Chapter 6 Finn
FINN
My elbows ache from leaning on the bar for the last couple hours.
A half-empty glass of beer’s going warm in front of me.
The music is loud, but nobody bothers me.
It’s my bar, after all, one of a dozen scattered throughout New York.
This place is gaudy and Irish-themed, but the sort of Ireland tourists like to imagine, with lots of green and harps and vaguely rural shit like brooms and walking sticks.
Somebody takes the stool to my right. Liam asks for a whiskey when the bartender comes to check on him. She glances at me and I wave her off. “I figured you’d be busy tonight,” I say.
Liam raps a knuckle on the bar top. “I had a date with a gorgeous young thing named Malachy Flanagan, but it turns out he’s boring as fuck.”
“How’s good old Mal doing?”
The bartender returns with the drink. Liam takes a sip. “I’m almost resentful of you, you know that? Watching these pricks is exhausting.”
“I told you to gather a crew.”
“And I did, but still.” Liam takes another drink. “Mal works the closest with the old man. He spends most his days taking meetings with the union bigwigs. Sits around in that office they have on Market and makes phone calls. Picks his ass and jerks his little dick. He likes suits too much.”
“What about the others?”
“Shane’s more interesting. Drives around a lot. Likes to hit the pavement. I can relate to that. He’s a big bastard though. Short temper. I’d avoid getting in a scrap with him.”
“You getting into man scraps these days?”
“Only when I’m bored or horny, which is all the time.” He grins at me and waggles his eyebrows. “Speaking of boring, next is Dermot. I hate that stupid name.”
“He hates it too.”
Liam presses his lips together. “Now how would you know a thing like that?”
“It’s a lucky guess.” I knock back my beer and wiggle the glass to call for another. The bartender brings it right away. “What’s Dermot up to?”
“Works IT for the family interest, as far as I can tell. He’s their computer nerd. Clever bastard. That’s what people say, anyway.”
I nod and stare into my beer. Dermot always was the quietest. I made the mistake once of thinking that meant he was the weakest, but far from it. “And Redmond?”
“Red Flanagan’s the old man’s gopher, basically. Runs errands, drives cars, that sort of thing.”
“Makes sense. Red would’ve cut his own throat if his father asked him to do it.”
“Probably cut more than a few throats at his father’s request in his day. You know these boys, don’t you?”
“I did once. Not anymore.” I pull back half my beer.
Talking about the Flanagan brothers makes me think of the old days, and I don’t like thinking about the old days.
But maybe that’s better than thinking about Caroline on her knees scrubbing the floor of my bathroom, her perky little ass wiggling around in the air, or maybe Caroline swimming in my pool, water running off her beautiful, tight body.
Why’d my future wife have to be fucking attractive?
This would be a lot easier if I had never gone into that damn sauna.
“Frankly, they’re pretty bog-standard. They work for the father doing the old man’s bidding. As for the patriarch himself, I can’t say much. He keeps a low profile.”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“Alright, noted. They’ve definitely got some scheme going on right now though.
Lots of meetings with some real estate outfit from out West. My guess is some LA dickheads want to build some shitty luxury condos along the riverfront and the unions want to make sure they’re the ones doing all the actual work. ”
“Flanagans are good at negotiating that kind of relationship.”
“Mal’s in the room during those talks. Red probably is too.”
I nod thoughtfully. Red certainly is, and Red thinks he’s important, but he’s not. “Shane’s on the street keeping everyone happy while Dermot’s doing whatever Dermot does.”
“Internet shit.”
“Good work. You got a lot done already.”
“Just a good beginning.” He finishes his drink and glances at me sidelong. “How come you’re hanging around this place? I don’t usually see you in here.”
“Needed a place to sit and drink. This is as good as any.”
“Got something on your mind?” He leans in close, grinning. “Maybe thinking about that future wife of yours? If I’m not mistaken, you have me stalking her brothers. Your future family.”
I resist the urge to grimace at the idea of being related to them. “I’m being thorough, that’s all. You don’t need to worry about my reasoning.”
“Fine by me, just checking in. You’ve seemed off ever since that girl came into your life.”
“I’m fine.” I stare at Liam so he understands this line of conversation isn’t going anywhere. “If you don’t have anything else, you should get back to work.”
Liam pushes himself to his feet with an exaggerated groan. “Getting old.”
“You’re thirty.”
“Bad knees. Bad back. What’d you call them? Too many scraps.” He waves as he walks out, rubbing a knuckle against his spine. Which is all for show. I know for a fact Liam is one of the most in-shape and toughest bastards I’ve ever met. He just likes to pretend like he isn’t.
Once he’s gone, I’ve got nothing to distract me.
I try to think about the brothers, try to hold on to my rage, but it’s so old that the fire is a part of me now.
My thoughts slip to Caroline and I glance at my watch.
She’s probably swimming by now. Maybe she’s wrapped in a towel in the sauna. Maybe she skipped the towel completely.
She’s the daughter of the enemy. I hate her filthy guts.
So why am I struggling this hard to stay away from her?
I finish my beer and pay. I’m not going home, or at least that’s what I tell myself. But when I get in the car, I angle it toward my apartment. That empty shell of a place I bought specifically for my life with her.
I park out front but leave the car idling. I can still turn around. But fuck, I never promised I wouldn’t show up when she’s there. I specifically refused to give her that, because I knew it would be a lie. I knew I couldn’t resist.
I’m fucking weak.
I kill the engine and get out. I’m vibrating with the need to see her.
Last time I said those shitty things to try to put some distance between us.
Sleeping with her was a terrible decision.
I liked it way too much. If I’m going to survive what’s coming—actually, if she’s going to walk away unscathed—then I’m going to need to stop thinking about her so much.
She can’t distract me from getting what I really want.
I ride the elevator up, walk down the hall, and unlock the front door. I move slowly to the top floor and exit out into the pool area. It’s warm and damp and smells like chlorine.
She’s not here.
I sit on the bench near the door. I stare at the water, thinking hard. I shouldn’t have come back like this. I should have more control over myself.
Instead, here I am, thinking about some fucking girl.
I keep telling myself that I hate her. I have to say it, over and over again. I hate her and want to hurt her. I’m going to hurt her. There’s no way to avoid it.
But I think of those scars on her back, the ones that look just like mine, and I start to wonder if I was wrong about everything.