Chapter Sixteen
Rian
I don’t know what I’m doing, or how to stop it, quite frankly.
My fascination with this man has done nothing but grow since we’ve been out here together.
Everything I learn, I want to know more, while at the same time knowing the safest, smartest thing I could do is put a bullet in his brain right this moment and forget Dr. Preston Abbott ever existed.
Only, I won’t forget him.
He will be one of the few things I carry with me forever, a third regret that I’ll bear, along with not being who Moira deserved and hurting Cillian.
I can’t really explain what it’s been like getting to know him, talking and laughing and doing ridiculous things like playing board games together—things I haven’t done in a very long time—and every moment I spend with him is a reminder of how much he doesn’t deserve this and how terrible of a man I am for doing it.
“Rian—” he starts, but my cell rings, cutting off whatever Abbott was going to say.
When I pull it from my pocket, Conan’s name is on the screen.
“Come,” I tell Abbott, and he flinches as though he hadn’t expected to be handcuffed again. Clearly, we both need the reminder that despite the games we’ve played and the conversations we’ve shared, he will never be anything more than my prisoner.
I handcuff him to the heater in the dining room without a word before going outside to talk to Conan.
“Hey,” he says when I call him back after I didn’t pick up his call in time.
“Hey. How are things there?”
“As good as can be expected. Things are running smoothly at Paradise. Tiernan, Cillian, Rory, Dean, and Shai came down last night to deal with the new shipment of product that came in.”
“Things went well with them?” I ask, even though I know the answer. If they hadn’t gone well, I would have been called last night, but I don’t have the ability not to ask.
“Cillian is fine…worried about you, actually. He asked about you.”
But he didn’t call. He still doesn’t call, not unless he has to. I don’t expect anything more than what he gives me, but I hope for it. And the truth is, I could call him, too.
“He’ll come around, Rian. Things are better already.”
“We don’t need to talk about it. The brothers?”
“Getting closer. They’re definitely hiding deep.”
“Which means they’re guilty.”
“Or they know that we think they’re guilty. Whether they really are or not, they know they’re going to die.”
I frown at his response. “What do you mean? Do you not think it’s them?”
“I’m not saying that,” Conan replies. “Just stating a fact. How’s your doctor?”
I stiffen at Conan’s words, watching Abbott through the window, while he stands, leaning against the pillar, watching me. “He’s not mine.”
“You should come home, Rian. Kill him and come home. We can protect you. We’re close to finding the brothers.
Finan and Flynn are searching every hole the bastards can be in.
Anything that could link you back to the doctor has been taken care of.
Hell, his father hasn’t even reported him missing.
They aren’t close enough for him to even realize he’s gone yet, and it looks like he truly doesn’t care regardless.
Take care of that loose end and come home. ”
What is the deal with the governor? Abbott said he hates his father, that they’re not close, that his father doesn’t care about him, but that he would make sure Abbott is found safely…
so far, nothing. I guess it makes sense.
It’s only been about a week. I go longer than that without speaking to Cillian.
The difference is, I always know he’s okay.
If I didn’t, nothing would stand in the way of me finding my son and bringing him home.
Will he really do the same, or is that Abbott playing us?
It’s what I would do if I were him—make us think his father will come down harder on finding him than he truly will.
I’m sure Preston Senior would pull no stops if it meant bringing down the O’Shea family.
But will any of it have anything to do with Abbott?
How can a father not care about this man?
“Rian,” Conan says.
I pull myself out of my thoughts. “I think you’re forgetting who you’re talking to. I’m the one with the say in this family. Not you.”
“I’m not trying to take your role. I’m trying to be your friend,” he says, words hitting their mark with a sharp sting the way they were intended. Conan is my friend. The oldest, truest one I have. “Do you need me to do it?”
My shoulders tense, every inch of my skin going hot. I bite down on my tongue to keep myself from snapping out an angered reply, telling Conan he won’t touch him, that he can’t, that he’s mine, because all that will do is make him even more certain I can’t handle this.
That he’s mine…
Mine to kill is what I mean. There is no other option.
