Chapter 25 All the Way In
all the way in
Liam
My laptop is propped on my lap, and I’m working as quietly as I can.
Lorien either did all her sleeping already or she’s one of those who tosses and turns a lot.
And she talks in her sleep.
This is brilliant entertainment. Except for the flopping around. If I were trying to get some shut-eye, I’d be pissed.
“The broccoli babies don’t have arms.” I’m fairly certain that’s what she said a few minutes ago. I managed to withhold a laugh, but barely.
The tone has changed though. It’s more melancholy, and the whimpers coming from her verge on terror.
Despite my better judgment, I reach out and place a palm on her shoulder. “Lorien?”
Her body shakes.
“Lorien.”
With a gasp, she sits bolt upright, scrambling. To my utter surprise, it’s not away from me, but right into my lap. The computer is damn near crushed as she burrows into me, fighting the remnants of the dream and, sadly, the bruises of our reality.
“Liam?” she whispers as her eyes flit over my features.
“Yeah, it’s me.” I say in the same quiet tone, wrapping my arms around her.
Her fingers reach for my face, raking through my beard, scraping through in what can only be considered erotic torture. Her eyes follow her hand, stopping on my mouth.
Lifting her chin, her lips hit mine with the barest hint of touch.
It’s sensual, it’s soft, and it’s intriguing.
It’s also complicated, problematic, and cannot happen.
I pull back, doing what I can to reduce the sting of what I hope isn’t rejection. “We shouldn’t.”
She averts her eyes, drops her face, though I can feel the warmth blooming there, and moves my hands to make her escape. She heads for the bathroom.
I grab my laptop and head anywhere but this bed that smells like her.
Of course, I’m interested. My dick has been from the moment I saw her shake that full, round ass on her front steps. But who knows how much time we’ve got in this arrangement and disbanding of a marriage is one thing. Divorce is another.
One is dissolving an LLC with two owners and no assets in common. The other is murky waters, entangled in squid tentacles, and sinking. And I don’t want either of us to drown. What alternative do we have?
I’m not looking for serious. I’m definitely not into virginal. It’s intriguing and hot, but not my thing. Not that I assume she’s untouched, but I’m used to a little more experience, a lot more adventurous, and no responsibility other than our safety and our orgasms.
She strikes me as the settle down and have grandkids type.
I wonder if she even knows what she wants.
It’s probably not a give-no-fucks, self-employed, pierced-dick dude.
She probably plans to bring home a starched shirt, khakis-wearing insurance broker to mommy and daddy.
Maybe someone who bought into a franchise, golfs on Saturdays, and takes one “exotic” vacation a year… to places like Boca Raton.
I’m not him.
And I don’t want to be him.
The problem I’m having is the burning inside me thinking of her with the striped-tie frat-bro. The mental image of her smiling at another man. The thought of her looking at someone else the way she just looked at me. I hate it.
But I loathe taking it away from her more.
So here I sit, contemplating my life, bailed on my sofa. The sofa I’ve been relegated to in my own damn house.
And here I remain when the sun peeks through the blinds and, from down the hall, I hear the clicking of heels.
Lorien enters the living room, rounding the wall toward the kitchen paying no heed to me.
She’s in a long skirt instead of those terrible pants, her shapely calves on full display.
Her hair is sleek as glass and frames her face as she moves silently to add what she needs to her purse.
Without a word, she walks to my garage.
I follow, as if led by my dick, and remote start the SUV, taking a minute to go into the unit next door before sliding into the driver’s seat.
Once we’re out on the road, I lift her ring between my thumb and forefinger.
It’s an ask. It’s also an expectation. Keeping up appearances sucks, but it’s altogether necessary.
She does not acknowledge me or it. I managed to get the silent treatment from a woman I’m not even in a relationship with. Marriage doesn’t count in this instance. The silence doesn’t bother me. In fact, it’s my nature.
Game on, Wifey. Game fucking on.
Sliding the car to the shoulder, I set the hazard flashers, grab her left hand, and slide the ring past her knuckle until it hits home.
I’m not going to lie. It’s gorgeous, fits perfectly, and tells the whole world she’s mine.
Probably some astronaut at the international space station, too, if their telescopes are set to the right coordinates.
There. I’d say it out loud, but I’d be picking a fight.
There’s no sense in making this more challenging than it already is.
From my periphery I see her mouth open in an O.
She never even tried it on. She doesn’t know I know that.
I can tell she’s trying not to stare. And she’s definitely avoiding eye contact with me.
Pristine posture. Chin set straight ahead.
The curtain of her hair blocking access to her features.
Sunglasses obstructing what I could make out from her eyes.
No wiggles, except for the fingers on her left hand.
We get to the mousetrap where C470 hits US6 and I-70, and I can see the war in her body.
She’s tense. Is she going to give me directions?
Does she want to know my research included where she worked?
She starts to lift a hand, and I wonder if she’s going to direct me, but instead she keeps her stoicism as I make the turns that take us closer and closer to her office.
We arrive, and with nothing to say, she exits the car.
Halfway to the front door, I lower the passenger side window and, with a smile in my voice, proceed to piss her off.
“Have a great day, Wifey.” She whips around, her mouth set in a hard line.
“I’ll pick you up at five thirty.” I roll the window up and manage to make it out of the parking lot before I crack up.
I should be careful. That woman with a little anger and spice will be far more irresistible.
And I’m already holding on by a thread.
My to do list is exponential, and I got one hour of sleep last night if I got any. And that’s a big if. But there’s something I have to do before all of that.
I jump on I-70 and head east, remembering when traffic wasn’t this ridiculous. Before they legalized pot, before the tech gurus thought they should have an office within driving distance of the best skiing in the world, before the real estate boom that made my family wealthy.
