by L. A. Fiore
“I wanted to sketch your smile. It’s so rare, I needed to document it for proof.”
He moved in and my body went weak.
“Maybe we shouldn’t stand so close to the edge. You make me feel off balance,” I whispered.
That smile returned. I would sell my soul to see that smile replace the blank look he’d mastered. He dragged me farther away from the cliff then he dragged me to ground.
“People might see.” There was no one around and we hadn’t passed a car in forever, still we were right out in the open.
His hand moved under my shirt, up to my breast. He tugged on my nipple. “Do you really care?”
His mouth replaced his hand. Nope, I really didn’t care.
“I can take that off my bucket list.” We made love outside. If there were any satellites directed in our area, whoever was watching would be getting an eyeful. Instead of embarrassment, I wanted a repeat.
We reached another scenic sight, Brochan parked and climbed out. “That was on your bucket list?”
“No, but it should have been.”
He laughed; the sweetest sound.
“You need to do that more often too,” I said.
He ignored me. “What else is on your bucket list?”
“Seeing the pyramids. Bungee jumping and skydiving, though I don’t know I have the guts to do either. Getting shot.”
He stopped walking and his head jerked to me. “Getting shot?”
“Yeah, to see what it feels like.”
“Why the fuck would you want to know what that feels like?”
“It’s a bucket list.” I suppose he had a different perspective since he likely was shot at often.
“And punching my mother. Knocking that critical and dismissive look right off her face.”
He grinned. “That one I get.”
I looked around as we walked along a winding path through a forest of old trees, the branches twisted, gnarly and covered in moss. Wildflowers grew in the grass. The way the sun diffused through the foliage looked like mist. In the distance was a stone cottage. Smoke from the chimney curled up into the evening air. I expected to see sprites and fairies darting out from the cover offered by the trees. “It’s like we stepped into a fairy tale.”
“Maybe a Grimm brothers one. I’m a werewolf, remember.”
In this setting, I could believe he really was.
“How did you find this?”
Some of the easiness faded. “Years ago, I wanted to see more of Scotland than my part of it.” His expression grew serious. He touched my hair, rubbing a few strands between his fingers. “I told you I wasn’t a good man. I’m not, Lizzie.”
“And I told you doing bad things and being a bad person are not the same. I’ve spent time with you. You’re not a bad person.”
He looked almost boyish and my chest ached seeing again the glimpse of who he could have been. He conceded, “Okay, then I do bad things. Very bad things.”
“Like I said before, I’ve thought about doing those bad things too. My mother and Nadine, I’ve spent countless hours thinking of the most gruesome way to kill them. But it isn’t just them. Tomas, Ms. Meriwether, Ms. Beddle.”
He looked up at the sky. “You’re a witch, woman.”
Out of character for him and utterly charming, I teased, “I thought only I talked to myself.”
“She was a witch.”
“Who?”
“Brianna.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she gave me you and damn her, she knew I would want to keep you.”
No words would come. He had rendered me speechless. He knew it too. “I’ve left you speechless.”
He had. Completely.
So we didn’t talk, he kissed me instead.
I hadn’t been able to think of anything but Brochan’s confession. He wanted to keep me. He was in luck because I wanted to keep him too. Even riding the high of his confession, I noticed the closer we got to his home the quieter he became. Had he ever talked about it? I found talking about it made it less than it was, smaller, easier to let it go. Maybe if I shared, he would too.
“My mother used to think I was fat.” Even looking out the window, I saw his attention shift to me. “I wasn’t. I’m not rail thin like her, but I wasn’t fat. She would have our cook prepare meals that were mouthwatering; mashed potatoes with a pool of butter in the center, juicy cheeseburgers and grilled cheese that just oozed with cheese. She’d have the table set with the fancy dishes and linens. The first time she did it I thought things were going to be different, better. My younger self believed I had finally gotten a mother. She came to dinner in one of her designer gowns, and asked me to dress up too.” Remembering even her small acts of cruelty had a humorless laugh moving up my throat. “She always bought me dresses one size too small. It was her way of convincing me I was fat. Her dinner was a martini, a bottomless martini. And me, I sat at that table laden with food but I wasn’t allowed to eat it. Our conversation consisted of her saying ‘you’re fat…you can feel how fat you are because that dress barely fits you’. For an hour I was forced to watch her get drunk while all that delicious food went cold. The cook tossed it. Such a waste when there were people right down the street starving, but my mother insisted it all be tossed out.”
I felt his attention, but I didn’t look over. “One time there was a man, the first one she brought home. I was maybe seven. He made me uncomfortable because even though he was there to see my mother, he spent an awful lot of time with me. On one of his visits, my mother said she had to run out to the store. My mother didn’t shop unless it was for clothes and shoes and most of that she had a personal shopper for. At the time I was too young to truly appreciate what was happening and still I was smart enough to know I didn’t feel safe around the man. I was on the sofa, trying to make myself as small as I could be. He joined me and sat so close his leg was touching mine.” I wiped the tear away, my stomach even now revolting at what my mother had tried to set in motion.
