7. Rowan
7
ROWAN
T he moment I saw her fall, I felt something I’ve never felt before.
I’m not even sure what the right word for it is. Horrified is the closest I can get, but even that doesn’t feel like enough to describe the cold that swept over me—a moment of utter despondence at what I was seeing in front of me, and my utter inability to do anything at all about it.
I watched her crumple to the stage, like a marionette with its strings cut, and I wanted to rush to her side. I wanted to hold her, help her—and I couldn’t do a fucking thing.
I never want to see you again.
I stand there in the parking lot as I watch the ambulance drive away, still cold despite the warmth of the summer night, staring after the vehicle as it vanishes into the darkness.
Was it my fault?
Something squeezes hard in my chest at the thought that I might have caused this, or at least have had a hand in it. The look on her face when they wheeled her to the ambulance, how pale she was, the grief and anger on her face when she told me to leave her alone—I clench my hands into fists, feeling utterly useless.
I should leave, like she told me to. I should stay away from her. I’ve done enough harm, it seems—and yet I pull out my phone, texting my driver, and knowing exactly where I’m going to tell him to go.
“New York-Presbyterian Hospital,” I instruct him as soon as I slide into the cool leather interior, still feeling as if I’m shivering despite the pleasant temperature inside the car. It’s the biggest and best hospital in New York City, so far as I’m aware, so I’m willing to bet they’ll take Genevieve there. At least, I hope so. And whether or not I should, I’m going to go see her.
I need to make sure she’s okay.
Of course she’s not okay, you fucking idiot. I lean my head back against the seat, unable to keep the horrible scene from replaying over and over in my head. I don’t know very much about ballet, but I have some idea of what a ballerina—especially one at Genevieve’s level—injuring her foot or ankle, or leg might mean. Even if I had no idea how serious it was, the look of devastation on her face would have been enough to tell me that this was something serious.
I have half a mind to tell the driver to take me home instead. After all of this—after every conversation we’ve had that’s become an argument, after what happened today—maybe I should just leave her be. But every time I consider it, something inside of me rebels, pulling me back toward her like a magnet. I can’t get her off my mind, can’t reconcile the way she makes me feel with the brief time I’ve known her and the fact that nothing, absolutely nothing about her is convenient or makes sense for my life right now.
I’m supposed to be preparing to inherit my family’s empire, to become one of the three major crime bosses in New York—to take on a weighty mantle of responsibility that I’ve been running from my whole life. Becoming romantically entangled with anyone right now would be inconvenient, but Genevieve?—
I should forget her. Turn around and walk away and never see her again, exactly as she said earlier. I have other things that I need to focus on, bigger problems that I should be concerned with. And yet, I don’t tell my driver to go home instead.
I want to know if she’s alright. I want to see her with my own two eyes and know she’s being taken care of. I doubt that her asshole boyfriend is going to do much to take care of her.
My jaw tightens as I look out of the window, one hand flexing against my thigh. She deserves better than him, I know that much. I’m not so arrogant as to think that I’d be the answer to all her problems, the key to her happiness— but I could certainly fucking solve some of them , I think grimly as the car pulls up to the front doors of the hospital.
I don’t need to know her boyfriend to know what kind of man he is. And I know I could make her happier. I could give her, at the very least, more freedom to live her life however she chooses, rather than forcing her into a traditional relationship that’s clearly making her unhappy.
Although… I’m not doing a very good job of listening to her right now. Even I can admit that, though it doesn’t stop me from bolting out of the car and heading into the reception area of the hospital. I’m just going to see her, I tell myself as I walk up to the receptionist. I’m just going to make sure she’s alright, and then I’ll leave, like she asked.
“I’m looking for Genevieve Fournier’s room,” I tell the receptionist politely—a pretty blonde who looks to be in her mid-twenties and who, on any other day, I’d already be flirting with. But right now, the only woman on my mind is Genevieve.
She’s been the only woman on my mind since the night I met her. I’ve been in New York nearly two weeks now, and I haven’t so much as been out to a bar or a club, much less brought a woman home or gone home with someone. I haven’t wanted anyone else, and if I’d allowed myself to think very hard about that for more than a second, I’d have realized just how alarming that is.
