Chapter 8
fully loaded chamber
Sariah
“Why not?”
Because I said so.
“Don’t you think it’s impolite?” I reply to the teenager in front of me who’s all teenager today.
“Fine. But ‘impolite’ is how we end up with misunderstandings. Impolite is how we end up with a world in crisis. Impolite is why people still eat cows.” Her eyebrows lift on the last one. It’s a total accusation.
It’s me. I’m the one who still eats cows… and they’re delicious.
“Then how about doing it because it would make Rosie happy.” That does it. Renée loves her RoRo more than anything or anyone on the planet. One day I’ll get that title back.
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes as if the burden of wearing clothes that are weather appropriate is beneath her.
I remember being her age.
I remember having so little choice in, well… everything. I wore a handful of clothes, all chosen by someone else. I ate what was cooked, without complaint or comment because otherwise I didn’t eat. I learned what I was told was important.
And I feared the men who might not respect the purity culture we were all bound to.
My daughter, instead, has so much freedom. Freedom with parameters is way harder than any other alternative.
A beep catches my attention. Before I grab my phone, I move my eyes down the hall to her room. “Thanks, Née. I appreciate it, and RoRo will too.”
Cian: Morning, Angel. Hope you had a great night. Want you to know I’m thinking about you.
Me: Good morning. I like being thought of.
Me: Did you sleep well?
Cian: Well enough. Ayla’s going through some things. Mom is too. That eldest son/brother thing is real.
Me: Anything I can do for you?
Cian: Just be you.
Me: You’re trying to flirt with me again.
Cian: 100%.
Cian: What are you up to today?
Me: Meeting Rosie for brunch and a movie and then home for all the things… laundry, housecleaning, homework for Renée, getting ready for the week ahead. You?
Cian: Same. Except for the brunch, movie, and homework parts. I’ll call you tonight. That work?
Me: Can’t wait.
I truly can’t.
I get ready for my day, putting a little extra into my appearance, mostly because I feel pretty with Cian’s attention.
They always say that taken women are more hit on, and I know why. When I feel good and have that confidence, it’s easier to walk into the world with my head held high like I own this bitch. Today I do.
It must come across because Rosie notices. Then again, she notices everything. She knows everything about me there is to know. She found me at my lowest. Twice. Both times she’s picked me up, dusted me off, and set me back to rights.
“How are those peonies?” she asks when her granddaughter has put in her earbuds after lunch.
“Gorgeous and flourishing. Still too much.”
“Are you talking about the peonies or the man they came from?”
“Yes.”
Her sly smile is offered the same time as her words. “Good. You deserve both. You deserve the world.”
“Love you, Rosie.” I extend a hand and take hers in mine, squeezing.
“Love you back, my girl.”
She’s called me my girl for a long time.
When I first arrived at their home, I didn’t want to share my name of all things.
They knew everything about my childhood.
I couldn’t stop all those details from spilling forth, but my name?
That was sacred. Knowing that would be giving them the keys to send me back. I’d be too easily found.
So “my girl” it was, and I’ve always been good with it.
“It scares me. But you already know that.”
“I do. But anything worth it is scary. Trust your heart. It won’t lie to you.”
My eyes drift to the teenager with us before returning. “I—”
“I know.” She squeezes my hand before letting go. “What if there was no risk?”
“There is.”
“All of life is risk. Loving Randy was a risk. Bringing you into our home was a risk. Releasing you out into the wild to be all you could be was too.” She drops her voice.
“I’d never endanger my granddaughter. Never jeopardize her wellbeing.
I would, however, tell her what I’m telling you.
Most things in life are a gamble. Lots of them pay off.
Some don’t. But never sitting at the table or playing a hand is no life at all. ”
“Why do you sound like a Vegas card shark?”
“Don’t deflect. Choose to be brave. At least be real with what you want. If you want him—want another shot with him—then better attempted and failed than never taking the chance.”
You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take. I’ve heard it a thousand times.
Neither Randy nor Rosie were unnecessary risk takers, but they valued courage. Maybe they fostered courage like that because I was a timid mouse, and it was the scariest thing to me but the best thing for me.
“Why bravery?”
“Because all the good stuff is on the other side of fear. And the only way over…”
“Is the courage to get it.”
“Is the courage to get it,” she echoes.
“Point made. But I’m still scared.”
“Not for the first time in your life and not for the last.”
She’s right. Certainly about the former. And, no doubt, about the latter.
Rosie schooled me on being fearless, or at least being bold in the face of anxiety.
We finished lunch, enjoyed the movie, and hugged her goodbye in the parking lot.
We’ve been home, done all the weekend tasks, including meal prep, and Renée has dropped her phone on the end table to go to bed for the night.
And here I sit, waiting on a man.
I don’t like the vulnerability of wishing and hoping. I don’t like sitting around wondering what if. So with Rosie’s words echoing in my ears and in my heart, I grab my phone and let my finger hover over Cian’s contact.
I don’t press go. I want to, but more than that, I want him to reach out. I’m not playing games. Not exactly. I simply want him to pursue me.
