Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DEAN
A quiet rage sits in my veins. Engaged. Juliette is engaged to someone else. The last six years have stolen her mind. She wants to get married? She’ll marry me. She wants to wake up next to someone every morning? That someone will be me. And nothing, not even another man’s ring, is going to stop me.
“You’re going to behave, right?” my grandpa asks as we walk up the steps to Juliette’s door.
“Of course.”
He raises his eyebrows. “She’ll kick you out, Dean.”
“I know. You told me already.”
Three times. As if I don’t realize how fragile the situation is. Juliette is convinced she hates me. But I don’t think she really does. She’s mad at me, and beneath that anger lies a layer of hurt. Underneath that is a sludge of trust issues. I’m not denying we have our problems—more than a fair share. But nothing we can’t work through. Nothing I can’t fix. I just need a chance.
My grandpa knocks on the wooden door. This is it—the moment I’ve been waiting for since her phone call last night. When she told me she was engaged, I wanted to drive over here and spank her little ass. But I thought better of it. Plus, I don’t have a car since Declan is taking his sweet time shipping my baby over here. My mouth runs dry as I watch the doorknob turn. I’m more nervous than I thought I would be. It seems to be my default setting ever since I stepped foot on Irish soil.
“Hey,” Juliette says, pulling the door fully open.
Her hair is down today, framing her gorgeous face. I could stare at her for the rest of my life, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Every tiny molecule of me is begging for her to look at me. But she doesn’t; she keeps all her attention on my grandfather.
“Where’s Margot?”
“Headache,” my grandpa replies. “But she sends her love.”
“Hope she’s okay.” Juliette moves aside. “Come in. Dinner will be ready soon.”
Stepping into the house feels like entering another world. Last time I was here, I couldn’t appreciate the place that sheltered my family. But now I can see the coziness. As we follow Juliette through the foyer, savory smells float in from the kitchen. But all I can focus on is the way her ass looks in the black jeans she’s wearing.
“P, Jamie, and Dean are here,” she announces, stopping in the living room.
Warren and PJ are sitting on the floor, building some type of Lego set on the coffee table.
“Okay,” PJ replies.
For the first time since I met him, PJ doesn’t jump up and run straight to his great-grandfather. He doesn’t even look up, just keeps piling block after colorful block. Finally, Juliette’s eyes find mine, but only for a second before shifting back to my grandfather.
“Sorry, he’s a little nervous.”
“That’s okay,” I croak out.
I’m nervous too. I can’t imagine how he feels, being only five. This must be strange for him.
“Patrick,” Juliette says. “Remember what we talked about?”
My son sighs—a sound I recognize because it’s the same sigh Juliette always had when I stressed her out.
“Yes, Mom. I know.”
“Good.” She turns towards us. “You promised to give this a shot.”
“I know .”
I get this insane urge to tell him to listen to his mother, but I don’t dare open my mouth. It’s not my place. Not yet.
“Then, come say hello to them.”
“That’s not necessary,” my grandfather replies. “Let the boy play with his blocks.”
“Okay.” She shrugs. “I’m going to finish up dinner. Feel free to make yourselves at home.”
She leaves, avoiding my gaze like her very existence depends on it. Okay, maybe she does hate me. Hatred is still an emotion. So somewhere deep down, she really cares. There’s still a chance I can change her mind.
“How you doing, buddy?”
My grandpa and I sit on the couch, facing where PJ and Warren are on the floor.
“Meh,” he grunts, moving his shoulders up and down.
“Is there something bothering you?” he asks.
PJ shakes his head. “Not really. I’m just sad.”
“Sad?”
“Why are you sad, P?” Warren pipes up.
I still can’t believe he’s alive. Declan has been torturing himself over his little brother’s death for a long time now. I can understand why—he killed him, after all. Well, we all thought he did. Supposedly, he shot him five times. That would equate to certain death for anyone. So why am I looking at a dead man? I don’t know. But a part of me is grateful. This will bring peace to Declan. Even though he’s no longer my boss or even my friend, I don’t want to see him suffer—especially over something that was a total fabrication of reality.
Declan thought his little brother killed their father. He believed he was the one behind many of our issues at the time. But none of that was true. Declan had blinders on, and in the end, it cost him a brother. He’s never been the same. The only reason he hasn’t gone off the rails since he sort of killed Warren—but didn’t—is because of his wife, Gemma. I would hate to see what he would’ve become—probably something a lot like what I’ve become.
In the eight years since Declan’s father died, the family has begun to fall apart. Or drift apart, really. It’s like we’re all missing something to hold us together—a reason for all of us to strive for better. Which is exactly what Patrick was. Glue. He kept everyone grounded yet on their toes. He never accepted slack. Declan is more forgiving, and I think some have taken advantage of that.
“No one else knew you,” my son’s voice is small as he answers.
“Me?” my grandpa asks. “I don’t understand.”
“Emory said you weren’t a real boxer because he doesn’t know who you are.”
He mentioned that Emory kid before, I think. That’s interesting. I wonder if he’s a friend or an enemy. I’m guessing the latter. I feel like I should say something. This feels like a time to drop some wise words, but I’ve got nothing. Where are the so-called father instincts I’ve heard about? Oh fuck, was I born without them?
“Why do you care so much about what Emory thinks?” Warren interjects again. “What makes Emory’s opinion matter more than your own?”
“I don’t know,” my son replies.
“Well, you know not everyone has to like what you like,” my grandpa speaks up. “It’s okay for Emory to not know who I am because you do. That’s what matters.”
