by Mia Sheridan
"I will," I said, lifting my chin and crossing my arms, biting down on my lip that insisted on shaking.
One side of her mouth tipped up in some strange version of a smile, and there was pity in her eyes. My guts twisted painfully, and it took everything in me not to run inside and slam the door on her, make this stop, start this whole day over. I'd woken in Brogan's arms; his hand had been cupping my breast possessively.
"He told me about you as he fucked me. Did he tell you that? He told me how he was going to ruin you. He told me he was going to enjoy it."
My stomach dropped and a small sound came from my throat. Oh God. I put my hand over my mouth, to stop the noise, or perhaps the vomit that threatened. Please make this stop. Blood was rushing in my ears and my skin felt hot and prickly.
Daisy moved quickly to my side, glaring at Courtney. "Wait, who the fuck are you?"
Courtney's eyes moved slowly away from me, halting on Daisy. She tilted her head. "I'm the woman Brogan is going to marry once he's done demolishing her completely," she said.
And that's when I did turn and run into Brogan's apartment, straight for the downstairs powder room where I vomited up my breakfast.
I distantly heard Daisy speaking harshly and then the slam of Brogan's door and Daisy's heels clicking on the floor as she called my name. I groaned and a second later Daisy was behind me, holding my hair away from my face as I spat into the bowl. I stood slowly and she helped me to the sink, meeting my eyes in the mirror, hers red and puffy, mine wide and shocked.
"Pack your stuff, honey," she said as she turned on the water. "I don't know what's going on, and you're going to tell me. But either way, I don't think it's a good idea for you to stay here. We're going to get in my car, and I'm going to take you back to Greenwich. Fucking men," she muttered.
I blinked at her, my head and my heart aching. "Okay," I finally squeaked. I just needed space. I needed to get out of here and think. I couldn't do that in Brogan's apartment.
"He told me about you as he fucked me. Did he tell you that? He told me how he was going to ruin you. He told me he was going to enjoy it." Oh God, Brogan. Why?
I walked numbly upstairs and started putting my things into my travel bag, allowing the tears to fall as I packed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Brogan
"Lydia?" I called, moving the large bouquet of endless summer hydrangeas to my other hand and closing the door behind me.
I went into the kitchen and put the flowers on the counter as I called her name again. Where was she? I wanted to celebrate. It was done. Stuart's debt was paid for. Finished. Thank God. A huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. And now . . . I finally felt hope that the mess I'd created was going to be over, and Lydia and I could really move forward. I even wondered if maybe she'd agree to move in with me. I planned to bring it up at dinner. It felt soon, but then again, it felt like seven years too late.
I went upstairs calling her name for the third time, a tiny fissure of worry opening inside me when again, she didn't respond and I didn't hear the water running. I didn’t hear anything.
Her room, cleared of all her personal items, hit me like a fist to the gut. I looked around helplessly. She was gone? Why? My heart slammed against my ribs as fear slid down my spine. Was she in danger? I saw a piece of paper sitting on her dresser and rushed to it, grabbing it.
Brogan,
I'm leaving to stay with my friend Daisy. Please don't call me tonight. I'll contact you when I'm ready.
Lydia
I swallowed, reading the note a second time, trying to understand. Why? A sick hurt assaulted me. When I'd left this morning, everything had been fine. We'd made sleepy love before either of us were fully awake, and she'd kissed me and smiled as I'd left, telling me she'd see me later that evening. And now she was suddenly gone with no explanation? And her letter, it was so . . . terse.
I turned and stared blankly at the bed, remembering the night I'd revealed all my secrets to her. My eyes moved to the bedside table, blinking at it repeatedly as more sick hurt gripped my heart. The folder—my stupid, ridiculous folder—the thing that had once kept me going, it was gone. Lydia had taken it with her? I stumbled to the bed, my legs collapsing as I sat down on the edge, putting my head in my hands. Why, Lydia? I didn't understand. Why?
