Chapter 10
REGAN
It’s a cool, quiet night, and my father’s on the phone the whole car ride.
He speaks quietly about some business deal the firm’s working on and I try my best to actively tune him out.
I smooth the hem of my dress, looking out the window, trying to keep my nerves in check but everything feels like it’s spiraling out of control, and I don’t know how to drag it back together again.
It’s been a week since I spoke with Liam in the diner.
One week to stew on my future, one week to obsess, to worry, to wonder if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life, to imagine a dozen different scenarios in which I manage some daring escape and live a life far away from here.
One week to accept this is happening.
“Fucking Russians,” Dad mutters as the car stops outside an art gallery on a busy Manhattan block.
“Something wrong?”
“No, nothing you need to worry about.” He grunts as he pushes open the door. I swear, he’s getting older every day. I don’t remember him making all these noises a few years ago.
I join him on the sidewalk outside the venue. The driver leaves to find a spot while Dad checks his phone one more time, still scowling. I try not to connect Russians with Baranov but find it difficult.
“You two are late.” The door pushes open and Luke comes out. He’s in dark slacks, a white shirt, no tie, top buttons undone, his unruly dark hair messy, his eyes glassy, probably from drinking. He shakes Dad’s hand firmly and punches me softly on the shoulder. “You holding up?”
“She’s fine,” Dad snaps, shoving his phone away. “What’s this event for, again?”
“Children’s hospital.”
Dad’s face pinches. “Nothing I hate more than children and hospitals.”
“Come on, Dad, have a heart. Imagine all those poor sick kids?”
“I’ll let the doctors deal with them.” He turns to me. “Behave yourself tonight, Regan.”
The unspoken threat dangles between us. If you don’t, I will make your life hell. I smile sweetly and clasp my hands in front of me. “Yes, Father. I look forward to meeting my future husband.”
He grumbles and stalks off, disappearing into the gallery, another suit in a sea of them.
“What’s up his ass? He seems like he’s in a shitty mood. Worse than usual.”
“I’m not sure. He mentioned something about Russians.”
Luke runs a hand through his hair. “There’s always some Russian making a problem these days.”
“You good?” I touch his arm and shift closer, trying to see if I can smell how much he’s been drinking. “Should I be worried?”
“Nah, not at all.” He beams a charming smile and pats my back. “Dad’s pissed and you’re fretting. Story of my damn life.”
“Dick.” I elbow him in the ribs. “Did you meet my fiancé yet?”
“Not yet,” he wheezes, rubbing his side. “Shit, Regan, you still hit me like we’re fucking kids.”
“Don’t forget it.” I straighten myself and smooth my dress. “Keep out of trouble tonight.”
“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”
“Probably.”
I wade into the party with Luke on my heels.
I’ve been to dozens of these gatherings over the years.
Auctions for charity, dances for sick puppies, thousand-dollars-per-plate fundraisers for politicians that’ll fix all our problems (and be very amenable to Whelan clan business), that sort of thing.
I’ve never been comfortable in these spaces, but at least they’re familiar, and immediately faces jump out at me.
Colleagues of my father’s, men and women who circulate in the same social worlds.
“Oh god, is that Molly Moran?” I whisper to Luke as I grab a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“I know, right? She looks drunker and drunker every year.”
“And so skinny.”
“They got pills for that now.” He nudges me, snickering. “There’s old man Keegan.”
“He touched my ass a while back and said I was going to make some Irish husband very happy.”
Luke’s nose wrinkles. “Shame nobody’s put a bullet in his head yet.”
“There’s still time.”
We circulate, shaking hands, saying polite hellos.
I know my role after years of long practice.
Simple, easy smiles, a firm shake, mindless pleasantries.
Life is always good, Dad’s health is amazing, the construction business is even better than we ever dreamed.
In rooms like this, there are no problems, no hints of weakness, no sniff of failure or strife.
We present a united front, no matter what.
Because if we don’t, Dad will know, and he will be pissed.
After about a half hour, I find myself standing in front of a massive painting in the back room.
Luke’s gone, disappeared a few minutes ago to get us new drinks, but I have a feeling I won’t be seeing him again anytime soon.
Instead, I’m studying a naked woman, painted in brutal strokes of greens and blues, her body supine on what looks like a garage floor, her eyes wide and bloodshot.
I chew my lip, trying to decide if it’s brilliant or something a toddler would make during a temper-tantrum.
“I see you’ve found the highlight of the evening.”
