Chapter Six
Rian
I have no idea what in the hell I’m doing.
Everything I’ve done since the moment I first saw the doc has been one mistake after another. Mistakes aren’t me. I run a clean operation—as clean as I can, at least. I don’t screw up, I don’t go off plan, and I definitely don’t kidnap the son of the fucking governor because he made my neck tingle.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” the doc asks.
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” We’re driving again, heading to a house in New Hampshire, one that I absolutely shouldn’t have chosen for us to go to, but then, nothing I’ve done in the last twenty-four hours makes any sense.
“First, because you’ve been shot. Secondly, you made a noise.”
“Nothing.” I turn away, giving my attention back to the road.
He’s not what I expected, though I don’t know what I expected or why.
Sure, he’s a doctor, but I also shot someone in front of him, stalked him, and kidnapped him.
Worrying about me should be the last thing on his mind, but he’d taken care of me back at the rest station, and he’s clearly concerned about me now.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“To a safe place.”
“Oh, well, that tells me a lot.”
I shake my head. He’s got fire to him. That much is true.
“What are you going to do with me?” he asks next.
There’s only one thing I can do with him, really. I signed his death into law the second I shot someone in front of him and kidnapped him.
“I won’t go easily,” he says, not needing me to answer.
“I would expect nothing less, but if you don’t stop talking, I’m going to kill you sooner rather than later.” My head is fucking killing me. It’s more annoying than the throbbing pain in my shoulder.
“What’s your name?”
“If I tell you, will you stop talking?” I rub my temples, gun resting on my lap. I see his gaze dart toward it before meeting the road again.
“Don’t even think about it, Doc.”
“Abbott,” he reminds me.
“Rian,” I say, hoping that will shut him up. It’s not like it will hurt for him to know my name. He has to die regardless. “Now, shut up.”
“Fuck you,” he counters, and damned if I don’t almost smile.
The doc leans forward, hitting the button on the radio just a second before a melody of classical music played by a symphony of instruments fills the space around us, making my whole body stiffen.
There’s a string run, the music getting louder and faster with each note, building the tension higher and making my heartbeat escalate right along with it.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask, but I know. How could I not when it’s one of my favorites. I just don’t expect him to be listening to it.
“They’re called orchestras. Maybe you’ve heard of them, but this specifically is Mozart’s Symphony No. 40.”
It feels like the air is pulled out of my lungs, giving me a breathless feeling. That’s exactly how I would describe the music, but that’s not directly what it’s from or why I’m feeling it.
I never expected to fall in love with classical music.
Moira played piano and taught Cillian, but something about the music called to me, hit me on a deeper level, and for over twenty years, it’s been what I’ve listened to to help get me out of my head, to be transported somewhere else because of the full range of emotions an orchestra of music can make you feel.
“Why are you listening to it?” I snap, as if the answer to that question isn’t obvious.
“Because I like it.”
“Turn it off.”
“No.”
Why does it matter so much that he clearly likes it too? That this is a thing, my thing, that Abbott happens to enjoy as well? “Turn it. The fuck. Off.” I stress each word, making sure he can’t miss the warning in my tone. With a sigh, Abbott leans forward and does as I say.
The silence left behind feels loud enough to swallow me whole, but it’s better than the alternative, better than having this man who is making me do things I shouldn’t do, share something I love with me.
He quietly drives, following my directions for an hour and a half into rural New Hampshire, until eventually, he’s pulling down a long, gravel driveway, tucked into an army of trees, stopping at the only house around for miles.
It looks smaller than I remember—one story, two bedrooms. It’s white, but looks dirty and worn.
The porch wraps around to the back and could use some TLC.
There’s a firepit behind the house—small, brick—where I once roasted marshmallows because Moira loved making s’mores.
I shake those thoughts from my head. I don’t have space for them right now.
I’ve gotten myself into a really fucked-up situation that has the ability to bring us all down.
I use the app on my phone to open the garage, instructing him to pull in.
“Get the fuck out of the car,” I snap at the doc, suddenly frustrated.
He frowns, then pushes the button to turn off the car. “Can I grab my medical bag?”
I nod, both of us getting out. I watch him as he grabs the bag, keeping the gun in my hand.
There are shelves on the walls, and I open one of the metal toolboxes that doesn’t contain your everyday kind of tools, plucking a pair of handcuffs out.
Always be prepared for anything. It’s what I was taught and what I tried to teach Cillian.
What a shitty lesson for a father to pass down to his son.
Like most of our properties, the door lock has been replaced with a keypad, so we don’t have to keep keys for everyone. I press the code in, push the door open, and signal for the doc to go inside.
He does, setting the bag by the door, then looking around. We’re in the kitchen with the dining room to the left, the living room to the right. It’s one huge open space with a hallway on the other side of the living room, leading to the two bedrooms.
“Nice place,” he says.