**********
I sat at my desk staring blankly at the stack of papers in front of me. After finding Lydia gone, I’d come to my office in the Bronx. I couldn't be at the apartment. God, would I ever be able to be at my own apartment without her? She'd told me not to call her, but I'd done so anyway, getting only her voicemail. I'd give her a couple of days. And then I'd go to Daisy's and demand she talk to me. She owed me an explanation about why she'd left and why she'd taken my folder. My stomach felt sour and my head hurt. I'd been going over every moment of our exchanges over the past few days for hours and still hadn't come up with an answer.
Why? Why now? Where are you, Lydia?
My thoughts were interrupted by the muted sound of glass breaking. I stilled, listening intently and not hearing anything again for several minutes. Something on the street maybe. Although, since moving here, I'd worked in a business where instincts could save your life, and right now, something felt off.
I started to stand when I heard another faint noise, this time closer and from within the building. I sat back down and reached under my desk for the gun I kept there. And I waited.
I didn't have to wait long. A minute later, the door to my office clicked open and Stuart De Havilland entered, looking like death warmed over, shaking, and pointing a gun at me. What the feck? I kept my hands on my lap, not moving a muscle. "Stuart," I said evenly.
He lurched toward me and my hand reached toward my gun, but retreated when he fell into the chair in front of my desk, smirking at me as he took something he'd been holding between his upper arm and body and set it on his knees. My folder. My gaze moved from it to his face. I forced my expression to remain unaffected.
"You were a whore," he said excitedly, letting out a strange, high-pitched laugh.
"Where'd you get that?" I asked.
"My sister gave it to me," he said, watching me closely. Cold sickness moved down my spine but I worked not to react. Was he lying? But if he was, why was Lydia gone, and why hadn't she called me? Had she really betrayed me . . . again? Or . . . for real this time? Confusion and horror made me dizzy. Surely she hadn’t been lying to me. Had she been working with Stuart all along to try and turn the tables? No. Impossible. No, no, no.
Visions flicked quickly and painfully through my mind—watching Lydia seemingly alive with happiness as she'd worked in my office, how others had softened with her presence, how the young people we worked with had almost found a mother/sister figure in their life. Someone they could trust. No, that couldn't have been a lie. I felt gutted by anguish. I wanted to fall to my knees and weep; the very thought brought a hopeless rage barreling through my chest.
Stuart twitched and the gun in his hand jerked, causing my blood pressure to spike.
"How about you put that down while we talk?" I suggested.
"No fucking way."
I let out a breath. "Okay then, have it your way. Let's get this over with. What do you want?"
"I want everything you have, you piece of fucking gutter trash."
"You want your company back? Fine, it's yours. I'll sign it over to you in the morning."
He waved his gun around and my hand inched toward my gun. "I don't want my fucking company back! Fuck my company! I want your money. All of it, every cent."
"Why would I give you my money, Stuart?"
"Because of this," he yelled, picking up my folder and waving it around.
"There's nothing in that folder that would persuade me to give you a dime," I lied. The truth was, there wasn't anything in that folder that would do the job of ruining me, at least not in the way Stuart was counting on. But for it to get out that I'd been a prostitute . . . that I'd kept the information i
n that folder at all, filled me with sick shame.
"You're lying, you piece of shit whore. These people in here—did you know the husband of one of the women who hired you to be her boy toy is running for state senate now?" Yes, I had known that. It hadn't mattered because they were in a different state now because of me. I'd done that and it was enough.
"The only one you'll affect by exposing what's in that folder is them," I said.
His eyes narrowed, and he twitched so violently he almost dropped the gun. Jaysus Christ. "You don't care that the world knows what you did?"
"Not really," I lied. But I'd always been a better poker player than him. And he was too far gone to remember that.
Rage contorted his features. "There's information on the mob in here!" he yelled.
"Only on low-level players who have long since moved on," I said. This was the truth. I shrugged, a slow movement using only one shoulder. I didn't want to startle him. "There's nothing in there, Stuart. Nothing I care about. You can go print every piece of information in the New York Times tomorrow, and it won't matter to me."
