Chapter 15
brIGIT
Going to Mingle was a terrible idea.
Well, I mean, it wasn’t my idea at all.
I didn’t have a choice whether or not I went. Not with the threat of more unexpected visits hanging over my head.
Nothing has been my idea where Cormac is involved. Every moment we’ve spent together has been against my will.
Hasn’t it?
I shake my head, burying it back under my pillow, debating whether or not I’ll venture out into the world today. I’m not sure I can face it after what happened Friday night.
No one knows what I did. Nobody in my life has any clue what I get up to on my few unscheduled nights.
But there’s still some crawling suspicion in my chest that the second I face another person, they’re somehow going to see it on my face, in big bold letters, BáS DORCHA FINGER FUCKED ME IN AN UNDERGROUND FIGHT RING!
THE CRIMINAL KNOWN LITERALLY AS DARK DEATH MADE ME COME HARDER THAN ANYONE ELSE HAS EVER BEEN ABLE TO.
I GUSHED ON HIS HAND WHILE WE WATCHED HIS FRIEND BEAT THE FUCK OUT OF SOMEONE.
And, begrudgingly, some twisted part of me liked it; The gentle, taunting way the knife glided across my thigh, his throaty groans in my ear, and his filthy mouth that sent me soaring across the sky.
I’m terrified of him; there’s no denying that. He’s admitted to killing people in horrific ways. This is a dangerous man, running a crime ring right under our noses. He’s proven he doesn’t care about silly things like locked doors or breaking and entering.
But the fear adds to his appeal rather than diminishing it. And I don’t think I’m ready to dive into what that might say about me.
I just need to be rid of him, be rid of these confusing feelings and thoughts.
Aside from the obvious danger he puts me in, being around him just reminds me of when I met him before. That time in my life is a dark cloud hanging over me, even at the best of times. When something brings up the memories, it’s nearly impossible to climb out of the pit it leaves me in.
What happened with Ian usually only comes back to really torment me every few months. But being bombarded with reminders of it in the form of a man who even back then was smitten with me fills me with something akin to regret.
Maybe if I had just opened my eyes, if I had— no. There’s no point in what-ifs and maybe’s.
It happened. I’ve spent years recovering and growing to where the flashbacks rarely rear their ugly head.
Lying here any longer will only invite the memories to move back in. Being idle never does me any favors.
With a groan, I throw myself out of bed, determined to face the day even if it takes every ounce of my energy to do so.
A Sunday with nothing I necessarily need to do means I can get ahead on what I’ll have to do this week.
Still in pajamas, I settle in at my kitchen table, opening up my laptop to look through the meetings coming up.
A property walkthrough tomorrow, three meetings on Tuesday, and a lot of contracts need to be written up.
I need more details on a few of them, and in my first year at this job, I would have reached out immediately.
But most people like to enjoy their weekends without work, and they’ve made that perfectly clear, so now, I take a different approach.
Queuing up the emails I need to send, I schedule them out to first thing tomorrow morning, letting me feel like I accomplished something without inconveniencing anyone else.
Sitting in the silence of my apartment, my skin begins to crawl.
I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. I know that it’s just because Cormac told me he’d be keeping an eye on me, whatever that means.
That one, ominous sentence has left me reeling since then, filling my days with anxiety. Even when I’ve tried to sleep, I’m tossing and turning, wondering in half delirium if he was going to make good on his threat to break in and take something more than a kiss.
Not that he needed to break in to do that anyway. The moment he had entered my peripherals, the scent of his cologne washed over me, drowning me in him and the tumultuous emotions he brings out of me.
Fear and desire swirling together, and his overt need to explore the side of me I didn’t realize was there.
Watching the violence unfold did turn me on.
The flood of endorphins, the feeling of being enthralled with the dark underbelly of this city, all of it coalesced into arousal so deep into my soul that I was powerless to deny his need to fulfill a fantasy I hadn’t dared let myself want.
As I always do on Sundays, if maybe a few hours later than usual, I dress in some leggings and a sweater, grabbing my purse to venture out into the world.
Just down the block from my apartment, there’s a little cafe with the best scones I’ve ever had.
The bell twangs as I open the door, the smell of fresh bread and coffee filtering through my nose, familiar and welcoming.
