Chapter 47
FORTY-SEVEN
For a second, in the wake of Conner’s admission, no one says a word.
Before I can ask him why the hell he’d do something like that, Allister beats me to it.
“You?” He stares at the man in the doorway for a second before he looks at me like I’m supposed to answer him. When I give him a don’t look at me shrug, he turns back to Conner. “I don’t even know who you are.”
“So?” Conner leans his shoulder against the doorway with a shrug of his own while he looks at Allister like he’s something he stepped in on the sidewalk. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know you.” I can read his t-shirt from here.
I Blackmail.
Shifting his gaze to meet mine, Con gives me a flat, irritated smile.
“This motherfucker had the audacity to claim he graduated, Magna Cum Laude, from Columbia when in reality, he barely escaped UNLV with his ass intact.” Shaking his head with a disgusted snort, he refocuses his attention on Allister who’s face is suddenly so white, it looks like he’s been bled dry.
“And let me be clear—it’s not the state school struggle bus that gets me.
It’s the fact that you lied about,” Con says to him before looking in my direction.
“His real name is Alan Winkle. He’s from Reno, Nevada and he’s thirty-six, not thirty-two.
He was arrested multiple times in college for solicitation and drug possession—” shifting his gaze back to Allister, Con gives him a shitty smirk, “shall I continue? Because there’s more.
I know everything, so I can say with confidence that a sad, thirty-second cringe fest of you jackhammering your inflate-a-date is the least of your worries.
” Looking at me, Conner laughs. “I found it on his phone in a file named spank bank.” Re-aiming his gaze at Allister, he shakes his head.
“Don’t even try to deny it—you know it’s true. Don’t make me show him.”
“You can’t…” Shaking his head, Allister doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks like he’s about to have a stroke. Whatever Conner dug up on him must be bad. Real bad. “You can’t just—”
“Kitten,” Conner says with an aren’t you adorable shake of his head. “I can do whatever the hell I want. No one’s stopping me—and what I want to do is to completely fuck you up.”
“Why?” Allister bounces a look between us, his voice shaking. “I don’t understand. What—”
“You don’t need to understand Alan,” Conner tells him in the slightly exasperated tone of someone who’s trying to explain simple addition to a toddler. “All you need to do is comply. If you don’t—”
“Okay.” Nodding his head a mile a minute, Allister drags a shaky, bloody hand over his mouth like he’s about to throw up. “Fine. You win—just tell me what you want me to do.”
“Disappear,” Conner says, his tone flat and completely unsympathetic. “Right now. Walk out this door and vanish. Fuck off back to Reno and stay there. Forever.”
For a second, Allister just stares at him like he doesn’t understand. “What do you mean stay there?” he finally asks when Conner doesn’t elaborate. “Like—”
“Jesus, he’s not very smart, is he?” Conner gives me a what the fuck eye roll.
“Let me explain it to you like you’re five.
If you leave Reno—” Crossing his arms over his chest, Conner leans into the space between them “if you so much as touch your pinkie toe outside the city limits, for the rest of your dumb, miserable life, I’ll know.
I’ll know, Alan and then I’ll have to make you very, very sorry. ”
“He’s not kidding,” I say, finally interjecting because watching Conner play with his food has always made me a little uncomfortable.
“I don’t know what he’s doing here or how he’s involved in all this.
All I know is that he is—and that means life as you know it is over.
All you can do is exactly what he’s telling you. ”
“You gotta crush on me, Mercer?” Conner gives me a wink before moving out of the doorway with a sigh. “Run along now, Alan. The grown-ups need to talk.”
Dividing another look between us, Allister looks like he wants to argue some more but common sense prevails. Muttering to himself, he pushes his way past Conner and out the door.
“You’ve got 72-hours, kitten,” Conner calls after him. “If you’re not in Reno by Monday, I’m comin’ for you.”
The only answer Allister gives him is the slam of my outer office door. Looking at me, Conner drops his arms away from his chest. “He’s gonna make me mad, isn’t he?”
“Probably,” I laugh, shaking my head. “A blow-up doll?”
“Yeah…” He winces. “It’s pretty gross. And sad. Don’t ask how I got it.”
“Wasn’t planning on it—I know better,” I assure him before letting my gaze wander across his shirt again. “Nice shirt, by the way.”
Looking down at it on his way across my office, Conner lifts his head to flash me his dimples. “Thanks.” Sitting in one of the vacant office chairs, he kicks his legs out in front of him. “Dec gave it to me for my birthday.”
Dec is Declan Gilroy, Conner’s older brother.
We used to run together when we were kids but that was before he got tangled up in the Irish mob.
These days, the Gilroys are on the straight and narrow—for the most part.
“Is he why you’re here?” Even as I ask it, I know that can’t be it.
Declan and I were friends growing up—as much as someone can be friends with someone like him—but we haven’t talked in years.
Not since Conner and Henley’s wedding nearly three years ago.
“Did he ask you to get involved in this mess?”
Con gives me another grin. “Nope.”
Knowing better than to think I’m going to get anywhere with him head-on, I sit back in my seat and reroute my attack.
“Okay…” Crossing my arms over my chest, I give him a resigned nod.
“Preston Blackwell told me that he had the son-in-law of one of his good friends looking into who was behind sending those texts to his daughter,” I tell him.
“A computer savvy young man who was going to get to the bottom of this and expose me for the lying, manipulative gold-digger I am.”
Amused, Conner makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Is there a question in there somewhere?”
“Yeah.” Suddenly frustrated, I drop my arms and sit up. “What are you waiting for? It’s been months, Con.”
“So?”
“So, I’d bet my left nut you had this little mystery sorted before I even made it back to New York.”
“Sweetheart…” Con says with a bland smile. “I had it sorted before the two of you even left.”
“Then why haven’t you told him?” I bark at him. “What are you waiting for? Just put me out of my fucking misery already.”
“I’m waiting for you, fuckface,” Conner barks back. “I’m waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass and fix this thing with Millie.”
When Conner says her name, I jerk back like he took a swing at me. “I don’t understand.” Feeling like Allister, I shake my head because I’m suddenly confused. “How do you know Millie?”
“I don’t.” Conner gives me a blasé shrug before he stands.
“And honestly I don’t give a shit about either one of you.
” Leveling a finger at the slogan on his shirt, he gives me a shrug.
“I’m just doing what I’m told—so if you want me to tell Preston Blackwell the truth, you’re going to have to at least try to make things right with his daughter. ”
Just doing what he’s told has never been a Gilroy’s strong suit—least of all Conner’s. That means, whoever’s pulling his strings is important to him. Family—because family is the only thing Gilroys care about.
“There’s no making it right.” I look up at him. “I fucked it up. Millie is never going to listen to me. She’s never going to trust me. I’m always going to be that guy because she’s never going to let me be more than that.”
Something that looks very much like commiseration settles over Conner’s face. “Do you love her?”
“My feelings for Millie are irrelevant,” I tell him while fighting off the surge of resentment swelling in my gut.
“I assure you—” The serious expression holds. “they are very much relevant. Do you love her?”
“Yes.” Even though I had no intention of answering him, I give him a nod. “I love her. I’ve loved her since the night I met her.”
In a flash, his grave expression disappears behind another one of his cheeky grins. “Patrick and Cari are throwing their fancy art party tonight, back home. You should come—I am fuckin’ stunning in a tux. You don’t want to miss it.”
Reading the front of his shirt again I lift my gaze to meet his. “Is that an invitation or a directive?”
“You’re on the guest list,” he tells me, turning away from my desk without answering my question, on his way out the door. “See you there.”