"You're lying," he choked out, but I heard the doubt in his voice. His arm was shaking, and I saw his finger tightening on the trigger. Please don't make me do this, Stuart. God, please don't make me do this. "You're fucking lying, you motherfucking liar."
"I'm not lying," I said as calmly as I could. "I can help you, though. I won't let you blackmail me. But I'll help you. Put down the gun, and I'll get you the help you need."
"Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou!" he screamed, waving the gun at me, and panting as if he was having trouble catching his breath.
He suddenly seemed to calm, chilling me even more and causing my heart to gallop. "I hate you," he said, and that's when he stilled completely, pointing the gun at my head.
They say in moments of high stress your life passes before you in slow motion. But it’s also the events of that moment. I saw his gaze shift to his gun and the brief glance back up at me. I felt my arm raise. I felt something graze the top of my shoulder. I felt the jolting kickback as I fired. I saw blood. Stuart’s eyes widening in shock. I heard a gun drop to the ground. Maybe his. Maybe mine. I saw Stuart slump in the chair and fall to the floor of my office. I saw death.
**********
I was at the police station for hours, telling the same story over and over. Finally at three a.m., they released me, a clear case of self-defense.
The evidence that Stuart had broken and entered into my place of business was clear in the broken glass on the floor of the front room, the same glass stuck in the bottom of his shoes, and embedded in the skin of his fist. He'd punched through the glass with his bare hand. It would take time for the autopsy results to come back, but I suspected they'd find high amounts of drugs and alcohol in his system. Add to that the fact he'd fired at me first with a stolen gun and there would be no charges against me.
I'd told the police I'd recently taken over De Havilland Enterprises in a deal Stuart was still bitter about. It was enough of a motive. Of course, I'd picked up the bloodstained folder and put it in my safe in the back room before I'd called the police. I'd burn it once I had the chance. It now represented not my salvation, but my utter self-destruction.
I felt numb as I walked out of the room I'd been in since I'd called the police last night. Fionn stood up from across the station, causing the first pulse of emotion to move through my chest since I'd dialed 911. Mo chara. My friend. He moved toward me just as Lydia walked out of another room. She froze when she saw me, her eyes large and shocked, bloodshot. She'd been crying. My heart plummeted. Oh God, Lydia. I immediately went to move toward her, to take her in my arms, to offer what comfort I could.
She watched me approach, her mouth open slightly, her head shaking back and forth as if to say what? No, don't let this be true? "No," she choked out. "No, don't come near me."
Her words felt like a physical blow and I stumbled, wincing. "Lydia," I breathed. "Please. I didn't want to. Please listen to me. I never would have—"
She hit me, pounding her fists into my chest. Her expression seemed to collapse in horror. "No!" she screamed, striking me harder. "No, no, no!" Her head shook from side to side as if in denial. "How could you? How could you?"
"Lydia!" I choked, trying to contain her, trying to wrap my arms around her. "Le do thoil. Is breá liom tú."
"You did this on purpose," she sobbed, her eyes pools of stark pain and bright blue, not even a hint of green. "He said you would. Oh God, oh God, oh my God." Her legs buckled. The police officer, who had been leading her out of the room, caught her from the side as she punched at me again. "I'll never forgive you!" she cried, her beautiful face a picture of misery, her loud sobs echoing through the mostly empty room. "Never!" She collapsed against the officer and Fionn gripped my arm.
"Not here, mo chara," he said. "Let her be for now."
"No, Fionn!" I said, panicked, sick, reaching for Lydia.
The police officer supporting her led her away, throwing one scathing look over his shoulder as the last piece of my world seemed to drop out from beneath me. Mo Chroí.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lydia
Stuart’s gone. I’m alone. Completely alone.
It’s done.
He’s done what he set out to do.
Desolated me.
**********
"Hey, honey," Daisy said softly, handing me a cup of coffee. I glanced up at her, breaking away from my thoughts.