“Brigit! You’re late!” Ace barks from behind the counter. “Where have you been?”
I can’t stop the laugh from escaping me. These small comforts, the pieces of my monotonous life, are the only things keeping me sane with all the madness destroying my carefully curated peace.
“Hi Ace,” my feet find their way to the counter, muscle memory taking over. “What’s the flavor this weekend?”
He beams, dragging a serving plate from the display case, “Banana Bourbon. I tried a new recipe for the bourbon syrup.”
“Yeah?”
With an enthusiastic nod, he starts plating one up for me, knowing even though I’m late, I’m not going to let that stop me from sitting at the window and enjoying my coffee and scone.
It doesn’t make sense for me to go back home yet.
I want a few minutes among normal people instead of criminals and killers.
“Go sit,” he gestures. “I’ll bring it out.”
“I haven’t paid yet,” I laugh. “What if I dine and dash?”
He shrugs, “I’ll charge you double next week.”
Thanking him profusely, I make my way to my usual spot, setting my purse down to pretend I’m still the same person I was a few weeks ago before the storm that is Cormac Fomori blew into my life.
I don’t want to think too much about it, but the truth is that I don’t think I’ll be able to think of anything else.
Is he out there right now, watching me?
Surely not. He has to have something better to do than just follow me all day. He has a company to manage. Getting back into the swing of things after being away for months and losing all memory of how it operates must be a nightmare.
The night we met, he said Skyler does a lot of the heavy lifting, the techy stuff, the marketing. And Cormac has always been the creative brain. Even in the brief moments we shared at that gala years ago, I could see that he loves his craft.
I wonder, not for the first time, what made him pivot from that to serial murder and whatever else they do.
My mind wanders long after my coffee’s gone cold. By the time I leave the shop, the entire city seems to have woken up. The roaring of horns and squealing breaks break up the peaceful quiet as I exit onto the sidewalk, leaving cash on my table and a silent wave to Ace behind.
The walk home is far less tranquil than the one this morning, but the hum of the city leaves less space in my head for wandering thoughts, too distracted by everything around me. Maybe that’s for the best.
Through my entryway, up the elevator, and down the hall, I approach my apartment, turning the last corner to my front door.
Fishing my keys from my purse, I almost don’t see the figure taking up space against the wall outside my home.
“Miss Danaan?” the officer calls my name.
Freezing in my tracks, my arm drops to my side with the keys in hand.
I blank for a moment, feeling the prickle of familiarity but being completely unable to place how I might know him. “Sorry?” I finally say, buying myself a few extra seconds to put the pieces together.
“You’re Brigit Danaan, right?” he smiles, the expression mild and friendly. Still, there’s a sinister energy in his posture, making himself bigger than he is, trying to be imposing in stature.
He doesn’t seem to recognize me, so maybe we’ve just seen each other in passing. It’s a big city, but not so big that you’ll never see the same person twice.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he grins wider, “I’m looking for somebody and I’m hoping you might know where he is.”
“Umm,” my stomach drops. I already know exactly who he’s going to ask about before he even opens his mouth again. “Okay?”
“Do you know a Cormac Fomori?”
God damn it.
God damn him.
I have been a saint, letting myself only have a single vice for years, between my job and keeping everything so tightly wound. Watching those fights was the only piece of untamed freedom I allowed myself. Now, because of Cormac, I’m being followed by a cop and might get found out.
If I’m caught doing something illegal, I’ll lose my job. I’ll be disbarred. I’ll be fucking ruined.
Fighting back the spiraling thoughts, I answer as neutrally as possible, “Doesn’t everyone know him? He’s been all over the news for months now.”
The officer’s eyes narrow slightly, “I have reason to believe you know him personally.”
“We’ve met,” I shrug, “Before his arrest. And subsequent exoneration.”
That’s not the legal term for what happened, but harping on the semantics of acquittal versus exoneration isn’t really something I’d like to get into with a stranger in my hallway.
He chuckles, but the sound sends chills up my spine. There’s no humor in it, only a rumbling of danger and disdain, “I don’t know that I’d call it exoneration. More like, our justice system failed to put a fucking psychopath in prison. Or the ground.”