Ignoring the pain in my arm, I hook one of the cuffs around the doc’s right wrist—I don’t want to use his name—then the other to the old metal heater beneath the window by the table, then pull a chair over.
I pat him down, making sure he doesn’t have another phone or anything else on him—something I probably should have done earlier. “Sit.”
“Is this necessary?” he asks, and when I don’t answer, he does as I say. I get a bottle of water from the pantry—the house is stocked with water and dry foods, but the fridge will be empty—and hand it to him.
“I’ll be back.”
He looks away in an almost pouting way, but not one that’s childlike or spoiled—like he’s angry, contemplating, maybe even silently plotting my demise.
Good for him.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“If I could reach something, I would.”
I smirk, again noticing his fire, before going to the porch and immediately calling Conan. Despite the early hour, he answers quickly, sounding awake. “What’s wrong?”
“I fucked up,” I reply, nothing but silence greeting me.
“I’ve never had you say that to me before. What happened?” Conan asks.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. How in the hell do I explain to him what I did? That a ghost of a feeling made me react so erratically.
“Kidnapped the son of our governor.”
Again, silence before Conan laughs. “Shut the fuck up.”
“No, I’m deadly serious.”
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“I didn’t know who he was at first?” I answer as though I’m asking a question.
“Why did you kidnap anyone? And how old is this son?”
“In his thirties, I’d imagine. He’s not a child and…I can’t answer that part. I just…was at the hospital with him. There was an attempted hit on me. I shot one of the guys, but the rest got away. He was there. I took him with me.”
Conan’s voice is lethal when he asks, “Who tried to kill you?”
“I assume the Bellinis. They were amateurs, not someone made or connected.” Because apparently, I’m forty-eight years old and suddenly making more than one mistake.
I never should have intervened at the gas station that night, either.
“Listen…I need you to look into it. They said that’s him, so I know they were looking for me.
I also need to make sure any evidence of me at the hospital is scrubbed.
We got lucky, and I don’t think anyone saw anything, but security cameras and all that shit need to be taken care of.
” If we can’t deal with it at the hospital level, with their security systems, Conan’s contacts within the police station can.
I rub a hand over my face, hoping I didn’t just fuck us all. What in the hell was I thinking? “Also…see if they’re saying anything about the doc.”
“The doc?” he asks.
“Preston Abbott is his name. I don’t think he has a family to go home to.” Something I should have checked into. “So, unless he’s meeting someone, has an appointment or work, maybe they won’t realize he’s gone for a while.”
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Fireside,” I give the name of the house. I’m not surprised when Conan is quiet again. This isn’t the house where we usually do things like this. It’s a hideout, yes, but it’s also a place where I used to come with my family. The place I came when Moira died.
“Rian…what’s going on?”
I look through the window and blinds at the doc. I haven’t had any more of the neck tingles, but even if I had, that’s not something I can tell Conan.
“I don’t know,” I answer simply.
“Do you need him alive for something? What am I missing here?”
He’s missing just as much as I am. Because no, I don’t need him. I never should have followed him or brought him with me. I should have killed him already. “I was shot. He can take care of me,” I say.
“Jesus. Maybe you should have led with that? How bad?”
“Shoulder. I’m good. I’ll probably need some shit though.
I’ll ask the doc what you should get and have you bring it out to me.
We’ll need some food, too. It’s probably better that I’m out of commission until we can figure out what to do about the Bellini brothers.
Once I’m healed up, I’ll figure out what to do with the doc. ”
“Kill him. That’s the only thing you can do with him. I’m still trying to find out why you have him at all. We have people who can take care of you.”
I drop my head back against one of the pillars on the porch, just before the doc turns to look at me. He watches me through the window, studying, plotting, trying to figure me out. What he doesn’t understand is that I need to do the same with him.
“Just give me a few days, a week tops. You get some answers for me. Clean up my fucking mess at the hospital. Make sure no one else is in danger. If so, Cillian needs—”
“Cillian will be safe. You know that. I don’t think they’re organized enough to go after him or anyone else, but I’ll make sure they know to keep an ear to the ground.”
“Tiernan will need to know what’s going on, and Cillian needs to know I’ve been shot. I won’t keep something like that from him. Not anymore. No one needs to know about the doc. Make sure they’re all aware of those fucking brothers, though. I’ll text you a list of supplies.”
“Okay,” Conan replies. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I don’t have any fucking clue, but instead of telling him that, I say, “I do. I’ll get healed up, and we’ll figure out how to deal with the brothers. I’ll kill the doc, and we’ll get the job done.”
“Agreed. Those things have to happen, Rian.” It’s not often Conan tells me what to do, what needs to be done.
Hell, this is likely the first time. It’s not his place, and he knows it, but he’s also my friend, and I know he’s only saying what he is because he knows it’s the only thing that can be done, that it’s what’s best for the family.
“It’ll be done. See you soon,” I say.
“See you soon, brother.”