Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
He rotated on his bar stool and watched the bar. There’d be no trouble tonight. The energy of the place was low-key and comfortable, and he let it roll over him, wishing some of the atmosphere would rub off on him. It was a good place, nothing like some of the hole-in-the-wall pubs he’d ended up in over the years. He turned to find Benji watching him. “Hey, man.”
“You know what I’m going to say.”
Yeah, he did. “I’m going to apologize.” An apology was just empty words, but it would make them both feel better. Theoretically, at least. “What’s her story?”
“Didn’t ask and she didn’t offer.” Benji’s brown eyes didn’t leave his face. “Don’t pry. She’s a good girl, and I’m not going to have you running her off.” It was a variation of the same conversation they’d had six months ago.
It hadn’t bugged Cillian then, but now it grated on him. “What do you think I’m going to do to her? Club her over the head and take her home with me?”
Benji didn’t blink. “I like you, Cillian—you’re a good kid for the most part—but trouble follows you around like stink on a pig. She doesn’t need any more trouble in her life.”
Which meant she already had some sort of trouble. Benji might play at the fun, lovable oaf, but he obviously knew more than he was saying—kind of like how he was on the O’Malley payroll and never mentioned it. Not high up, but there all the same. Cillian had found his name on the roster last week when he was going over the family finances, though he hadn’t put much thought into it before now. Seventy-five percent of the business owners in their territory paid to one degree or another for various things—protection, favors, random shit that he was still having a hell of a time decoding. He’d spent the last six months with the old moneyman, Bartholomew, learning the various tricks of the trade—the kind of stuff you couldn’t pick up in college. Now Cillian was officially handling the family’s money; it was his job to keep track of that sort of thing as well as the investments that kept them flush.
But for Benji, the O’Malleys paid out.
He sat back. He was going to have to think about that. He could ask Benji, but he had a feeling the man wouldn’t tell him anything useful. No, the answers would be found in the ledgers that were now Cillian’s responsibility. All the O’Malleys’ dirty little secrets were there, secreted in Bartholomew’s code. He had the key. He just needed to buckle down and do the work to find the information he wanted.
The puzzle almost—almost—distracted him from the conversation. “I’m not looking to bring her trouble.” That was the last thing he wanted. Too many people had already been hurt because of him. He couldn’t stand it if anyone else bore the weight of his shitty decisions.
“You weren’t looking to bring trouble to that brother of yours, either.”
The words lashed him, leaving a blistering pain in their wake. No, he hadn’t meant to bring trouble to Devlin. He’d thought it was an excuse to let loose a little with his brothers the way they used to, and he’d drank too much—as was his usual back then. Cillian gripped the bar as the room swayed around him. No. I’m not doing this shit tonight. The steel band around his chest tightened, making it damn difficult to draw a full breath. “Low blow, Benji.”
The bartender held up his hands. “I’m sorry to bring it up, but I need you to understand this girl isn’t for you. I don’t know how else to make this clear to you.”
A perverse part of him wanted to push just for the sake of pushing, but that wasn’t the man Cillian was anymore. He released the bar and stood, wavering only slightly on his feet. “I got it. Loud and clear.” It didn’t mean he’d listen, but he wasn’t going to start a conflict about it right now. He downed the rest of his juice and set cash on the bar next to the empty glass—enough to pay for the drink and a tip that was exactly thirty percent.
He pushed to his feet and strode over to where Olivia had just dropped off a set of drinks to the couple who looked half a second away from sneaking off to some dark corner and banging their brains out. He envied them, just a little. Their lives weren’t shadowed by past traumas. All they cared about was the here and now and each other.
He focused on Olivia. “I’m sorry.”
She stopped short. “What?”
“I was out of line, and I’m sorry. I haven’t exactly been at my best lately.” Lately being the last fucking year, with no signs of it getting better in the future.