I’m sliding south on I-25 when the exhaustion hits. Ayla will have coffee. I need a double.
My sister and brother-in-law live in Cherry Hills Village, one of the ritziest zip codes in the country. The money thrown around here is insane, but it also comes with more restrictions than I could ever stand. Christian and Ayla fit in. They’re the Joneses other people try to keep up with.
I park in their driveway and let myself in through the door to the sitting room. When I slide into a chair in Christian’s office, I exhale what little energy I have left.
“Liam.” My brother-in-law leans back in his chair, hands on the armrest, looking for all a king in his castle. “What can I do for you?”
“I owe you an apology for yesterday. I’m sorry.”
No excuses.
No caveats.
No bullshit.
He looks taken aback. That’s a new look on him. He could be smug instead.
“Thank you. I don’t apologize for defending my wife.”
I smile, though it’s a small one. “That woman doesn’t need defending. She’s a force of nature.”
“That she is.” His face gentles. It’s either soft when he speaks of her or fierce in the extreme. There’s no middle ground. “You look whooped.”
“I haven’t slept. I was on my way here yesterday when all the shit popped off. Mind if I get a coffee? Or three.”
He stands and rounds the desk. “What’ll you have?”
“Triple espresso.”
He looks back at me before checking the screens on the wall behind me. “I’m on it.” He taps the doorframe. “Coming right up.”
He returns with a tray service. “Corinne set you up. Fresh scones and cream. There’s an Americano and your espresso.”
“If I were the other half, the first thing I would do is steal Corinne,” I say, lifting the espresso to take a sip of the thick drink.
“But she’d probably mother me too much, and I’d have to fire her.
” The older woman reminds me of a grandmother from when I was a kid.
She’s soft, round, and friendly, but has that air about her that she’ll put you in your place for your own good.
He retakes his seat. “If you got her, you’d never let her go.”
“I’d bet.”
His gaze flits above my head for just a moment, back to the screens that show visuals of all the cameras I installed for him years ago.
“Anything good?” I break off some warm scone and pop it in my mouth.
“No. Nothing bad either. And that’s more important.”
I nod, sipping the espresso, before setting it down and leveling him with my gaze.
“What’s going on? Why the increased vigilance?”
He looks at me, to the screens, and back to me, rubbing his thumb across his lips. “Twice as many Barones to worry about. Twice as much to lose.”
“What’s the biggest threat? Maybe I can address it. At least digitally. I’m sure your team has the rest.” Fitz was his personal security. I’m sure his decision to move soon is like pressing on a tender bruise. It’s playing into all of this as well and not in a good way.
“Seamus.”
Well, shit. My father isn’t controllable.
He fancies himself above reproach... and above the law.
Eliminating him from our lives would be better for every single one of us.
But it would hurt Mom. Or hurt her more.
And that’s the only reason I played nicely in the sandbox.
That is, if anyone considers my attitude toward him and his actions “nice.”
The man is a menace, constantly harassing my sister, nearly allowing Cian to die in his place.
And that’s not taking into account his questionable “deals.” He wouldn’t care a lick if any of us died.
Hell, he expected Ayla to choose him when she was faced with the choice of which of them to keep alive.
Technically, I made the choice. There’s only one reason that fucker’s still alive—my mom. If I’d chosen to kill him instead when all the shit went down more than a year ago, all this mess would be resolved.
Or at least six feet under.
Instead of answering, I break off a chuck of scone, dip it in the cream, and chew.
“What’s the best case for you in this scenario?” I ask when I’ve swallowed.
“Him gone permanently.”
I nod because… same.
“And what’s acceptable?”
“Him never laying eyes or a hand on my wife or daughter.” His gaze is hard, and his words are lethal. “Ever.”
“So, he needs to be dead or… Would incarcerated be acceptable to you?”
“If the sentence is long enough.”
“It’ll break Mom.”
“We can figure out Janie if Seamus is out of the picture. Right now, she’s eliminated by her own efforts at forcing togetherness. And togetherness with Seamus Murphy is never an option.”
“You don’t have to tell me. And I’m not figuring out safety for my kids.”
“You will.”
Maybe. But that’s a big maybe.
“Ayla has his confession about the Laotians. And we have video evidence of him causing her fall.”
“What the fuck?” My roar fills his office, despite how the words are hissed from my mouth. Her amnesia, all the trauma and trouble. She almost fucking died.
“She cut him out after all the stuff in Lakewood, after Cian’s stuff. But later… she recovered an SD card from that day on the ridge and—”
“And you didn’t think to tell us?”
“What difference does it make?” Christian’s demeanor is too cool.
“What difference does it make?” I parrot his ridiculous question back to him with vitriol.
“Well, would you have done anything about it?” Christian asks, sipping the coffee that was already before him when I arrived.
I would’ve killed the bastard. Slowly and painfully. Pulled his flesh from his body. Buried him in a shallow, unmarked grave… Something fitting for what he put my sister through. What he put us all through.
“From the look on your face, you would have. And I can’t say I would’ve stopped you. It would be to my benefit anyway. But Ayla… Ayla could’ve lost you. And my daughter wouldn’t have her godfather, so we decided to sit on it.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m wondering if we take him down, swiftly and legally. Via the courts.”
I toss the other half of my scone into my mouth in one go. My espresso is already drained. My mind is wired.
“We ask Ayla and Cian.” It’s on them.
“And we find a way to make sure no one knows you were there.”
“That too. But if they’re in, I’m all the way fucking in.”
For the first time in a long time, I see Christian’s body release some tension. Tension I should’ve recognized in him long before now—a snake coiled tight, poised to strike.