“He brushed my hair from my shoulder, told me how pretty I was.”
“He didn’t…” Brochan’s voice turned my attention to him. He was looking straight ahead but his hands were fisting the steering wheel so hard he could have left finger marks.
“No. I threw up all over his designer clothes. My mother came home, grabbed me by the hair and hauled me to my room. She locked me in there for two days. Screaming that I ruined her one chance at happiness. He was a very rich man, he would have continued to keep her in the lifestyle she had grown accustomed and all it would’ve cost her was her child’s innocence.”
It was a risk, but it was a risk worth taking. “Have you ever talked about your childhood?”
Silence.
“I’m a great listener if you ever find you want to.”
The rest of the trip was made in silence. We pulled around the drive; Finnegan appeared to help unload the car. Brochan threw the car in park then looked over at me. There was something on his mind, but he said nothing, just touched my cheek, the touch was achingly tender. “I have work. I’ll be back in a few days.” His phone had buzzed a few times on the way back, a sound I hadn’t heard during our time together. He’d silenced it or even turned it off. I smiled inwardly.
He brushed his thumb along my lower lip before pressing slightly and running it along the inside of my lip. His eyes met mine when he brought that thumb to his mouth. He climbed from the car and disappeared inside; I wasn’t able to move until Finnegan appeared, pulling the door open.
“Good afternoon, lass.”
Lust made my reply sound like a frog gave it. “Hello, Finnegan.”
“I trust you enjoyed Edinburgh.”
“Yes, it was beautiful.”
“Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea?”
I linked my arm through his. “I’d like that. Give me a few minutes and I’ll join you in the kitchen.”
Reaching my room, I pulled out my cell to call Cait. I moved to the window, my favorite plac
e in the room. “Hey, Cait.”
“Lizzie. How are you?”
“I’m good.” Resting my head on the wall, I couldn’t help the smile. Good was an understatement.
“What’s wrong? You sound funny.”
“I’m happy.”
She didn’t tease because she knew those words rarely came from me. “The place or the man?”
“Both.”
“Hold on. I have someone on the other line. Let me get rid of them.” I turned to Brochan’s painting. It was done and it was absolutely my best work.
“I’m back. Details, leave nothing out.”
“We spent the past few days together. He showed up at the restaurant—”
“When you were dressed to the nines, that night?”
“Yes.”
“Sweet.”
“He took me sightseeing. I wish I could explain that to you, the significance. He’s seen even more ugly than me, Cait, and yet he played tour guide. He even took me to Culloden Moor.”
“There’s more, what are you leaving out?”
“We made love.”
I would have heard her scream even without the phone. “Hot damn. And?”
“I’m in love with him.”
She sobered. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No, but I don’t know when it happened or even how, but I feel things I’ve never felt, Cait.”
“Like colors are brighter and a lightness in your chest that makes you feel like you might float away.”
“Yes. Is that how it is for you and Ethan?”
“I thought it would fade, well not fade but maybe I’d grow used to it. It’s been four years and it’s still the same.”
“You both need to visit. I don’t know how this suit will go, and I’m planning a trip home to see my father, but whatever happens you both need to visit. If you don’t believe in a higher power, this place is powerfully persuasive.”
“And the painting?” Ever practical and the reason I couldn’t do what I did without her. She never lost focus.
“I have a few works in progress, two of them are staying here, but I have enough ideas. I can’t wait to get started.”
“Do you need me to make arrangements for anything?”
“I don’t want to leave, but I need to follow up with the lawyers, see my father, so yeah. Could you get me a flight back at the end of the week?”
“I understand why you’re dragging your feet with your father; that’s going to be awkward.”
“The enemy of my enemy, right?”
“I’ll send you the itinerary.”
“Thanks, Cait. I can’t wait to see you.”
“Me too. We’ll go out and celebrate.”
I disconnected and absently tossed the phone on the bed. I was in love with Brochan. I did feel like I could float, but more, I felt alive. I had been going through the motions since I was a kid, sleeping through life. He woke me up. I hoped I could do the same for him.
I entered the kitchen to the smell of something buttery. “What is that?”
“Shortbread. I thought we’d have some with our tea,” Fenella suggested.
“I love shortbread. Can I help with the tea?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No, lass. You seem different.”
“I feel different.” I realized I said that out loud by their matching goofy grins.
I tried to play stupid. “What?”
“Take a seat and tell us all about this trip.”
“I don’t kiss and tell,” I teased.
Fenella jumped on that. “But there was kissing?”
Finnegan’s head snapped to her. “Leave the lass alone.”
We settled around the table and while she poured the tea Fenella asked, “Why did you go to Edinburgh?”
I had almost forgotten what had sent me there. “I wanted to do some reach on Brochan’s family.”
“Why?” Finnegan asked.
“I had hoped to give him his father’s family, to show him his father was just one of many and a bad egg to boot, but I realized it’s his mother’s family he needs.” I reached for my tea. “Is there a reason they’re not in his life?”
