Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
EAMON
I have no clue what hits me harder—the words, or the fact that they’re real. Dee is leaving. Not just the bar. Not just quitting on Nathan. Leaving me.
For the first time in my life, I’m stunned stupid.
It’s like my brain’s been wiped and the only thing left is raw, burning panic.
The urge to scoop her up and run is so strong I almost black out.
I have to get out or I’ll do something unspeakable.
I fight the urge to throw her over my shoulder and drag her out of here, like some prehistoric moron.
My feet move on autopilot. I slam the goddamn door behind me, and then I storm down the hall with my heart pounding hard against my ribs. I duck into my office and slam that door, too, hard enough that the glass rattles. Not proud of that. Don’t care. My hand shakes as I punch the lock.
Motherfucker.
I brace both arms on the desk and just… breathe. In. Out. In. Out. While one fucking thought circles through my mind on a continuous loop.
Deirdre Quinn is leaving me.
Not leaving the bar. Leaving me. Walking the fuck out of my life without a backward glance.
I want to punch a wall. Instead, I fold myself into the chair and squeeze my fists so tightly my knuckles go white.
I shut my eyes. Count backward from twenty. Doesn’t help.
God, Nothing has ever riled me like this.
I feel like I’ve been punched square in the solar plexus.
I’m supposed to be the guy who always has a plan.
I’ve made it through three deployments in war zones and walked away from my family’s less-than-legitimate business without a scratch, but I’m not sure I’ll survive Deirdre Quinn packing up and walking out.
I thought I was doing the right thing by ignoring my feelings for her, but I never stopped to consider how I’d feel when she actually made plans to leave me.
I want to go back there and demand Dee take it all back. Tell her she’s not allowed to rewrite the rules on us, not now, not after all these years of her being mine. Even if neither of us ever acknowledged it.
Christ, I sound like a lunatic, but I don’t care. I’ve lost my goddamn mind because I’m sitting here in the dark, staring at the same spot on the wall and grinding my teeth, trying to figure out how to fix this fucked up situation.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it. Then it buzzes again, and I give in because, apparently, I have zero self-control where Deirdre Quinn is concerned.
The rest of the shift drags by, and every time I pass in front of the bar, I remember Dee isn’t here. The place feels hollow, just like my goddamn heart.
Closing up without Dee is a nightmare. Not gonna lie, it takes me twice as long to finish everything without her. Half the time, I’m waiting for her to pop out around the corner with a snarky comment, but there’s nothing. Just me and the leftover silence, trying to clean up the mess.
I lock the back door and step out into the darkness. The sidewalk outside feels twice as cold as it should, and a shiver runs through my body as I walk to where my car is parked in its usual spot. I thumb the remote, and the lights flash back.
I climb into the driver’s seat and sit there, engine idling, staring at my own reflection in the rearview mirror.
What I see is a man on the brink. The kind of guy who’s spent his life being the fixer, the muscle, the guy who always knows the next move.
The kind of guy who’s supposed to see a crisis coming miles away.
I didn’t see this one. Not even close. I never thought I’d ever lose her. Not that I really had her in the first place, as she reminded me earlier. But that’s a whole other story.
My hands are shaking, which is new. I press my palm flat against my thigh and try to will it steady, but it’s like my body’s not getting the message. She’s leaving. She’s really fucking leaving me in the dust.
I drive.
Not home—fuck that. There’s nothing for me there except a barren apartment and thoughts of her.
Instead, I point the car toward the edge of town and let my subconscious take the wheel.
The city’s mostly asleep, and I count red lights, every one a chance to turn back, but I keep going and end up at The Barrel, a hole-in-the-wall that serves as last call for the town’s misfits.
I’ve been here before, but never this late and never this raw.
The bartender doesn’t even blink when I walk in.
Maybe because it’s three in the morning, maybe because the regulars all look like they’re one bad decision away from a mugshot.
I have no idea what I look like, but judging by the way the guy keeps his hands close to the baseball bat under the counter, I don’t think it’s “friendly neighborhood security expert.”
“Whiskey,” I rasp, dropping onto a questionable vinyl stool.
The guy nods. Pours two fingers of something brown and mean. I throw it back, and it burns all the way down, but it’s a start.
Dee’s leaving. She’s really doing it.
All the years I spent building walls, keeping every fucking thing buttoned down and tight? Gone. Just like that.
I’m not going to survive this. Not if I don’t do something.
I order another whiskey. And another. I keep waiting for the booze to fill up the emptiness inside me.
I’m halfway through the third when I start seeing her everywhere.
There’s a girl in the back booth with a cascade of wild, caramel hair, arguing with her boyfriend over a basket of onion rings.
She’s not Dee, but the way she gestures, the tilt of her head, is so similar it hurts.
A group of college kids cluster around the pool table, but the loudest one—the one who calls the shots—she’s got the same restless energy, the same fuck-you attitude in the way she throws back her drink.
I wonder if any of them will ever love so fiercely that they’d tear themselves apart for someone who can’t even see them.
I’m not a man who gets sentimental. But four glasses in, I start composing a eulogy for a life I’m not ready to let go of.
I picture all the tiny, stupid things I’ll miss: the way Dee snorts when she laughs, the way she flips me off every time I hand her a closing checklist, the way her eyes go soft when she thinks nobody’s watching.
I knock back another double. The bartender arches a brow but doesn’t say shit. The little voice in the back of my mind starts asking questions. Why can’t you be the one who gives Dee the life she deserves? Why do you have to let her go?
I can give her that life. I argue back. I don’t have to let her go.
Fuck. It gets easier after that. The pain fades to a low, persistent ache as an idea takes form.
I drink, and drink, and drink until I feel half-human again, or at least, numb enough to fake it.
