Chapter 6
Nuala
Ilook like something that was dragged through a hedge backwards, but I can’t bring myself to move to rectify my appearance. The water from the tap in front of me is gushing out, but I don’t move.
The door to the bathroom clicks open.
Logan’s reflection looms in the mirror as he leans against the doorway. “Everything okay?”
I shake my head, not being able to tear my eyes away from him.
He pushes off and approaches me cautiously.
Standing behind me, his chest nearly touching my back, he places his hands on my upper arms. The bathroom is tiny—built for one person, not two.
When he turns me to face him, I'm trapped between the sink and his body.
His hip brushes mine as he crowds closer than necessary.
“This might help,” he says, but his voice is rougher than it was a minute ago.
His hand trails down my arm, and he grips my wrist. I stiffen, ready to yank it back, but he shakes his head and places my wrist under the cool flow of the water.
The cold hits my skin, and I jerk like he’s shocked me.
He keeps my wrist there, steady, and he moves my other hand into the stream too.
My breath hitches. I’m shaking. I didn’t even clock it until now.
I stare at his open collar and see the ink on his chest. I focus on it, wondering how far down it goes.
“Grounding,” he says, quietly. “Feel the water. Count.”
I hate that it works. I count in my head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. My fingers stop clawing at nothing. I stare at our hands under the tap. His knuckles are inked and split. Mine are clean and useless.
He shuts off the water and pats my hands dry with a towel. He doesn’t rush. He’s not gentle either. He’s deliberate. It settles me more than the water does, and I hate that too.
“Do you hurt anywhere?” he asks.
“My feet,” I admit. “And my head. But no holes.”
He nods once. He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair back from my face.
I flinch. He pulls his hand back, eyes flicking over me.
He takes my hand and leads me back into the living area.
I sit on the couch and stare at my bag. Logan sits on the coffee table and hooks his hand behind my knee.
He lifts my leg. I protest weakly, but he brushes off my shoe and rests my foot on his lap.
His hands wrap around it, and his thumbs dig into my sole.
Strong hands, steady pressure. His thumb finds a knot in my arch, and I bite back a moan.
Heat shoots up my leg, settling somewhere I shouldn't be thinking about.
My breathing goes uneven instead of calming.
When his fingers flex against my ankle, I grip the couch cushions to keep from making a sound that would mortify us both.
“Better?” he asks.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I mutter. “It’s fine.”
He goes silent as he works, so I don’t say anything either.
Eventually, he places my feet on the floor and leans forward on his elbows. “Tell me what you understand about what happened earlier.”
I gulp as he wants me to relive it. “Someone wanted everyone in that club dead.”
He breathes in slowly, eyes narrowed. “No.”
“No? Looked like it from where I was standing.”
“No. They wanted someone in that club dead and took out everyone to achieve it. Bystanders. Casualties of war.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s how things work sometimes.”
“Sometimes. Not all the time.”
“Fair,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips briefly before it bores into my eyes again. “We are going to assume this wasn’t some random massacre. It was targeted. The woman in the loo? Coincidence or connected? That’s what we need to start with.”
“We aren’t doing anything,” I protest. “I want to go home and forget this ever happened.”
“I can’t let you do that. You are the only witness to a mass shooting. Not only will the Garda be after you, but whoever did it. Remember the tail? They know someone made it out of there alive. Maybe they don’t know it’s you. Maybe they do.”
“I didn’t witness anything. I heard shots and stayed where I was. That’s it.”
“You were still there.”
“So were you,” I point out.
“After the fact.”
“Do you have any tea or water?” I ask, needing a distraction.
He hesitates but then gets up and moves to the kitchenette.
He fills the kettle and flicks it on, grabbing mugs and tea bags from a nearby cupboard.
He methodically makes tea while I sit and stare at him, not knowing my next move.
I’m in over my head, and things have spiraled so far out of my control that I don’t even know where to start.
“We need to call the Garda,” I say.
“No, we don’t,” Logan replies, pouring water into mugs. “They can’t help you.”
“And you can?” I scoff. “You are one man against a maniac who shot up a bar full of people.”
“For starters, it was more than one maniac, and secondly, you have no idea who I am.”
True. He’s an O’Neill. If anyone can be more than one man, it’s him.
But is he on my side? That’s the million-euro question. Not that I even know what side I’m on.
“Do you have any idea what the bankers’ meeting was about?” he asks, handing me a mug of steaming tea.
“No idea. I didn’t even see them. Is it important?”
“The woman in the ladies’ room was killed. I’m assuming for the notebook that was so urgent she returned for.”
“If it was so important, why did she leave it in the function room?”
“Good question.” He sits on the coffee table again, his close proximity distracting.
There is something about him. I can’t put my finger on it.
He isn’t like the other gangsters that come into the Sailing Club.
He’s… quieter. Not as outwardly arrogant.
His blue eyes are guarded like he’s hiding something.
He keeps a part of himself locked behind a steel door I can’t see.
I wrap my hands tighter around the mug. The ceramic burns my palms, but the heat anchors me.
“It was under the table,” I say with a frown.
“What on the floor?”
I shake my head. “No, actually wedged under the table. My knee hit it when I crossed my legs, and it fell.”
His eyes narrow. “Hidden. And you didn’t open it? Not even a peek?”
“No. So I’m a loose end because I might have seen a notebook I didn’t even open?” I ask. The absurdity claws at my throat. “I’m going to get killed over a cheap spiraled pad from Dealz.”
“People get killed for less in this city. But you aren’t going to die. I told you. You’re with me.”
“And who are you exactly? Besides a man with a gun and a god complex.”
He ignores the jab. “I’m the guy standing between you and a bullet.”
His words hit home. “Do you really think they know about me?”
He sighs and rubs his face with his hand before he looks at me with those eyes I could drown in. “Yes. They weren’t amateurs. They knew exactly who was working and when, who would be in there and when.”
“I wasn’t supposed to be working,” I mumble.
His sharp gaze bores into my head. “What?”
“Lisa quit. I worked a double. It was arranged at the last minute while I was on my shift. I was supposed to leave at two.”
“The hits just keep on coming,” he says with a sigh.
“I don’t know if that’s a coincidence or not.
The fact is, you were there. Now we need to connect the dots between the dead woman on the toilet and the rest of the dead people.
Plus, the notebook. If she was a banker, she knows things about people in this city.
It makes her a liability if she was going to flip. ”
“Flip?”
“Talk to the Garda about something she knows.”
“Oh.”
“She was killed for that book. She didn’t have it on her?”
I shake my head. “Not that I could see. I didn’t exactly rummage around her body looking for it. But she didn’t have a bag.”
He nods, giving me a look that tells me this is useful information. It’s like praise, and it wraps around my cold soul, warming it a fraction.
My stomach gives a rumble, and I smile grimly, reaching for my bag. “Mind if I eat?”
He shakes his head. “Go ahead.”
“There’s more of those delightful sandwiches if you’re hungry,” I say, opening my bag and reaching in.
My hand hits something solid, and I frown. Peering in, I gulp.
“What is it?” Logan says, immediately catching on that something is off.
With a trembling hand, I reach in and pull out the cheap notebook. I lock gazes with him as the world drops out from under me.
“Well, looks like you just made the top of the hit list, Nuala,” Logan says, his eyes on the book.