Chapter 37
37
FIONA
E very night, I twist beneath my sheets, dreaming I’m pinned against a chapel’s stone floor, dreaming I’m shoving a gun in Father Colin’s face, dreaming he’s Kevin Joyce. At midnight or at one or at three in the morning, I give up and pour myself a juice glass full of booze.
I work my way through all the vodka in the apartment. Then the rum. Then the gin.
I pour the Jameson down the sink.
Each morning, I wake to a pounding headache. I stretch one hand toward my nightstand, because I’m smart when I drink. I leave myself a glass of water and a couple of Advil.
But after a week of my new routine, I forget. I don’t set out my morning cure. And when I wake, my stomach feels like the inside of a lava lamp.
As I steel myself to stumble into the bathroom, a nasty little voice whispers at the back of my throbbing brain. Patrick left you water and Advil when you got drunk on Scotch and ice cream .
Patrick’s gone. And he’s never coming back. That’s what I want. I only have room in my life for people who believe in me, for people who support my fight to take over the Crew.
That’s Q.
And, um, Oona, if she even knows what I’m trying to do.
And… and Rónnad.
Fuck.
I get my own water. And I swallow my own Advil. And an hour later, when I think my stomach can handle it, I go into the kitchen and make some toast, telling myself that only rookies puke.
Over the last seven days, I’ve paced every square inch of the apartment. I’ve turned the photo of Aunt S to the counter, because I don’t want her to see how I’ve let one idiot man take me down.
Goddammit, I’m not letting him win. I can’t stay in this apartment forever. I have to get back to work, to taking over the Old Colony Crew. I need to start acting like a Queen, if I’m ever going to claim that job.
The Grand Irish Union meets in a little more than a month. By tradition, Boston hosts that meeting. When my father became general, the vote was held at the Four Seasons.
What was good enough for Da is good enough for me.
I spend an entire morning on the phone with the most professional conference coordinator I could ever imagine. I reserve a conference room for the vote, complete with coffee service and a guarantee that no hotel staff will set foot anywhere near while we’re meeting. I rent suites for all the captains.
I’m so exhausted when I finish the job that I take a nap. I sleep all afternoon and into the evening.
And when I finally wake, I decide it’s time to celebrate the work I accomplished. I’m keeping the GIU on track. That’s the sort of responsible thing a captain does. I will end up in charge of the Old Colony Crew, even if it takes me a little longer than I originally planned .
Going to my closet, I choose a never-fail corset: Black leather, six buckles down the front, metal studs tracing my ribs like fingerprints. I pair it with a latex miniskirt cut so short I won’t be able to sit down.
That’s fine. The only sitting I plan to do will be on some man’s face.
I eat an apple, and when that doesn’t turn my stomach, I follow it with a glass of milk.
There. I’m ready to go out.
I tuck my phone into my cleavage, step into my highest needle-heel shoes, and head downstairs. One quick stop to leave my key in the mailbox, and I’m on my way to Wicked Sins.
Henry’s behind the bar, which should be a good thing, because he pours with a heavy hand. He also knows I’m partial to Glenfiddich. He already has his hand on the bottle as I make my way to the counter.
One glance at the label, though, and I’m earwormed with Frank Sinatra, which is ridiculous, because this bar only plays loud rock music. My mouth fills with the taste of Scotch spun with cream, and Millionaire Malts are a stupid idea, and anyone who orders one should be shot on sight.
“I’m going with Grey Goose tonight,” I tell Henry.
He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say a word, which automatically triples his tip. My double on the rocks is more like a four-in-hand, and that’s the fucking knot Patrick uses on his neckties, and I’m closer to tears than I’ve been since Madden beat me black and blue.
“Here you go, beautiful,” Henry says, pushing the drink over to me. I catch my breath, because that’s the sort of thing Patrick would say. I wait for my body to betray me, for my pulse to pick up, for the traitor between my legs to soften with a lazy, spinning swoop.
But none of that happens—nothing at all. I tell myself I’m grateful, because what sort of woman can go through life falling apart at a single kind word? But really, I’m devastated. I’m aching. I’m terrified that I’ve lost that feeling forever, that Patrick’s ruined my pussy, and I’ll never come again.
I gulp my drink like it’s water and gesture for Henry to work his magic again.
He gives me a wary look, but he pours. This time a double is exactly what it’s supposed to be. Exactly what I deserve.
I sip, because I’m pretty sure he’ll cut me off if I chug this one. Henry nods once, a sign of approval that ices all my insides. He heads over to the sink as a man steps up to the bar.
“It’s busy in here for a Monday,” he says.
I tell myself that’s a perfectly reasonable opening for a conversation. I remind myself to smile. I take a look at his glass, and he’s drinking something clear—gin and tonic, I’m guessing, from the lime.
Good. I can kiss him, and he won’t taste like Jameson.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” he says. He takes just the right amount of time to eye my outfit. He appreciates the buckles. He’s curious about what I’m wearing beneath my skirt. But he doesn’t stare. And he doesn’t reach out to answer his question without an invitation. “I’d remember,” he says.
His smile is lopsided. He’s got sand-colored hair that was probably blond when he was a kid. His eyes are light—blue or green, I can’t tell in the bar’s dim light. He’s wearing a white cotton button-down, expensive, tailored to fit his trim waist.
“Law?” I ask. “Or finance?”
He smiles again. His right front tooth is chipped. “Banking law,” he says.
“Want to fuck?”
That takes him by surprise. But he laughs a little, and then he says, “I’m used to a little foreplay before I jump right in.”
I clutch my glass like it’s the last parachute in a plane that’s going down. For just a moment, I think I’m going to faint. I take a deep breath. Hold it for a count of four. Exhale on a count of four. Realize I’m breathing like Patrick and once again fight the urge to cry .
Or scream. I could scream instead.
But I choose a third option.
I reach out with my left hand, the one that isn’t holding my drink. I cup Mr. Banking Law’s crotch, just enough to feel the leap of his dick beneath my fingers. I squeeze once. “There. That’s foreplay. Ready to fuck?”
This isn’t right. This isn’t what I want to do. It’s not what I want to say, what I want to think, how I want to feel. I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, looking into a canyon, and if I take one more step, I’ll fall for the rest of my life.
Mr. Banking Law shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says. “I think you’re looking for another guy.”
He takes his gin and tonic and heads back to his table.
I barely make it to the ladies’ room before I start to puke. The vodka burns a hell of a lot more coming up than it ever did going down. It takes a long time for my stomach to empty, which is ridiculous, because there’s hardly anything in it.
I’m Fiona Fucking Ingram. I’m supposed to feel strong. I’m supposed to be powerful. Men drool like dogs when I spare them a single glance. Women stare in awe.
I flush the toilet. At the sink, I wash my hands, and then I rinse my mouth. I stare at myself in the mirror—at my smudged eyeliner, at my smeared lipstick, at my hair, which looks like I’ve run it through a blender.
I can’t fix this. Too much is wrong. It’s time for me to give up and go home.
But the worst part is, I won’t look any better once I’m there.
No. That’s not the worst part. The worst part is I’ll spend the night alone in my big, empty bed. I’ll toss and I’ll turn and I’ll dream about every mistake I’ve ever made.
And no Daddy will ever be there again, to make it even a tiny bit better.