Chapter 1
Ronan
Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound of my fingers hitting the keys of my laptop fills my office.
The rhythm soothes some of my irritation.
I finish the last keystroke and wait. I hate having to wait for anything.
I tap my fingers on the oak desk, counting out the rhythm.
I’m usually calm here in my quiet space with only the soft light of the single desk lamp illuminating my office.
But not right now. The program’s ding lets me know I’m in.
A few keystrokes later, and another life has been digitally destroyed.
I wish I’d been tasked with the destruction IRL. But no such luck.
My phone rings, and I hit the Bluetooth button. It’s the ringtone for Mom, so it’s no surprise when her voice sounds in my ear.
“Hello, sweetheart. How’s your workday progressing?” Code for “Did you handle the scumbag?”
“My ten o’clock is done. Meeting went well,” I tell her.
I check my smartwatch, 10:27. Finished with three minutes to spare.
The businessman who abused his ex-wife and two children will have to file for bankruptcy by tomorrow.
He’s been using his wealth to make their life a living hell.
Even after she left the bastard and took the kids, he still won’t let go.
“I would like you at the center this afternoon. Make sure all the security systems are operational. One of the residents’ abusers showed up yesterday.
I want to be certain the donation area and food bank aren’t weak points,” Mom tells me.
This is not a request, even though her slight Southern accent suggests it.
People meet Mom and see a sweet, demure lady.
She is. What the public doesn’t see is how ruthless she is in our other endeavors.
Mom’s foundation houses abuse victims. Recently, she added rooms for queer teenagers after Declan brought Xavier home.
He pointed out to her how many teens were thrown out of their homes just because of their sexuality.
This makes no sense to me. Parents, by definition, should care for the children they produce.
Although the idea of reproducing makes a shiver run up my spine.
The diapers, drool, and germs should be enough for anyone to decide to be childless.
“Is a meeting scheduled?” I ask as I finish putting my things into my bag to leave the office.
The donation center is important to Mom, so it’s my priority to secure it.
She’s the one who holds us all together.
Without her, we would all be dead or in prison, certainly not the billionaire business owners we are.
She calls, we go; she orders, we follow, no questions.
She’s given us the purpose of protecting those who can’t protect themselves.
That purpose also gives us an outlet for our true nature.
“I have Declan looking at scheduling it. You should check your emails.”
I smirk. My mom uses soft language when she’s angry. People mistake it for politeness and gentleness. They learn quickly that you do not cross Alessia Murphy. The abusive father not only hurt someone innocent but also showed up on her turf.
I pull my phone from my pocket and check our secured email. Apparently, the father of one of the boys came looking for him. The bruises shown in the picture of the young man indicate that the father needs to go.
“I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. You’ll have my report by tonight.”
“Thank you, Ronan. I love you, son.” She disconnects the call. She doesn’t expect an answer. I know I love my family, but it’s an abstract idea to me. Feelings in general are.
I arrive at the donation center later than I predicted.
I’m twelve minutes late. Forty-two minutes, not thirty.
I repeat that number in my head. Forty-two.
Being off by twelve minutes irritates me.
Traffic is a bitch, and I would rather do this remotely.
But Mom wants us to be hands-on with the foundation, so it’s in person.
Our building stands apart from the others on the block.
Three windows in the apartment building next door are boarded up.
Across the street, the liquor store has bars on the windows and a flickering neon sign that buzzes in the dark.
Gang tags crawl across brick walls and metal dumpsters like vines.
The summer heat only makes everything worse.
Trash has been baking all day in the dumpsters halfway down the block, and the rotten smell hanging in the air burns the back of my throat.
I keep breathing through my nose anyway. I’m not risking fucking tasting it too.
Nobody makes eye contact out here. People pass each other on the sidewalk with their heads down, shoulders hunched, faces worn thin by life. I know we’re lucky. Dad and Uncle Duncan came over from Ireland with nothing and built everything we have from the ground up.
The foundation building doesn’t have graffiti sprayed across the walls.
There’s no broken glass glittering on the sidewalk outside.
Dad makes sure of that. Mom says it’s supposed to be a safe haven.
A place where people can breathe for a minute.
A place for hope. At least, that’s what she tells us.
She reminds us all the time how fortunate we are, how giving back is the least we can do when we’ve been handed so much.
If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here.
And somewhere deep down, I’m just not built to feel it the way she does.
The office I use is just off the donation room, tucked beside rows of clothing racks and overflowing bins of shoes, coats, and folded sweaters.
I stop long enough to speak with the director and explain why I’m there, then head down the narrow hallway toward my office.
I keep one here because I hate working in unfamiliar spaces.
Strange rooms come with strange noises, different lighting, chairs that sit wrong, and desks that feel cluttered even when they aren’t. Here, everything is where I left it.
The same desk.
The same chair.
The same lamp in the corner.
The familiarity settles something in me the second I step inside.
Mom’s request is going to eat the rest of my afternoon, and I still have several bugs waiting for me that should have been fixed hours ago. I’m already behind. So I sit down, wake my laptop, and get to work.
After I get the scanning program running, I have seven minutes to wait. Pulling out my phone, I text Declan.
Me: You taking care of the asshole from the shelter?
Declan: Yes. I have fucking plans for the homophobic asshole.
Me: Need help?
Declan: No. I’m not sharing.
Me: Fine. Asshole.
Since Declan claimed Xavier, he insists on taking every case that involves ridding the world of homophobic abusers.
I haven’t been assigned a removal in weeks.
It’s affecting my concentration. It’s as if I have an itch that I can’t reach.
Conor suggests that I need to get laid. It’s his answer to everything.