But I’ve built a life on not thinking about anything very hard for more than a second, and since coming home to fulfill my father’s wishes, changing that has proved to be difficult.
The receptionist looks up at me, her blue eyes brightening a little as she takes me in, and I see the flutter of her lashes that tells me she’s not immune to my looks or my charm. I smile at her, turning up the Irish brogue a bit. “I’m not sure if she’s made it here yet. She was taken away by ambulance. Can you help me at all, lass?”
Her cheeks pinken immediately, and she glances back down at the computer, quickly typing. “What’s your relationship to the patient?”
“A friend,” I say, and immediately regret not lying. Likely, I could have slipped a lie past her. She’s distracted enough right now—I can tell by the flush making its way down her throat. But while I’ve always been good at charming women, I’ve never been much of a liar. It doesn’t come naturally to me the way it does to others.
Her lips press together. “I’m afraid I can’t give you that information then, sir.”
“She’s a dear friend,” I emphasize. “I just want to check in on her, make sure she’s alright. If you could just?—”
The receptionist’s color heightens, the roses in her cheeks in full bloom now, and her teeth sink into her lower lip. But she shakes her head quickly. “I can’t,” she repeats, more firmly this time. “I’m sorry.”
I open my mouth, on the verge of saying the dreaded Do you know who I am, and invoking the Gallagher name, when a harsh male voice behind me cuts me off.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
I turn slowly, almost sure that I know who it is. When I see Genevieve’s asshole boyfriend standing behind me, I know that, unfortunately, I’m right.
“I don’t think I have to answer that,” I say coolly, and his eyes narrow.
“If you’re here to see Genevieve, you can fuck right off,” he snaps. “She’s got no interest in you. Or didn’t her throwing away your flowers give you enough of a fucking hint?”
My stomach clenches. Logically, I know I’ve got no claim on her, and logically I know that must have been where he was going when I passed him in the back hall of the theater—but the thought of him in her dressing room after I left, seeing the flowers I brought thrown in the trash and no doubt laughing about it, makes me feel vaguely sick.
It makes me want to punch him right in his sneering fucking face.
“I was concerned for her.” I manage to keep my voice even. “I saw the same thing you did, man. I saw her fall on that stage, and I’ve got some idea of what kind of a blow that must be for her?—”
“She fell because of you .” Chris points a finger at me, stepping closer—too close for comfort—and I grimace at him, holding my ground.
“I’d watch yourself,” I warn quietly. “I’ve been in a fair few bar fights in my time. I wouldn’t bet on you being able to lay me out before I get a few solid punches in, at least—and that nose looks like it’d cost a fine penny to put back the way it is now.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Chris growls. “You stay the fuck away from my woman, you understand me?”
I chuckle darkly. “ Your woman, is it? I’d say if you asked Genevieve, she’d say she doesn’t fucking belong to anyone.”
Chris snorts. “Of course she’d say that. But I’m her patron.” He pulls himself up to his full height, looking me directly in the eye, and I can feel the arrogance oozing out of him like slime out of his pores. It’s an unearned arrogance—the kind that comes from being able to open his wallet for an expensive suit and having a board of executives to kiss his feet and tell him what a big man he is, but one that comes without any real weight. Strip away the fine suit and the office and the portfolio of accounts, and he’d wither down to nothing.
“I do own her,” he continues. “The check I wrote to her fucking manager should say as much. I should have written it in that fucking blank line. Renting Genevieve Fournier for another six months.” He laughs, as if he’s made a particularly funny joke, and it takes everything in me not to swing at him. My hand flexes so hard that I half expect to pop a fucking tendon.
The only thing that stops me is that I know what happens if I swing at a man in a fucking public emergency room. There’s no real winning that fight—we’ll be separated before much of anything happens, and security will separate us both and drag me off. A quick mention of my family name and a call to my father to figure out if the police chief is in our pocket—which he almost certainly is—and I’d be out of hot water. The endless lecture I’d be subject to when I got back to the estate is almost worth the pleasure of decking the asshole in front of me… but the knowledge that it will only add stress to Genevieve isn’t. I’ll make things worse by hitting him, I feel fairly certain of that.
