can say is that I want to be better. Not normal. I know I’ll never be normal. I’d be stupid to even try but I want to be me. Not the me who came back from New York. The me who watched Bradford kiss her and realized he was never going to get her back. That she was better off without him.

  I want to be me.

  I want to be real.

  I stopped trying after she left the first time.

  Convinced myself I couldn’t do it without her.

  Didn’t matter what kind of man I was because she was gone.

  Wasn’t coming back.

  It took her leaving for the second time to remind me that I matter.

  Maybe not to her, but I do.

  I matter.

  Like I said, it’s shitty and I hate it and I want to give up most of the time, but I’ve got people who depend on me, so I keep pretending.

  Someday, the gaping wound in my chest will close and I’ll be able to breathe again.

  Taking care of Ryan has helped. He’s back from wherever he was and in pretty bad shape but the worst of it is behind him.

  I got the call a week after Henley disappeared.

  Mr. Gilroy, I’m calling on behalf of Gunnery Sargent Ryan O’Connell. Our records indicate you’re his next of kin…

  I listen while the family liaison on the other end of the phone gives me a rundown of his list of injuries. Severe damage to his lower right leg. Probable amputation. Second and third degree burns to thirty percent of his lower body.

  Damage to his reproductive organs.

  Possible brain damage.