CHAPTER SIX
Conor walked into Ricky’s Pub. A loud hum of conversation mixed with the clinks of silverware and an undertone of soft music.
He walked past the hostess and scanned the restaurant, looking for Mona.
The place was packed. Candles flickered on tables set in neat rows down the center of the room.
Recessed blue lighting glowed behind the bar.
He caught sight of a woman with long, flowing, black hair sitting at the bar with a drink in her hand.
It was Mona. Had to be. No one else in town had hair like hers—so black it looked blue.
He walked toward her. Her hair spilled over her bronze shoulders in soft waves.
Her black dress was a second skin. A black, strappy stiletto dangled on the end of her foot, her calf muscle flexing as she kept time with a bass-heavy beat playing under the murmur of the room.
It wasn’t until he was right behind her that he noticed the guys sitting alongside her.
Derek Ryder and Johnny Tong. Local guys.
Not big on thinking, but a handful for anyone who wasn’t careful.
Derek fought in the MMA circuit. Johnny Tong used to be a pretty good—and pretty brutal—boxer.
Derek sat to the left of Mona. He was the more conversational of the two, holding eye contact with Mona while he told her she should forget about whoever was supposed to meet her and join them for dinner.
The barmaid walked over, stopped in front of Mona, and lifted her chin at Conor.
“Can I get you something?”
He nodded. “Whatever lager you have on tap.”
Mona turned and gave him a withering look while the barmaid went to fill a glass. “You are so fucking late.”
Derek and Johnny stared at Conor. He ignored them and put his hand on Mona’s shoulder. “I got your text and came right over. How’s that late?”
The barmaid put a frosted pint in front of Mona.
Conor reached between Mona and Derek, handing the barmaid his credit card.
He could feel Derek eyeing him as he said, “Run a tab.” Derek pushed his stool back into Conor’s legs.
Conor stepped away, giving Derek room to stand.
Derek stared at Conor as he laid his hand on Mona’s shoulder, slid a piece of paper onto the bar next to her drink, and said, “I’ll catch you later, Beautiful. ” Then he looked at Johnny and nodded.
Conor watched them walk away before taking a seat next to Mona.
He waited a few beats before looking back.
The two men edged by tables toward the back of the dining room.
Derek stared back at him as he sat down at a table next to a man in a suit and tie, a perfect haircut, and designer eyeglasses.
Turning back to Mona, Conor lifted his glass and clinked it against Mona’s before taking a sip.
“What’s up with frick and frack?” he said.
“You could’ve texted me to let me know you were coming,” said Mona.
The pint was as cold as ice. Conor set the glass down. “I thought it would be better to just get over here.”
Mona’s face darkened. She turned away and touched the piece of paper next to her drink. Conor could see the phone number on it before she shoved it in her purse. Derek Ryder was hot on Mona. That would’ve pissed Conor off a few weeks ago when he’d first started seeing her. Not now.
“I waited for you at the Red Fox last night. And you never showed. All I do is wait for you,” said Mona.
He looked into her slate black eyes. “You know, you should watch who you talk to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Conor glanced back at the table with Derek, Johnny, and the man in the suit. “See that guy Derek and Johnny are sitting with? He’s Barry Cline.”
“So?”
He flicked the edge of his pint glass and it pinged. “So, he just got out of prison—again. And he’ll probably be back there real soon, with your new friends.”
“They’re not my friends,” said Mona. “And you’re no angel, so don’t act like you’re better than them.”
“Look,” he said. “I’m not here to argue about who’s better than who or get a history lesson in why I’m such an asshole.
I came to tell you—again—that it’s over.
We’ll still see each other because I’m friends with Sully, but we’re done.
We aren’t good together.” He waited a beat for her to reply.
She turned away and lifted her glass to take a drink, a cue he’d seen before.
She wasn’t going to say a word. She was going to build up a head of steam in silence.
And then she was going to blow. But who cared?
She needed to get this through her beautiful, thick head.
He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Mona, we can either do this like adults, or like two-year-olds. It doesn’t matter what you say or do, I’m not your boyfriend.