I stiffen at the voice. A man appears at my elbow, tall and broad, and I catch a familiar smell: spicy, woodsy, a sharp undertone to the evening. Voices fade as I look at Liam sideways, my heart racing.
I knew he would be here, but seeing him still makes me clench.
“I’m trying to decide if I like it.”
He seems to consider hard. “I think it’s incredible. The harsh strokes, the vague impression of violence. My kind of work.”
“Are you bullshitting me right now?”
“Oh, these paintings are trash.” His grin is boyish and I almost forget that he’s ruining my life.
My father appears, striding up behind Liam, and stops at my elbow. “Ah, Regan, there you are. And Liam, I was just trying to find you two.” He frowns between us and I do my best to put on my polite, vapid smile, the look I give everyone at places like this.
“I take it this is your daughter?” Liam asks politely.
“Regan, meet your future husband, Liam Lankshear.” Even father has the good grace to look uncomfortable.
It’s the most awkward I’ve ever felt in my whole life, but I do my best not to show any familiarity.
It doesn’t matter if this man’s been between my legs—twice, for the love of all that’s fucked and holy, I did it twice—I have to put on a show.
“Hello, Liam, it’s good to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s mine.”
We shake hands. He holds on for much too long before leaning in and chastely kissing my cheek. Dad watches, his scowl deepening, and I fight back panic. I know that look: he’s unhappy with how this is going, probably because Liam’s being a stupid dipshit.
“I’m told you work in the construction business,” I say, desperate to spark even the emptiest conversation imaginable.
“You could say that, sure.” Liam raises his glass of dark brown liquor to his lips. “I like to tell people that I’m in logistics.”
“Liam’s an important member of the Whelan organization. Isn’t that right, Liam? Finn Whelan has nothing but good things to say about you.”
“Finn always was good at lying.” Liam keeps his eyes fixed on me with that godawful confident smile. “But for once in his life, he was being honest about your daughter.”
Dad clears his throat. “Ah, I hope Finn said only good things.”
“He said fantastic things.” Liam’s smile broadens. “It’s a strange situation we’re all in, but I’m hoping we’ll make the best of it. Right, Regan?”
“Of course.” I fight the urge to knee him in the dick.
His eyes roam down my body, right there in front of my dad. “Mr. Corrigan, would you mind if I took your daughter around to view the paintings? So we can get to know each other even better than—“
“I’d love that,” I say quickly before Liam can finish his sentence. I shove my hand through his arm and lean into him roughly. Some of his drink spills.
The wrinkle between Dad’s eyes deepens, but he finally nods. “Yes, I suppose that would be appropriate.”
“Great! See you!” I steer Liam away before hissing under my breath, “We’re not supposed to know each other, you idiot.”
“What? Was I making it obvious?”
“Yes!”
“How? It’s not like I was describing the taste of your—“
This time, I pinch his arm. He curses, flinching, but his eyes are deeply amused. “Stop it. Someone might hear.”
“Mmmm, lovely Regan, you are such a fucking stick in the mud. How many iron rods do you have jammed in your ass? Oh wait, I bet you’ve never had anything in your ass before.”
“My ass is magnificent and it is pristine, thank you.”
He pulls me in close as we stop in front of another painting. “Love, not for long, not after you’re my wife. I’m going to spit all over my cock, get it nice and gooey and wet, then slide it deep into your—“
“Cut it out,” I hiss at him, which makes him laugh.
My heart’s racing as I struggle to compose myself.
It doesn’t help that the supposed art looks like a fingerpainting of a literal vagina, or maybe they’re flowers and this is some kind of O’Keefe homage, I really can’t tell, not that it matters.
“I know you’re just having fun with me, but my father’s very conservative.
He’ll be livid if he gets word that we know each other already. ”
“What’s it matter? You really care what Daddy thinks?”
I glare at him grimly, remembering all the times my father expressed his deep displeasure with me over the years, and the thin scars I still have on my shoulder blades from the worst of it.
“Yes. I do.”
Liam looks flustered for a moment, but recovers himself. “It’s fine. Don’t worry. I’m not interested in blowing this up.”
We move on, ringing around the edges of the gathering, taking in the art. “What are you interested in exactly, then?”
“Your ex-boyfriend, for one.”
I try not to react. He grabs a glass of white wine for me from a passing tray. I take it gratefully and drink, covering my discomfort. “Why are we talking about Kieren again?”
“He’s still a problem. Have you spent any more time thinking about what he might’ve taken from your father’s company?”