"Morning." My smile felt small and weak. Outside the window, the sun was already shining brightly, the trees rustling with bird play. It was supposed to be in the eighties—a gorgeous late August day. God, where had the summer gone? Seemingly swallowed up in a haze of misery and grief.
"What do you want to do today?" Daisy asked, placing her coffee on a side table and sitting down on the overstuffed chair across from me. She adjusted her silk robe and brought her feet up under her.
I sighed. "I suppose I should do some job hunting."
I'd gone to De Havilland Enterprises the week after Stuart had been killed and resigned. Trudi had been stunned and saddened, but the company would do just fine without me. It had been operating without me for over a month and was all the better for it from what I knew. And I couldn't be there anymore. My heart wasn't in it, and working for Brogan was out of the question.
I'd received several paychecks directly deposited into my bank account since I'd first moved in with Brogan, and with those, I paid my last month's rent in New York City and moved out, putting my belongings in storage and going back to Daisy's where we now lived together in her luxurious mansion—the new home of the broken-hearted.
Because Daisy's husband, Gregory, had been so clearly in the wrong, starting the divorce had been an easy process, one he hadn’t argued about. Not enough, as far as I was concerned. Fucker. Daisy was worth so much more than that scum. So we were both in mourning, although Daisy seemed to be doing better than I was, which didn't exactly make sense since she had lost a husband. Then again, I'd lost two people, a brother and a . . . what? What had Brogan been to me? Even now, I wasn't sure. My heart squeezed and I winced slightly, bringing my hand to my chest as if I could massage the agonizing ache away.
He'd destroyed my life in every way possible. No job. No money. No home. No family. My heart in tatters. He had achieved the ultimate revenge. I was utterly and completely obliterated. And the very worst of it was . . . I missed him, longed for him with an intensity that felt shameful. He'd betrayed me and killed my brother.
"Why work?" Daisy asked, bringing me back to the present. Right, I'd mentioned getting a job. "I'll support you in high style here. And if I get the divorce settlement I think I'll get, we'll be rolling in riches. We'll burn money on the lawn and dance around it naked. We'll melt gold and drink it like it's champagne."
I laughed softly. "As fun as that sounds, I can't have you support me, Dais. I need to figure out what to do with the rest of my life."
A
wave of grief washed over me when I thought about how much I'd loved working for Brogan—and how, even now, I missed it. I shook my head. I wouldn't cry. I'd already cried an entire river of tears.
Daisy's expression softened. "I know." She reached over and picked up her coffee and took a sip. "What about going back to school? You mentioned before you might look into getting your master’s so you could teach."
I nodded. "Maybe," I said. Of course, if I did that, I'd still need to get a night job. Not only did I need to pay my bills, but Ginny had shockingly been mostly supportive when Stuart died, and she'd helped pay for his funeral. I had promised to pay her back. I didn't think she expected it, but I was determined to anyway.
"And you'll stay here with me?" Daisy asked. "Please? It makes it so much better, you being here."
I studied her momentarily, wondering if she was saying that for my benefit, or if being here really helped her with her own grief. It seemed to me that she was actually the one doing most of the supporting and I suspected the former. I was so very grateful for her. I smiled. "Only if you let me pay you rent."
She rolled her eyes. "You can pay for our monthly alcohol."
"I can't afford that."
She laughed. "True. That's the biggest bill we have. Utilities?"
"Done."
She grinned. "Okay. Go get showered and dressed. Today we go out and conquer the world." She raised her arm, making a fist.
I breathed out a smile, raising my own arm, but lacking the enthusiasm behind the gesture. I could barely conquer my heart, let alone the world. I sighed. Fake it until you make it. That'd be my life motto, for now at least.
**********
"You look hot," Daisy said. I turned, smoothing the skirt of my deep red cocktail dress, and adjusting one of the spaghetti straps. "It's the perfect fall color." Fall. A new season. The same ache in my heart.