We’re not getting back together. That’s it. You understand?”
Mona stood. She touched his arm. “I have to pee. Wait until I get back and then we’ll talk—like grownups.”
Conor watched her walk toward the restrooms in the back hall.
The buzz of the room flowed over him—a low roar of talking, clattering silverware, and laughter.
She didn’t get it. She still thought she had her hooks in him.
He stood and walked the length of the bar, a dead spot in the noise that swirled through the dinner crowd.
A waiter brushed by, holding a silver platter with a bottle of Maker’s Mark.
He watched him walk toward the table where Barry Cline sat with Derek and Johnny.
Conor looked away from the table of criminals.
Whatever they were up to wasn’t his problem, Mona was.
Why couldn’t she let this end? Everything had to be drama with her.
He stopped in front of the ladies’ room.
Screw it. He wasn’t going to sit at the bar and argue with her until midnight.
This was the end of it. He stepped inside the ladies’ room and locked the deadbolt.
He looked under the stall door. String black panties were stretched between Mona’s ankles. He watched her slide her feet back to the base of the toilet.
“Occupied,” she said.
Conor leaned against the door. “Open up.”
Her panties were still around her ankles as the door swung open.
“I knew you couldn’t stay away from me,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.
He grabbed her hands. “Mona.”
She tightened her grip around the back of his neck. “We’re good together,” she said, pulling his head down, trying to kiss him.
He muscled her hands off his neck and pushed her away. “Stop it.” He stepped back. “We’re done. There’s no more ‘together.’ No more talking about it. We’re finished. And now, I’m leaving.” He turned and stepped toward the door.
“You think you’re too good for me?” Mona yelled.
The deadbolt pinched his finger as he jammed it to the side. He hissed, “Shit,” opened the door, and walked out.
He stalked out into the dining area, her shouts following him.
“Screw you, Conor! Think you’re better than everyone else! You have another girl, don’t you? You big asshole! Conor! Conor! Come back here!”
He could feel the eyes of the room on him as he paid his tab, pocketed his wallet, and left. He thought about yelling, “Yeah, I do have another girl!” but held it in. Knowing Mona, she’d hunt Julia down and kill her.
He rode his motorcycle down Park Avenue toward home.
The thought to stop at the Red Fox to see if Sully and Fitz were there ran through him.
They had to be wondering why he hadn’t called.
He even slowed as he passed the Fox but thought better of it.
The fight with Mona had him rattled. The best move was to check on Julia and make sure she was okay.
He’d call them tomorrow. If nothing else, he had a good reason for ghosting them.
Breaking up with Sully’s sister had sucked the life out of him.
But he’d done what Sully asked. He’d talked to Mona. He’d broke it off. She wasn’t his problem anymore, she was Sully’s. He grinned, thinking, Better him than me.
After parking his bike, he trotted up the stairs toward his apartment.
A door slammed somewhere on the first floor, vibrating through the soles of his shoes.
He stopped in front of Julia’s door and checked his watch.
Nine-thirty-five. She was probably asleep, but what the hell. He knocked softly. The door flew open.
“Conor...I need your help,” said Julia.
She wore a T-shirt. Her legs were bare. It was possible she was naked under the shirt. A smear of blood crusted under her left nostril, and she held a pair of scissors. A bruise shadowed her left cheek. He reached for her. She jumped back.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, raising the scissors defensively.
“What?” he said, keeping his voice low, watching her wipe at tears. “What’s going on?”
Then he heard a grunt. He looked into the living room.
A man was on the floor. His pants were pulled down, his junk was out, and his hands and feet were bound with electrical cord.
A white bath towel gagged him. His eyes shifted from Julia to Conor, and then he started writhing and let out a muffled cry.
Conor took a step toward Julia. She backed into the wall.
“Take it easy,” he said, raising his hands. “I’m here to help.” He eased away and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Just tell me what happened.”
She talked and he listened. It wasn’t long before he felt his blood boil and his head pound. He looked at the man on the floor.
This guy was in for a long night.