Chapter 22 Liam
Three days into exile at the cabin, and I'd already worked my way through every security feature the system had to offer, mostly out of sheer, restless boredom.
It turned out that getting shot took a lot more out of a man than the movies ever let on.
My shoulder throbbed with every movement, a dull, constant ache punctuated by sharp flares whenever I forgot myself and reached for something too fast. Colleen's stitches were holding, at least, and the color had mostly returned to my face.
That was according to Roxy, who'd taken to studying me with the nervous energy of an overbearing mother.
Which left me with a lot of time sitting on the couch, propped against too many throw pillows, poking through the tablet that controlled the cabin's absurdly overbuilt security system.
The cabin itself was owned by the Masked Brotherhood and sat vacant for most of the year.
It was two stories tall with a kitchen that could staff twenty, a dining room that could seat a hundred, and enough bedrooms for every brother and a guest. The membership fee alone was worth it for the perks, or so I'd heard.
The organization was secretive because of the prestige of its individual members, which was why they stayed "masked" in the first place, and why they needed such advanced security measures.
I flipped through various screens on the tablet, testing each feature.
Motion-triggered trail cams ringing the property, perimeter sensors, a whole grid of cameras.
I watched deer wander past the tree line, watched the wind move through the pines.
There was something almost meditative about it.
Something that kept my mind off the fact that my cousin was somewhere out there with a bounty on his head and every reason left in the world to come finish what he'd started.
Roxy found me exactly like that when she came in from the kitchen, fresh bandages and antiseptic balanced on a tray, her hair pulled back in a messy knot that had somehow become her signature look these last few days.
Three years of running had roughened her hands, sharpened something in her that hadn't been there when we were young.
But watching her set that tray down with brisk, competent efficiency, I caught a glimpse of the girl I'd married, too, underneath all the hard-won edges.
"Hold still," she said, easing my shirt off my good shoulder to get at the bandage. Her fingers were gentle despite the businesslike set of her mouth, peeling the old dressing away.
"You're getting good at this," I said, watching her work.
"Lot of practice patching myself up after clumsy customers at various bars over the years." She dabbed antiseptic against the wound, and I hissed through my teeth. "Stop being such a baby."
"I got shot, Roxy."
"And you've been milking it for three days." She finished taping the fresh bandage into place and sat back on her heels, studying me with a critical eye. "You know what you actually need? A shower. You're starting to smell like a locker room, Liam."
"I'm fine."
"You are not fine. You've been wearing the same shirt for two days."
"I'll manage."
She crossed her arms, clearly unconvinced. "You physically can't wash your own hair one-handed without soaking through that bandage, and we both know it."
Which was true, and exactly the problem, though I wasn't about to say so out loud. The obvious solution was to have Roxy help me shower.
I wasn't going to put myself through that.
"I'll figure something out," I said instead, deliberately vague, and caught the flicker of something unreadable cross her face before she shrugged and let it go, gathering up the old bandages.
"Suit yourself. Don't come crying to me when you're too disgusting to stand."
"Duly noted." I cleared my throat, glad for the change of subject. "By the way, we're getting a visitor later. Garrett's coming by with supplies."
"Garrett?"
"Family friend. Professor over at Northridge University, actually. Teaches some kind of philosophy course, I think, or used to." I kept my tone deliberately light, hoping Roxy wouldn't ask for more details. Garrett was indeed a family friend, but he was also a Brotherhood member.
Roxy raised an eyebrow, clearly filling in the blanks herself. "So, another one of your family's very legitimate friends."
"Something like that."
She didn't push further, which I was grateful for.
Garrett arrived a few hours later in an unassuming Volvo, hauling two canvas totes up the porch steps with the easy, unhurried gait of a fit man in his thirties.
He wore wire-rimmed glasses, a clean polo, and chinos, dressed like exactly the kind of unremarkable college professor he was supposed to be to the outside world.
"Liam. It's great to see you're doing well." He clapped my good shoulder as I let him in, then turned his attention to Roxy with an expression that immediately made me suspicious. "And this must be the famous Roxy. Your father's told me all about you."
"All good things, I hope," Roxy said, shaking his offered hand. Her eyebrows rose, and her cheeks flushed as she studied Garrett. Clearly, when I'd described a professor coming to the cabin, she'd imagined someone very different-looking.
"What do you have for us, man?" I said loudly, my voice cracking through the air like a whip.
Garrett went into the kitchen, set the totes down on the counter, and started unpacking items one-by-one.
There was bread, cheese, a case of bottled water, the practical staples I'd expected.
Then, with a theatrical little grin, he produced a bottle of champagne, condensation already beading on the glass, followed by a chilled tin I recognized with a sinking, appalled feeling as fresh oysters.
"Garrett," I said slowly. "What is this?"
"This," Garrett said, "is a small gift from your father, who mentioned that his son was being an insufferable martyr about recovering properly, and that his soon-to-be-ex-wife could probably use a nice evening after everything you two have been through.
" He set the tin down with a satisfied little pat.
"So. Champagne, oysters, my compliments. Have fun, you two."
I felt my face go hot. "That is deeply inappropriate."
"It's romantic," Garrett said, entirely unbothered. "Your father's idea, not mine, though I'll admit I appreciated the excuse to raid the good stuff from the university wine club's stash."
"We're getting divorced," I said, a little desperately, aware of Roxy standing there fighting an obvious smile at my expense.
"So I've heard. Doesn't mean you can't enjoy good champagne while you wait out a mafia manhunt in a mountain cabin.
" Garrett shrugged into his jacket, already heading for the door, clearly delighted with himself.
"Take care of that shoulder, Liam. And you—" he pointed at Roxy, grinning, "—take care of him. God knows he needs it."
He left before either of us could formulate a proper response, his Volvo crunching away down the gravel drive, leaving us alone in the kitchen with an absurd amount of expensive champagne and a tin of aphrodisiac appetizers.
Roxy looked at the counter, then at me, one eyebrow raised. "Well. We're not letting good oysters go to waste."
"Absolutely not," I agreed, my earlier embarrassment losing quickly to the simple, practical truth that fresh oysters and cold champagne were not things either of us encountered often enough to turn down out of pride.
We ended up eating on the back porch as the sun went down, the mountains folding into deep blue shadow around us, the champagne bottle sweating between us on the little table Roxy had dragged out from the kitchen.
She'd found candles somewhere, and lit them without comment, and I decided not to point out how deliberately romantic the whole scene had become, mostly because I didn't want to do anything that might make her stop.
"Okay, I'll admit it," Roxy said, working the shell of an oyster loose with more skill than I expected. "This is objectively a very nice evening for two people who are legally ending their marriage."
"Garrett has a flair for the dramatic."
"Garrett has excellent taste in champagne." She splashed some Tabasco on the oyster, tipped it back, and swallowed the briny meat with practiced ease. Then, she caught me watching her a beat too long. "What?"
"Nothing." I looked away, out at the darkening tree line, feeling something warm and complicated settle into place inside me that had nothing to do with the alcohol.
"Just...this is nice. Whatever it is. I forgot we used to be able to do this.
Just exist together. Without everything else getting in the way. "
Roxy was quiet a moment, turning her champagne glass slowly by its stem. "Yeah," she admitted softly. "Me too."
The candles flickered between us, the mountains grew darker, and for one quiet, stolen evening, neither of us mentioned Declan, or the divorce, or any of the danger still circling somewhere out there in the dark. We just talked.
I fell asleep that night more content than I had any right to feel, all things considered. If I dreamed at all, I don't remember it being about anything except her.