And the last fucking thing I want is to make things worse for her.
“It’s your lucky day,” I growl. “I’m going to let that go, only because it defeats the purpose of defending her honor if it makes things harder for her right now. But if I hear that bullshit again—” I crack my knuckles to make a point, but Chris only smirks.
“Don’t worry, Gallagher,” he calls back over his shoulder as he starts to walk away. “I’ll make sure there’s plenty of hard for her to focus on, as soon as she can take it. After all, I’m sure she’ll be bedridden for quite a bit.” He stops at the elevator, still smirking, and I can’t help myself. My blood heats, burning through my veins at the way he’s talking about Genevieve, and I start to stalk towards him just as the elevator chime sounds.
“I’ll keep her so busy she won’t even have time to think about you.” He winks at me—fucking winks —and I just manage, as he steps into the elevator, to catch sight of the button he pushes before the doors close.
Six. Her room must be on floor six. I smash the button for the elevator to come down again, nervous energy with nowhere to go pulsing through me as I wait for the doors to open up again. Visions of breaking his face flit through my mind—of what he’d look like with a broken nose, a split lip. I’ve been a playboy for over fourteen years, allergic to commitment and rarely sleeping with the same woman more than two or three times, but I’ve never spoken about even the most casual of flings the way he just spoke about Genevieve.
It makes me want to make sure he can never talk again. And I could fucking do it. “He has no fucking idea who he’s pissing off,” I mutter under my breath as I step into the elevator, curling my hands into fists as I tap my foot against the hard floor. I could make the remainder of his life short—and all of it miserable. He’s playing in an arena too dangerous for him, and I don’t even think he fucking realizes it.
The only thing stopping me from following through on that thought is Genevieve. She’d be furious with me, I know that. I have no idea what kind of moral compass she has, but I’m willing to bet that in this scenario, she’d think the punishment wouldn’t fit the crime. Although… she wouldn’t necessarily have to know, I think as I step off the elevator and into the cool, antiseptic hospital hallway of the sixth floor, enjoying my fantasy of Chris’s demise a little longer. I could make him disappear, and she’d never know why.
It’s nice to imagine, at least.
I walk slowly down the hall, wanting to make sure that Chris doesn’t catch a glimpse of me, wherever he is. The last thing I want is to start another argument here, where Genevieve might see or hear. I don’t know if he’s out in the hall or if he’s gone to her room, but I keep a slow, calm, cautious pace as I watch for a glimpse of her.
Finally, halfway down the hall, I stop. On the other side of a half-drawn curtain, I see her in her hospital bed, talking to a nurse standing on the other side. Her face is in profile, and I see the dried tear tracks down her cheek, the pallor of her skin, the way she looks utterly small in that bed. All of the life, the fire, the beauty that I saw in her on that stage, everything that, for a few brief minutes, made her seem larger than life, so much more than anyone I’d ever seen before—it’s all gone, leaving her a delicate, injured bird swathed in blankets.
Chris is standing in the corner of the room, listening. I see him shift, and I back up quickly before he can catch sight of me. I look at Genevieve once more, and every part of me wants to go to her—to apologize for any part of this that might have been my fault, to beg her to forgive me. I want to tell her that I’ll do anything to make it better, to help her, to make this right.
You barely know her. That small voice prods at the back of my mind, but I ignore it. My mind might be telling me one thing—and it might be right, but every emotion, every feeling I have is telling me something else, drawing me toward her with a pull that feels impossible to resist.
If there’s one thing about me, it’s that I’ve never been very good at listening to my head. Not the one on my shoulders, at least. And maybe it’s just unfulfilled lust pulling me toward Genevieve, or the lure of something I want and can’t have, right when my life is being overwhelmed by things that I don’t want that are being forced on me.
I back up, turning on my heel to leave, knowing that I need to walk away right now before I do something I’ll regret… something that will make this awful day worse for this woman that I can’t seem to stay away from.
But one thing is for sure—I’m not going to be able to walk away for good.