I don’t need to give up Dee. I can’t. Now, I just have to convince her to take a chance on a moron like me.
Before the next round, the bartender leans in close, all business. “You want to talk about it?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I’ve spent years building a fortress of silence around myself, and I have no idea how to even start. So, I just shake my head.
He shrugs and pours me a water. “Last call. You need a ride, or you gonna walk it off?”
I debate the question, but every cell in my body is screaming at me to move. To go to her. Fix this shit before it’s too late. I toss a handful of bills on the bar and stand, the floor shifting under my feet like a ship at sea.
Outside, the night is colder, lonelier. I text for an Uber and pace the length of the parking lot while I wait. My head is full of static, but underneath, a single thought pulses, relentless—I have to stop her before she leaves me.
My chest tightens. I punch the side of the building, knuckles splitting on the brick. The pain is clean, real. It’s the first true thing I’ve felt all night.
The Uber arrives, a shiny black Prius. I collapse into the back seat, and the driver takes one look at me and peels out, radio blaring some old 90s song about heartbreak. The whole drive, I replay every word I didn’t say, every time I held back, every second I wasted pretending I was immune.
Two miles down the road, I realize it wasn’t my address I put in the app.
It was hers. Oh well, there’s no time like the present to face this.
By the time we reach her place, it’s almost dawn.
I hop out of the Prius and give the driver a cash tip, then stumble over to the front door of the building.
I hesitate, just for a second. Then I press the buzzer to her apartment, hard. Once. Twice.
I’m done running. Tonight, I’m going to lay my heart on the line.
She answers the door in a sleep-rumpled T-shirt and a pair of ancient boxer shorts, her hair in total disarray, like she’s just stuck a finger in a light socket. She blinks once, twice, and I swear, for a second, she thinks she’s still dreaming.
“Eamon?” Her voice is sandpaper and surprise, the syllables slurred with sleep and something softer. “What the hell—do you know what time it is?”
I do. But I don’t fucking care. The last three whiskeys scrambled my internal clock, and I’m running on muscle memory and reckless need. I lean against the frame, one hand braced on the peeling paint, the other clenching and unclenching at my side.
“I know this is too late. Way the fuck too goddamn late.” I let her hear the truth in my voice.
I’m done fucking hiding. “You can’t leave me.
” I jerk my chin past her. Inside, her living room is all cardboard boxes, open bins, piles of books and clothes half-sorted. Her life, collapsing in real time.
She hesitates in the doorway, then steps aside. “Come in. You’re going to wake my neighbors.”
I shoulder past her and plant myself dead center in the living room, soaking in every detail. The whole apartment feels like her—colorful, chaotic, messy in the best way.
Deirdre follows me, bare feet on hardwood, and I can’t look at her without feeling like my fucking chest is being hollowed out with a spoon.
I take her by the shoulders, not rough, but firm. The smell of her cracks my control all over again. “Why are you leaving me?” I ask, and this time I can’t hide the tremor.
She looks up at me, eyes suddenly huge and vulnerable. “I’m not leaving you, Eamon. I’m leaving Midnight Mischief.”
“You’re leaving me.” I press my forehead to hers, eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t lie. Not to me.”
She exhales, and I feel the shudder all the way to my bones.
“Why do you care?” she whispers, and for the first time in years, I don’t have a clever answer.
So, I tell her the truth.
“Because I’m in love with you, you fucking idiot,” I say, and as soon as the words are out, I know there’s no taking them back.
Deirdre’s mouth falls open, then snaps shut. I brace for a punch, a laugh, or an insult, but she just stares at me, all the sarcasm and snark burned off in the wake of what I’ve said.
I kiss her.
It’s not gentle, not even close. It’s every angry word, every unsent message, every night spent picturing this and refusing to admit it.
Her lips are hot and hungry, opening under mine, and she tastes like salt and sugar and all my dreams wrapped up in one package.
Too bad it took me nearly losing her to figure my shit out.
Her hands fist in my shirt, knuckles digging into my chest, pulling me closer.
We stagger into the nearest wall, slamming a picture frame sideways, but neither of us cares. I bury my hands in her hair and kiss her like I’m starving, like I’ve never tasted anything real before now. She moans, low and desperate, and the sound sets fire to every cell in my body.
She bites my lip, hard, and I laugh against her mouth, half-mad with relief and want. I’ve never felt more alive, or more completely out of control.
We break apart, both of us panting, foreheads pressed together, hands locked tight around each other like we’ll drown if we let go.
“I hate you,” she says, but her voice shakes and her eyes are shining.
I smile, the first honest one in years. “Liar.”
She shoves me, but it’s a joke, a prelude, a challenge. I catch her wrist, drag her back against me, and this time, the kiss is slower, deeper, every old wound and empty space filling up with her.
I lose all sense of time. The world narrows to the taste of her mouth, the heat of her body, the tremor in her voice when she whispers my name. I drag her closer, desperate to taste every inch, but Dee’s palm lands flat on my chest.
“Wait,” she pants, eyes wild and pupils blown, but her grip is solid enough to pin me to the floor. The edge of her voice vibrates straight through my fucking bones. “We need to talk about this,” she breathes out, trembling. “But not with you drunk off your ass.”
She presses her forehead to mine, soft but unyielding. Every cell in my body riots. I want to rip my shirt off and slam her against the wall, but her stubbornness holds me in place.
“You can crash on my sofa.” She points to the small torture device that pretends to be a couch. “Once you get past your hangover, we’ll talk.”
She’s right about one thing—I need all my wits wide awake, sharp, and not dulled by liquor. Tomorrow morning, Ms. Deirdre Quinn isn’t going to know what hit her.