Chapter Thirty-Three Tristan
Ineeded to figure out what the fuck my brother was up to.
I rapped on the door to Kieran’s apartment, harder than I probably should have. The dull thud of my knuckles against wood echoed down the empty hallway. No shuffling feet, no muffled curses of being woken up—nothing. “Kieran,” I called out, pressing my ear to the cold surface, but it was like talking to a void.
I pulled out my phone next, hitting the familiar contact card and waiting for the sound of his voice. Instead, I was met with the mechanical indifference of his voicemail. My thumb hovered over the end call button before I pressed it with more force than necessary, the frustration building inside me.
“Damn it, Kieran,” I muttered under my breath, slipping my phone back into my pocket. I knew I wouldn’t find him at home; Kieran was as predictable as he was enigmatic when it came to his disappearing acts, and if he’d met up with Silvio…fuck, I just really hoped he was alive.
I could have called my capos, but I didn’t want them to know I couldn’t find Kieran. If they sensed any discord, and we were dealing with a rat, they would jump on that quickly.
I would have to look for himself myself.
The Crooked Thorn pub was just a stone’s throw away from his place, nestled between a shuttered pawn shop and a neon-lit laundromat. Its sign creaked in the winter wind as I pushed through the worn wooden door, the noise inside slamming against me like a wave. The place was crowded, the air thick with chatter and the smell of stale beer.
“Tristan Callahan, as I live and breathe,” Madison drawled from behind the bar, her red lipstick a slash of defiance against the drab backdrop. “How does it feel to be the boss?”
“Bad,” I said, too quickly, then smiled at her as if I’d just told her the world’s funniest joke. “Sorry, Madison. Not here for that. Have you seen Kieran?”
“Oh, you’re looking for him?” she asked sweetly. “That makes two of us, Tristan.”
“I take it you haven’t seen him tonight?” I asked, scanning the sea of faces for any that belonged to Kieran.
She shook her head, strands of her blonde hair falling over one eye. “Haven’t seen Kieran. But tell him to call me back, will ya?”
“Sure, if I find him.” I replied, the lie easy on my tongue. Madison smirked, no doubt aware of the unlikelihood of Kieran returning her calls, even at my behest.
Disappointment settled in my stomach like a lead weight as I turned away from the bar. Kieran wasn’t here either. I stepped back out into the chilly night, the city sprawled before me—a labyrinth where my brother could be anywhere or nowhere at all.
I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans, the Boston winter biting through the fabric. There was one more place Kieran might be – The Irish Rover, our usual haunt away from our Dad.
It was only a couple of blocks away from The Crooked Thorn, so the walk didn’t take me very long. The bell above The Irish Rover’s door jingled softly as I stepped inside, a stark contrast to the din of The Crooked Thorn. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness, a reprieve from the harsh street lights. The usual suspects were scattered around, nursing drinks like they were lifelines.
My capos weren’t here, so they were probably working.
And there, at the far end of the bar, slouched like a marionette with cut strings, was Kieran. A flood of relief washed over me. He was here, he was alive, and he didn’t look hurt.
He did look incredibly drunk, though.
“Kieran,” I called out softly, approaching him. He didn’t move, so I reached out and touched his shoulder, feeling the tense muscles beneath his black shirt.
He stirred, lifting his head slowly. His eyes, usually sharp and guarded, were clouded and unfocused. “Tristan?” he slurred, squinting at me.
“Come on, let’s get you home.” I kept my voice steady, trying to cut through the haze of alcohol surrounding him.
“What’re you doing here?” Kieran tried to straighten up, wincing as if the effort pained him.
“Looking for you,” I said simply. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”
“Didn’t have much choice,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to the half-empty glass in front of him.
“Let’s talk about it at home, okay?” I slid his drink away, ignoring his weak protest. As I helped him off the stool, his body leaned heavily against mine. I wrapped an arm around his waist, steadying him.
“Always looking out for me, huh?” Kieran’s words were edged with something like gratitude, or maybe it was just the whiskey talking.
“Someone has to,” I said, half-joking, half-serious. We moved slowly toward the exit, Kieran shuffling beside me, using my strength as his crutch.
“Thanks, lad,” he mumbled, his head resting against my shoulder as we left the bar behind us. The cold night air hit us, sobering, but maybe not for him.