“I guess so.”
He shrugs again, clearly not convinced by what they’re saying.
“Kiddo, take it from me: your whole life, people will tell you lies. They’ll try to convince you of who you are. But that’s only something you know. No one else can tell you who you are or what you believe in.”
PJ’s head twists. “What does ‘convince’ mean?”
Warren chuckles. “It means to persuade someone to do or say something.”
“But what is ‘convince’?”
“Uh,” Warren stutters. “To convince someone means to make them say or do things by using your words or other tactics. Basically, you trick people into buying something you’re selling.”
“What?”
“You know what, kid? Why don’t you go grab that new Hot Wheels I brought home? I bet Jamie and Dean would love to see it.”
“Okay.”
PJ runs off like the two of them weren’t having a conversation at all.
Warren looks at me, his light eyes sizing me up.
“Distraction. Always works,” he says.
“Does that happen a lot?”
“You’d be surprised how hard it is to explain such basic things.”
Something about that… hurts. A long, deep ache vibrates through me like an echo of his words. I hate that he knows more about parenting my own kid than I do. But I still find myself ready to soak up all the knowledge in his brain—if he’s willing to help me.
“What is he like?”
Warren quirks an eyebrow. “Why are you asking me? Get to know your son for yourself, Walsh.”
“Ever the asshole,” I mutter.
“It’s not my problem you don’t know him. That’s on you. You should put in the work.”
“I’m not against hard work. But some tips would be really helpful.”
The fucker just raises his hands. “Figure it out on your own. Like my sister had to.”
Those five words feel like volcanoes erupting inside me. A river of shame pools, burning me like lava. He’s right. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.
“I liked you better when you were dead.”
A small gasp, followed by the sound of a toy car hitting the floor, has us all turning our heads. PJ is standing there, a horrific look on his face.
“You’re dead?”
Warren shoots me a look. But before he can say anything, PJ starts crying. My insides feel like the inside of a firehouse when a siren goes off—chaos and panic.
“What’s going on?” Juliette yells from the kitchen.
“Nothing,” my grandfather calls back. “Just talking to PJ.”
“You died?” PJ asks again.
“No,” Warren replies. “Dean was just joking. Weren’t you, Dean?”
I clear my throat, not wanting to lie but also not seeing the benefit of telling the truth.
“I was. It was like he died because I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
PJ absorbs my reasoning. He takes a moment to think about it until, finally, his shoulders relax slightly. I wait for him to let me into his thinking process or say something, anything. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just leans down to pick up his little car.
“Pops, look what Uncle Warren got me.”
“Pops?” my grandpa asks.
I don’t have to look at him to know he’s smiling. I can hear it in his voice.
“Mom said I could come up with a nickname for you. I like Pops.”
“I like it too.”
“Cool. Look at my car,” PJ continues, holding up a small metallic purple sports car with flames on either side. “It’s new.”
PJ climbs into my grandpa’s lap and continues chatting about the car. I can’t help but smile. I was obsessed with Hot Wheels when I was a kid too. I still have the last one my dad bought for me—a 1967 Impala. Now that I’m grown, I own one, and it’s the dream I thought it would be. I wonder if PJ would like it. Declan needs to quit dragging his feet and ship it over here to me. If he likes Hot Wheels, a nice car may be one of my only ways to impress my son.
A knock on the door drags my attention away from the chattering little boy.
“Warren, will you grab that? It’s Arnie.”
My skin prickles with awareness at the mention of his name. Everything inside me rears up, wanting to fight. But I know I can’t. It would do me no good.
Warren pulls himself to his feet and shuffles toward the door. Trying to keep the swelling jealousy and anger brewing inside me hidden, I use my peripheral vision to watch Warren welcome him in.
The walking-dead man is dressed like a cop would be—a button-down shirt tucked into gray slacks. All the markings of a man trying too hard. I wait until he steps into the living room to look up at his face. Like a smart man, he has the sense not to meet my gaze. But that also means he’s a cowardly man. A man unworthy of my girl.
“Arnie, you came!”
PJ squeals, jumping off Pops’ lap to hug Arnie. It all plays out in slow motion for me. My son jumps into his arms as if he’s some big hero from a faraway land. I grip the arm of the couch to keep my cool. But I hate how he looks up to him with stars in his eyes. I hate how I can just tell that he’d prefer to have Arnie as a father compared to me. It fucking hurts. But it won’t last for long. If I have my way, Arnie will be out of our hair soon. It’ll be easy to make it look accidental. That way, Juliette doesn’t question too much. I just have to bide my time so she doesn’t get suspicious.
“You know Jamie, and that’s Dean.”
PJ saying my name pulls me out of my own head. I rise from my seat, making sure to puff my chest out and look Arnie right in the eye. His dark eyes are shifty in a way I don’t like. But he’s a cop—what else should I expect?
“Dean,” Arnie repeats. “The absent father.”
“I’m here now,” I reply, gritting my teeth.
All I want to do is throat-punch this guy until his esophagus collapses, but here I am, playing nice. I’ve never been known as a nice man. But I have to try.
Reaching a hand between us, I shake his hand. “I do appreciate you looking out for PJ and my girl for me, though.”
“Your girl?”
“Sorry,” I reply, gripping his hand harder. “Old habits. The two of us were together a long time.”
“Right,” he says slowly.
I can see the seed I planted taking root. Which is exactly what I want. I need him to think he’s got no chance, that he’s nothing to her. That’s how I’ll get them apart, and once apart, I can dispose of Arnie. Let the game begin.