Fenella placed her cup in its saucer. “Finlay forbade us from contacting them. After the fire, I always had the sense that Brochan believed his past burned in the fire.”
I understood why he’d feel that way, but he hadn’t buried his past. He carried it around with him like a shield. “He didn’t.”
“I know.” Fenella glanced over at Finnegan. He nodded and I wondered why. “I’ve been working on something. Come, I’ll show you,” she admitted.
She took me to a part of the castle I had not yet seen. The servant quarters but her room was no servant’s quarter. It had been redesigned, several rooms turned into one. “This is beautiful.”
“Aye. Brochan had it done for us.”
They were together. I had wondered. “You’re married.”
“Forty years.”
She walked to her bed and pulled out a trunk from under it, opening it to reveal a large leather book. “This was Abigail.”
She flipped the cover and staring back was a beautiful woman, the same black hair her son had inherited. The eyes were the same shape but hers were a deeper blue. “She’s beautiful.”
“She was, inside and out.” Fenella flipped through the book of mementos and photographs of Abigail and Finlay.
“They look happy.”
She smiled as she brushed her fingers over a picture of a very pregnant Abigail. “They were.”
“He loved her.”
“Deeply,” Fenella confirmed.
“That makes his behavior toward his son harder to understand. I’m guessing Brochan hasn’t seen this?”
“No.”
“I started a family tree of the Stewarts. Names and addresses for those still living. Maybe you could put that with this and at some point give it to him.”
“To what end, lass?” Finnegan asked.
“I didn’t want to come here. I thought Brianna would be like my mother and I didn’t need another Norah in my life. But I’ve changed. Learning of Brianna, seeing her life, knowing I’m connected to that. I’m not the same person I was when I arrived. Knowing Brianna has made me part of more than I was. I think Brochan needs that. I caught a glimpse of the boy you knew, he was different in Edinburgh, but as soon as we started back for this place he retreated behind his mask.”
“At least you saw under it. Not many have.”
I wasn’t sure they would answer, but I needed to ask. “What happened to the McIntyre estate?”
She didn’t even hesitate to answer. “Brochan’s version of a cleansing.”
I think deep down I knew Brochan had set the fire, but just how horrendous had his father been to cause him to do that?
“What happened to his father?”
Finnegan ended the conversation. “That’s enough. It should be Brochan that tells the rest.”
Fenella added, “He’s our son in every way that counts. You’re the first woman to break through. Don’t give up on him, please.”
“I have no intention of giving up on him.”
A shudder of relief moved through her and it broke my heart. They were so worried about Brochan, but he wasn’t the only one suffering. The healing needed to happen for them too. It wasn’t much, but it was a start when I offered, “His painting is done and he loves the library...”
“Over the fireplace would be nice,” Finnegan added with a smile.
“Would you help me hang it?”
They answered in unison, “Absolutely.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BROCHAN
Leaving Lizzie in the car, I was determined to finish up quickly whatever the hell it was Gerard had been ringing me about nonstop for the last hour. I thought Mac had been insane settling down, but he had it right. He gave up the ugly for beauty. Maybe it was time for me to do the same. Strolling to my office, I pulled out my phone and called Gerard.
&nbs
p; “Fucking hell, Brochan, keep your fucking phone on.”
“What’s so damn pressing?”
His hesitation had the hair on my nape stirring. I stopped moving. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. “Gerard?”
“Fuck man, I hate to have to tell you this but…”
My blood iced.
“It’s Mac. Shit…he and Ava, they’re dead.”
It felt like a gunshot to the heart, the pain that exploded in my chest. I stumbled, hitting the wall as I nearly lost my balance. “Say again?”
“I’m sorry, man.”
That lightness was swallowed by the shadows. Mac was dead. Ava. He was out, he was happy; he had made it to the other side. “When?”
“Two hours ago. A hit. One shot each.”
My hand curled around my phone so tightly it should have crushed in my palm.
“Who?”
“I’m still working on it.”
“Why the fuck would someone come at him now?”
“Grudges man, in your line of work there’s always someone gunning for you. Retired or not, doesn’t matter.”
I thought of his pretty wife, teasing him, wanting his children. Her only crime was falling in love with a monster. That pain grew stronger. Lizzie.
“I’m heading to his place now.”
“I’m sorry, Brochan.”
I disconnected but I didn’t move. He had thought his karma was good, that he could mark his soul and end with the fairy tale. But karma had just taken a little longer to come back around. That was the fate for monsters. Believing otherwise was fucking foolish. The last few days, I had been foolish, really fucking foolish. Her taste was still on my tongue and for the first time I regretted the path I had taken.
The police had already been through. I ducked under the crime scene tape and down the hall I had walked only months earlier with Mac. His face changing, shifting to what I understood now was love when he saw Ava. Someone took that from them. I moved into the living room, my legs going a little weak seeing the bloodstains, two, right next to each other. Did he make him watch as he killed her? Was the last thing he saw his wife, his love, staring back at him with dead eyes? At least they died together and if there really was a better place after this one, maybe they’d get a second chance.