Chapter 7 Stan
SEVEN
STAN
Conor’s tongue stuck out between his lips as his fingers raced over the keyboard, then, growling in satisfaction, he crowed, “Almost in.”
It’d been relatively easy, if bizarre, contracting Conor to hack into Bellevue Hospital’s security—a promise of a year’s supply of candy corn and that was it.
Why he needed so much of the damn treat wasn’t something I needed to know.
He’d disappeared for a handful of minutes, returned with a computer, and then after cracking his knuckles, off to work he’d gone.
I’d taken a seat at the table beside him, plunking down heavily as I watched him do his thing, eagerly hoping he’d be able to give me an answer.
My eyes stung with the need to sleep, but I guessed that was what happened after rest evaded me.
My angel haunted my waking hours. She made me hope. And that was toxic for a man like me.
Another addiction that waited in the wings…
Fingers still flying, Conor remarked, “You don’t look so good. The last thing I need is the Sicilians’ Capo dropping dead in my kitchen, Stan.”
“If I drop, it’ll be to sleep. I haven’t gotten much downtime since my doctors discharged me from the hospital. All work and rehab—not-so-fun times.” When he hummed, I rubbed my chin. “This is driving me crazy. Once I have my answers, then I can go to sleep.”
“You still think you won’t see anyone standing in the doorway? Angels don’t typically wear scrubs, Stan.”
“I need it to be an angel.”
“Catholics,” he muttered. “Why is it always about spiritual entities from our unimaginative revelation-based belief system?”
“Because we have a lot of sins to atone for?”
“Fair.” He paused mid-hack to skewer me with a look. “Would it be so wrong for you to want another woman?”
“You sound like Luciu. Would you forget Star?”
“No. But I don’t think it’s about ‘forgetting.’ Time passes and that doesn’t equal forgetting. The woman you lost will always be a part of your life. Especially if this drug you’re creating in her honor works.”
It took a lot more guts than it should to rasp, “Evangeline.”
Conor, understanding the sacrifice of naming her, gentled his tone. “Evangeline won’t ever stop being the inspiration for it and the reason that other people will have medication to save them.”
“So, if Star died tomorrow, you’d wait a few years before—”
“Star isn’t dying tomorrow. Star isn’t going anywhere for sixty fucking years at least. But this isn’t about me.
Evangeline wasn’t yours. You weren’t in a relationship.
You weren’t married. You didn’t share a house and never went to bed with her.
You didn’t make a life with her, Stan. You were friends. Good friends. But not the closest—”
Knowing that he was right didn’t stop me from demanding, “And you learned that how?”
“Jennifer told Star and I listened in to their conversation.”
My glower turned ferocious. “We were close in our own way.”
“How could you be? She was a lot younger than you. She probably thought you were cute. You know, how girls that age do with older guys. They go through that phase where they can date you or your son. Or your dad.” He turned to stare at me.
“You could have had brotherly feelings for her, but because that’s weird with the daughter of your housekeeper, you decided that you were in love with her.
That was easy for your brain to normalize in our fucked-up mob world.
“Whatever your feelings for her, you don’t know if she reciprocated them—you’ll never know either.”
I didn’t want to admit those words struck a chord. “That doesn’t diminish what she meant to me.”
“No, I agree, but like I said before, you’re not forgetting her. Moving on is a part of life. It has to be. Or what’s the point? You finish creating this drug and then what? Kill yourself? I mean, if that’s what you want to do, then that’s what you want to do, but do you? Really?
“This situation is driving you nuts because your body has clearly made the decision for you—you’re ready to move on.
Instead of listening to it, you’re choosing to believe that your mind is playing tricks on you because you can’t accept that you might be attracted to another woman.
Which,” he pondered, “is pretty fucked up. Especially as you didn’t have that deep of a connection with her—”
“Since when are you a shrink?” I snarled, but I didn’t shove away from the table or slam his head into the surface. Or stick my knife into his throat.
“I’ve always been wiser than my years,” he mocked, but his fingers stopped firing on all cylinders. “You sure you want proof that you were attracted to a real woman and not a humanoid with wings?”
“What?!”
“I’m in and I’ve located the footage.”
My throat bobbed. “What if she isn’t real?”
“Then checking yourself into the psych ward has to go higher up the to-do list, but I think she is. I think it’s easier for you to believe this nurse is an angel because for guys with careers like ours, it’s better to question your sanity than betray someone you love.
Even if, arguments aside, it was a fraternal love and not that of a man with a woman he wants.
” Gently, he added, “She was an adult when she died, Stan. My brother, Eoghan, claimed his bride at eighteen. You could have done the same with Evangeline if you’d truly loved her… ”
I laid the blame on the lack of sleep for the prickle in my eyes.
Sicilians weren’t like Americans—we cried. The men, too. There was no shame in emotion. But I couldn’t cry. If I did, I felt like it’d set off depth charges on the dam that held back everything I’d repressed in the wake of Evangeline’s passing.
If I let loose, then that was me done for.
Soul shattered yet still breathing, I stared at his screen, saw a green cursor flickering against the black background awaiting his command.
It boiled down to Y/N.
“She’s real, isn’t she?”
“She is,” he confirmed kindly. Kinder than an evil bastard like me probably deserved. “We can find out who she is. Get you a name. I should warn you it’s illegal to stalk in this household and Star will have to put you down if you freak your angel out—”
I wafted a dismissive hand at the warning. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Conor hit ‘Y.’
My heart slowed. If I’d taken Vangelin—my creation—I’d understand why, as it was supposed to help with blood pressure and, in certain doses, regulate cardiac rhythm, but this had nothing to do with pharmacology, more biochem.
Pure dread and excitement coagulated in my peripheral nervous system, preparing for the blast of an adrenaline hit.
The footage showed me in my private room from a bird’s eye perspective. There I stood, packing my shit, back bowed like I was broken, and, yes, the fly of my jeans lowered because of course.
The sight of me on camera was different than the reflection I saw in the mirror. I looked terrible. Older than my years. Emaciated. Devastated.
Which was when I got it—this was what scared Luc and Rory.
I didn’t look like me.
Even strung out on narcotics, my appearance hadn’t deteriorated this dramatically. No wonder Hunter had dealt me industrial amounts of protein in pre-made shakes with every hospital visit.
The door opened.
When the version of me on the camera didn’t react, I knew my reflex times were shot because I should have heard that.
My visitor had meant me no harm, but she could have been one of our many enemies—we collected them, after all, like a badge of pride.
Then, Conor did something and the angle shifted and I saw her. Took note of the lightbulb that flickered behind her in the hall that led to me wondering if she had a halo.
My angel wasn’t an angel.
My angel was real.
My angel wasn’t a dream.
She was a woman.
Not a figment of a distressed imagination.
Not the hallucination of a man who’d taken his own drugs after inciting cardiac events via self-medication.
This had nothing to do with losing my mind. At least, not about this.
I was just a typical male asshole, quick to move on in the face of loss.
Already repulsed by my inconstancy, my self-hatred swelled when I could feel my body react to the image on the screen.
Then, before I could lose my shit, Conor mumbled, “Is that… Kitty?!”