“No. I’m doing it. I just need a couple more days to heal, and then it will be done, and I’ll come home. Everything is fine, Conan, and I’d appreciate it if you remembered that and stop trying to turn this into something it’s not.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and then, with a cold detachment he’s good at, he says, “Whatever you say, Boss.”
It’s the way he would have spoken to my brother, not with the care, friendship, and respect he uses with me.
Guilt builds in my gut, rising to burn the back of my throat.
“I’m not him. I’m not trying to be him. It’s just…
” Just what? This man has an effect on me that I don’t understand.
One I both want to set fire to, but also nurture.
Because when he says things to me like he did a little while ago, like tell me he doesn’t want to add another body count to that eight-year-old boy I used to be, I feel like I matter in a way I haven’t in too long.
“A few more days,” Conan says. “We need you, Rian. Don’t forget that. Cillian needs you.” And the best way to ensure I’m there for my son, that I stay alive and out of prison, and that Abbott doesn’t bring our whole fucking operation down because of things I’ve said in front of him, is to kill him.
“I could never forget that.” I end the call before Conan can say another word.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and go inside, not giving myself time to think about my conversation with Conan or anything that’s happened with Abbott while we’ve been here.
He doesn’t speak, but keeps his gaze firmly fixed on me as I close the door, walk over to him, and unlock his cuffs.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” he says, a sort of sadness to his voice that hadn’t been there before I’d locked him up again. Maybe I should cuff him afterward. We both need it because he shouldn’t be sad or confused about why I’m treating him the way I should in the situation we’re in.
There shouldn’t be any kind of comfort or familiarity between us, but somehow that’s happened…maybe even from the start.
For now, though, I just nod toward the bathroom and say, “Go,” instead of following him.
He cocks his head slightly but doesn’t linger long before going. Abbott doesn’t close the door, and he’s only in there a minute before the toilet flushes and the water turns on, telling me he’s washing his hands.
“Baked chicken?” he asks when he gets back into the kitchen.
Ignore him. Cuff him. Better yet, do what you need to do. Kill him and move on.
“Baked chicken,” I confirm.
Without thinking, I pull my cell out again and open one of my playlists. Gorecki’s Symphony No. 3 begins playing as I pull the chicken from the fridge.
“You listen to classical music?” he asks.
I cock a brow his direction. “Yes. Not what you expected?”
“Not much about you is what I expected,” he replies. There’s a quiet voice inside of me asking, What else? Tell me everything, but I manage to shut down those thoughts. “You acted angry when it played in my car.”
Yes, yes, I had been, but that’s because it’s something that belongs to me, and after the whirlwind of the physical reaction I had to him and then everything that happened, it was too much for me.
It should be too much for me now. “It’s not a big deal, Abbott.”
“I didn’t say it was.” He leans against the counter, pensive as he says, “My mom thought I would be a musician. I used to not be able to sleep unless I had classical music playing. What child loves instruments like that? She took me to the symphony when I was eight. My father was there. It was rare that he did things like that with us, but you know, have to make a show of things sometimes. I remember crying, it was so beautiful. What eight-year-old cries when they hear music?” he asks, but I can’t answer, can’t find words.
I’m just…riveted by this story, though I don’t know why.
“My father was embarrassed. He scolded me about it—about crying. It was weak and childish. I was emotional just like my mother. Real men didn’t cry and certainly not over music.”
The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite down on my tongue…I want his father to die. I want to look in his eyes, hold my hand to his throat, and watch as the life leaves his body.
“I like your heart,” I say. “The world would be a better place if more people had one as big as yours.”
He scoffs.
“I’m being serious. I respect you for it. I could…never do that—I could never be that.”
“I think you probably could,” he says softly.
And because he gave me that, I feel like I owe him as well.
“Moira played piano. She taught Cillian, too. When we first started dating, I took her to the symphony. I was young and trying to impress her, but the thing is, I fell in love. I was able to…feel there, feel in this way I wasn’t allowed to do in my life.
People thought I went for her, and while she also enjoyed it, I went because of what it did in here. ” I touch my chest.