I hailed a cab, the sharp whistle slicing through the night. It pulled up to the curb with a low purr, and I helped Kieran into the back seat. He slumped against the window, the reflection of city lights dancing across his features. As the cab wove through Boston’s streets, I took a moment to study him.
“Kieran,” I spoke softly, hoping to pierce the silence that hung between us like thick fog. No response came; he was lost in his own world, one that seemed filled with shadows I couldn’t see.
The cab ride was quiet, save for the occasional muffled sounds of the city at night. Kieran remained still, his breaths deep and uneven. Every so often, his head would nod forward before jerking back up, as if he were fighting to stay awake.
“Hey,” I tried again, reaching over to give his arm a gentle shake. “Kieran.”
He stirred slightly, murmuring something incomprehensible. Concern twisted inside me, a tight coil that refused to unwind.
“Tristan?” His voice was faint, almost swallowed by the sounds of the cab’s engine and the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers.
“Yeah, it’s me.” I leaned closer, trying to catch any further words he might offer.
“Sorry,” he breathed out, and the single word was laden with a weight that seemed to crush the air from the car.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” I assured him, though my heart felt heavy. We both knew there was more going on here than a simple apology would cover.
“Always you...” he trailed off, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Always me,” I echoed. “Nothing has changed.”
He looked at me for a second. “Right,” he said. “Nothing.”
“Home soon,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. But it didn’t matter. I’d carry the burden tonight so he could rest. That’s what brothers did; that’s what I did. Always.
The cab rolled to a stop outside Kieran’s building, and I quickly paid the fare, my fingers brushing against the cold, damp leather of the wallet as I counted out the bills. The driver gave me a nod, his eyes flickering with something like understanding, or maybe it was just the late hour weighing on him.
“Come on,” I murmured, opening the door and reaching in to help Kieran out. He leaned heavily against me, his body a dead weight, but not dead enough to suppress the familiar pang of concern that tightened my chest.
We staggered up the stairs, the old wood creaking under our combined weight. At the top, I propped Kieran against the wall, fishing in his pockets for his keys. They jangled mockingly as I struggled to isolate the right one—like they knew time was slipping through my fingers while I fumbled.
“Got it,” I finally announced more to myself than Kieran, whose head had lolled forward, chin resting on his chest. The lock clicked open, and we stumbled into the dark apartment. My hand found the switch, and a soft glow filled the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
“Here.” I guided Kieran to the couch, his movements sluggish, like he was fighting through molasses. “Rest.”
He collapsed onto the cushion, a ghost of a nod indicating he’d heard me. I stood there for a moment, watching over him, the quietness of the apartment wrapping around us like a shared secret. I’d get the answers tomorrow; tonight, I’d let the silence speak.
Kneeling down, I gently pried Kieran’s shoes off one at a time, the leather sliding over his heels with a soft shuffle. Setting them aside, I noticed how scuffed they were—battle scars from the night or from life, it was hard to tell.
“Always lookin’ out for me,” he mumbled again, his voice slurred and distant.
“Aye, what else would I do?” I replied, my hands moving to grab a blanket draped over the back of an armchair. It was a familiar routine, one that didn’t require thanks or recognition. I spread the blanket over him, tucking it around his sides with more care than I’d admit aloud.
I watched his chest rise and fall, slow and steady, a silent confirmation that the chaos of the night hadn’t followed us here. In his sleep, Kieran’s face seemed younger, stripped of the burdens that came with being a Callahan.
His lips parted, a breath of words escaping as he slipped further into sleep’s grasp. “No matter what, you’re always my brother, Tristan.”
My blood ran cold. “The fuck does that mean?”
But Kieran rolled over to his side, and he clearly wasn’t in the mood to have a conversation.
I turned off the lights, leaving only the faint glow from the streetlights outside to illuminate the room. Settling into the settee across from him, I closed my eyes.
The air in the room was still, laced with the scent of leather and Kieran’s cologne—a constant reminder of who we were, of the legacy that bound us.
I tried to make sense of his actions, the danger he’d danced with that could’ve cost us everything. What the fuck was Kieran thinking? The question carved itself into my thoughts, echoing around the cavernous space of uncertainty between us.
But as the night deepened, the edges of my consciousness began to blur, my mental grip on the day’s events loosening. Sleep came, and I couldn’t resist, but my last thought before it claimed me was that I definitely needed to talk to him.
I had to find answers…because I knew answers would keep both of us alive.