Everyone thinks he has a revolving door of fuck buddies, but I know the truth.
I don’t understand, so I stay out of it.
I hate being around people in general. Right now, that aversion is even stronger.
I have no desire to play nice with some random hookup just to get my dick sucked.
It always turns out the same way. They want more, and that is not something I’m willing to give them — or anyone.
I only have bandwidth for my family, not outsiders.
Xavier is the only exception. Not that I had a choice in him being part of the family, but he is now.
I’m just getting back to work when the office door pushes open. I know better than to leave it open. I look up, surprised to see a tiny human waddle in. I don’t have any experience with children. This one is very small.
“What are you doing in here?”
He has his thumb in his mouth and smiles at me around it. I see spit glisten on his hand and around his mouth. I hold back a shudder. He must be new to walking, given how wobbly his steps are.
“Where’s your mom?” I ask.
Maybe he’ll answer if I ask simple questions, but I still don’t get a response. He just continues into the office, looking around briefly before heading straight to my side of the desk. I roll my chair as far back as I can. In hindsight, I should have shoved the chair and myself under the desk.
“You need to go back to where you were. You’re not allowed in here.” I point to the door.
For some reason, that makes him laugh. He comes right up to my chair and starts climbing into my lap.
The slimy, chubby hand that had been in his mouth is now pulling on my slacks.
I need him off me, but removing him would require additional physical contact, and that’s not happening.
Wet spots are forming on my pants from where his hand is curling into them. I’m going to be sick.
I hold my hands up and watch in horror as he finally settles in my lap.
He leans his head against the center of my chest, pops his thumb back into his mouth, babbles for a minute or two, and promptly falls asleep.
The smell of baby powder and something else hits my nose.
It would be pleasant if it weren’t attached to the baby sitting on my lap.
This is not a situation I’m fucking prepared for. I don’t want to move. What if he starts crying? What if his spit-covered hands actually touch my skin?
I hear someone yelling for an Ollie, and I’m pretty sure Ollie is who is sitting in my lap.
But if I yell back, I might wake him up.
Nope. They’ll have to come to me. I look down at his sleeping face.
His face is cherubic with round pink cheeks.
He reminds me of the babies you see in every diaper commercial ever made.
About five minutes later — though it feels like a lifetime — a man pokes his head into the doorway.
I take in his appearance. His hair is dark blond, messily pushed back as if he’s been running his hands through it.
Blue eyes so bright they seem to glow. But there are dark circles under them that don’t belong there, like he hasn’t slept in days.
He reminds me of an angel from a painting, matching the baby sleeping in my lap. Innocent and pure, everything I’m not.
“Oh, my God! Ollie!” His voice is deeper than I expected. It resonates pleasantly in my ears. Where the fuck did that thought come from?
He rushes in but stops short of taking the baby.
He’s smiling at me. He has fucking dimples.
I want to press my finger into the dimple and see how far it goes in.
His angelic face brightens even more when he smiles.
I feel it in my chest, like a cord drawn tight.
I have to look away from him. I glance down at the baby and then back at him.
“Is he yours?” I still don’t understand why he’s not taking the baby.
“Oh yeah, sorry about this. I only let go of his hand for a second. Why are you holding your hands up like that?”
He grabs Ollie under the arms and lifts him. I prepare myself for the screaming to start. The little bastard doesn’t make a sound or wake up.
“I didn’t want to touch the spit-covered baby. His hand was covered in it. He climbed onto my lap and went to sleep. If I had woken him, he would have cried.”
The man frowns at my words. I’m not sure what I said, but he stopped smiling. I prefer it when he’s smiling. I need to see it again.
“I’m sorry that a teething one-year-old grossed you out. If I owe you for having your clothes cleaned, I’ll pay it.”
“Smile again.”
“What?”
“You were smiling before, and now you aren’t. I want to see your dimples again.”
“Are you serious? I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
I get that reaction a lot.
“I’m serious. I want to see them.”
His cheeks turn pink, and he blinks at me a couple of times before responding. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.”
“Oh, great, you found him!” Joanne, the director, says as she walks into my office. She looks over at me, then back at the man.
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing Ollie’s back. “We’ll get going.”
“Come with me. I saw you had several things in your cart before the little man here disappeared. I’ll get those bagged up for you.”
She places her hand on his back as she guides him through the office door.
I don’t like her hand there. It’s an irritant that doesn’t have a rational reason to be in my head.
I want to snap her wrist so she can’t touch him.
She’s worked for Mom for years. I have to remind myself that I can’t do it.
I don’t like this feeling coursing through me.
Sure, I have malicious thoughts in public, but I never have any issue not acting on them.
Right now, though, I’m actively keeping my hands down so I don’t grab the offending appendage.
I stand and follow them out of the office.
His clothes are worn, and I notice the bottom of his pants is frayed.
They don’t fit him properly, as if he’s lost weight since he bought them.
Both he and his baby are clean and well-groomed.
But you can see the struggle. I feel like I should do something, but I can’t figure out what.
The question of why hits me. Why would I do anything for this stranger?
Joanne looks back at me. I recognize the nervous expression. I smile at her. She looks more nervous. That happens often when I smile at people. She hurries and grabs a cart filled with food and a few pieces of baby clothing.
“Was there anything else you needed today?”
“No, this is good,” he tells Joanne as she bags up the few necessities from his cart.
“I haven’t seen you before. I’m Joanne, the director here.” She glances at me, then back at the man. “We’re here to help.”
“I just moved here, and I’m looking for work.”
“What do you do?” I ask.
“I’m a freelance computer programmer.”
That’s perfect. I can work with that.