I head to bed after that desire never manifests.
I wake the next morning with my phone tangled in the sheets.
No texts.
No calls.
Just an empty screen where I wish his name was.
Cian
I don’t love Mondays. I don’t hate them either. I’d love a life where Monday was no more stressful than any given Saturday, but that’s not my life.
Murphy Enterprises buys and sells Denver real estate. Competitive and cut-throat describe not only the industry and the market right now, but also my father who’s at the helm of the business.
Seamus Murphy has an ego that leaves little room for anything else, like, say decision-making or industry analysis.
He wants to be right, be heralded and admired, and win at all costs.
Especially if someone else loses. A zero-sum game is his best-case scenario, but only if he’s winning.
A tie is terrible. A loss is unfathomable especially in the court of public opinion that is his playground.
He makes decisions based on a winner-take-all approach and hates any time I throttle his pace with questions or concerns.
I need to step out on my own. My brother, Liam, suggested it. Ayla supports it. In my bones, I know it’s the right decision, but sometimes the known is just so easy to maintain.
No risk.
No challenge.
Good, not great… simply easy.
And there’s something to be said for easy. Not that I grew up with the goal of being the punching bag for Dad’s bad decisions, or the repairer of every breach his ego barrels through, or the Murphy that never stood up.
Dad hates that Liam can’t be controlled. And he’s discovering that Ayla is the same. That leaves me—the only child in the family business despite his vocal disappointments—to carry the torch. The problem is it’s not one I want to bear.
He’s loud. He’s brash. He’s pushy. And no one wants to deal. I’ve buttressed his displeasure from Mom, Liam, and Ayla for so long that either they fail to notice it anymore or they take it for granted.
Or they’re waiting for me to be the man I am for them for myself.
Ayla is going through shit. Same with my brother-in-law whom I could trust to provide solid data. I’ve tried texting and calling both of them yesterday and today.
Liam’s not philosophical like that, so it’s me talking to myself and working it all out in my head or talking to Eleanor as my advisor when I hash these things out. She’s a great listener, but she’s not great at challenging my ideas.
I pull to a stop at a building we own in Lakewood.
Dad’s called a meeting for this afternoon.
An investor group is making demands that we can’t fulfill.
It’s not my call, but even if it were, I’d tell them no.
There’s something off about the whole deal.
I don’t know why Dad keeps bowing to their requirements.
Either way, we need to discuss it and that’s what this meeting is about. He may have called it, but for me it’s a litmus test. Or another litmus test.
I don’t know why I pretend that if this goes my way or doesn’t, it’s a sign. All signs point to nothing ever changing unless I do. I wish staying wasn’t the path of least resistance.
But Ayla called in a panic and said I needed to come early. None of this adds up.
Me: Hope you have a great day. Sorry I didn’t call last night. I’ll explain tonight.
My quick text to Sariah is interrupted by two things at once. A text from Liam arrives at the same time there’s a tap on my driver’s side window.
Liam: I want to upgrade the security at your place. Things coming in from Ayla and Christian’s to discuss. Let me know when you have time to talk.
Dad leans down, rapping his knuckles on the driver’s side window again. Impatient much? I push open my door, forcing his bulk to take a step back.
He’s tall. He’s big. But no one would accuse him of being in shape. Unless round is a shape. He seems to be of the old belief that weight means the wealth to overindulge.
As with all things, I’m the opposite of Seamus Murphy.
His ruddy face is hard and his eyes are cold when he leans aside just far enough for me to see one of the tenants of the building, a thin, wiry man behind him. He waves a pistol at me in a move-along gesture. His head makes the motion in tandem with his wrist.
If it weren’t for the gun… Well, it doesn’t matter.
The man with dark eyes and straight dark hair and patchy facial hair is brandishing the high-capacity military-grade firearm that I know isn’t legal in the state.
In fact, I’d hazard a guess that it’s not American made.
Not that it makes a lick of difference right now.
An illegal weapon in the hands of a foreign national being waved in public usually doesn’t end with a hug and a song.
Fuck my life.
“What the hell is going on? What have you gotten us into?” I ask my dad as we walk, knowing the timing of this conversation is ridiculous.
“Don’t start, Cian.”
“Don’t start? There are men with guns in our building.”
“Businessmen who offered me a business deal—” His words are cut off when the gun butts his ribs with a hard poke.
I march beside him into the shell of a building we’ve been renovating for these “businessmen” and into the wide-open middle room.
Concrete subfloors below echo the sounds of our footsteps into the ceiling of exposed metal I-beams and visible ductwork that has yet to be covered. It’s as hollow as my hope is right now.
Two metal folding chairs sit in the middle of the room as masked men with guns stand at the ready. All surround my sister, who’s rooted in place and looks paler than usual.
That hope I mentioned?
It’s oozed out of me like the warmth of my blood.
This is my end. A flimsy, cold chair on a concrete floor. Outrunning one person would be tricky. A handful, all armed, in a room with only partial sheetrock is Russian roulette with a fully loaded chamber.