Killian #2
Dyscalculia, they called it when I was a kid. A learning disability that makes numbers as foreign to me as ancient Greek and made my dear father grunt about how he had a dunce for a son.
How I’d never amount to anything…
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to find a text from Dez, my manager.
Where you been?
Training schedule says you should’ve been at the gym two hours ago.
Tank fight is less than two weeks away.
Get your ass in gear.
I stare at the message for a few seconds then shove the phone back in my pocket without responding.
One crisis at a time.
First things first, I’ve got to sort through this bullshit before any more documents pile up. One minute passes and then another.
I’m still staring at the stupid paperwork as minute three approaches and somebody taps their knuckles on the door.
“Shouldn’t you be in the den?” I grunt.
Jhene slips deeper into the room, dark eyes sweeping over the space from behind her large glasses. “I got bored.”
“Bored? What’re you, five?”
“There’s only so long a person can spend studying the Callahan family tapestry.
” She stops in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase and trails a finger along the spine of a leatherbound book perched on the shelf.
“Did you know there’s a whole section dedicated to the 1800s?
Riveting stuff. Really kept me on the edge of my seat. ”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Five minutes without your sarcasm would be a treat.”
“Maybe for your birthday.”
“More like maybe you shouldn’t make a habit of wandering around a mobster’s house. Not a smart idea.”
“I didn’t think so either. And yet here I am.”
She wanders over to the desk next. Her gaze falls to the pile of papers spread across the surface. Invoices, receipts, expense reports, ledgers—all the shit I’ve been avoiding for weeks, now gathered like a scrapbook of my inadequacy.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Trying to catch up on some of the business side of things.” I scrub a hand over my face, fingers scratching at the scruff. “Ronan usually handles this, but with him gone...”
I trail off before admitting how badly I’ve let things slide. Between the Bratva tensions and training for my big fight and trying to keep Jhene alive, the paperwork’s fallen to the bottom of my priority list.
…which would be fine if numbers weren’t my kryptonite.
Jhene stares for so long I’m sure she’s about to drop another dry, sarcastic comment. She’s about to make a wisecrack that she didn’t know meathead enforcers do math or that brutes in the Irish mob were so sophisticated to keep business records.
She nudges her glasses further up her nose and says, “You’re holding the ledger upside down.”
I glance down and realize she’s right.
Fucking hell.
“Damn it,” I grumble aloud.
“You know…” she says slowly. “I could help. If you want.”
“I don’t need any help. Go back to the den. Where’s Oona? She should come collect you.”
Her brows push together, the slight curve of her lips hinting at amusement. “I’m just saying… if you let me help you, then the business side of things is out of your hair and I’m no longer bored.”
She’s got a point, and that pisses me off even more.
My glower doesn’t let up as I fumble with the papers like a fucking bear trying to solve a Rubik’s cube. After another minute of painful silence, I shove the ledger toward her.
“Fine,” I snap. “You want to help? Knock yourself out.”
She picks it up and scans the page, her eyes sliding quickly across the columns of figures.
I watch her face for even the slightest sign of the same confusion I feel, but there’s none to be found.
She’s as calm as most women look browsing fashion magazines or celeb tabloids. You’d think this was an enjoyable pastime for her.
“Okay, I’ve got to be honest,” she admits finally. “Your expense tracking is all over the place. You’ve got operating costs mixed in with payroll, and someone’s been categorizing supply purchases under miscellaneous instead of breaking them out by type.”
“I have no idea what any of that shit means.”
“It means your books are a disaster.” She glances up at me, one brow raised higher than the other. “No offense.”
“None taken. They were a disaster before I got here.”
She hums softly, already flipping to another page. “If you set up a proper spreadsheet with separate categories for each expense type, it would be a lot easier to track where the money’s going. You could even create formulas to auto calculate the totals so you don’t have to do the math manually.”
I stare at her, more confused than irritated. “You know how to do that?”
“It’s not exactly rocket science,” she answers, shrugging. “My mom was an accountant, by the way. She taught me how to balance books before I even learned how to ride a bike.”
“Your mother was an accountant,” I repeat slowly. “And you’re working as a server at an Irish pub?”
“Life takes unexpected turns.”
Say that again.
Never thought I’d be seeking help from a girl on the run from the Bratva on how to balance the clan’s books.
“You a numbers girl, are you?” I grunt.
“You could say that. Math was always my favorite subject,” she continues, her attention back on the ledger. “Numbers make sense. They follow rules. Two plus two always equals four, no matter what else is going on in the world. There’s always an answer if you know how to find it.”
“That’s… certainly an interesting way to look at it.”
“I take it you’re not a fan?”
I lean back in the chair, watching her work. “I barely passed sixth grade math. After that, I pretty much checked out.”
“By choice?”
“School was never my thing. I was better at other stuff.”
“Like punching people?”
“What gave you that idea?” I ask, then my mouth cocks into a grin when her eyes meet mine.
Hers twitches as if she’s tempted to smile back. I’ve noticed a lot more of those out of her as of late. As if I’m gradually melting the shield she’s erected around herself, drilling deeper into who Jhene Prince is.
Not just the girl on the run from the Bratva. More than the girl who serves drinks at the Banshee.
…who she is at her core.
“You’re going to have to move,” she says. “If you want me to actually fix this, I need access to the computer.”
“You’re kicking me out of my own chair?”
“It’s not your chair. It’s Ronan’s, right?”
“You and that fucking smart mouth of yours…” my thick rumble trails off, yet I fulfill her request. I rise up from the office chair and step aside, more impressed than I’ll probably ever admit.
Jhene slides into the large executive-sized chair, her small frame dwarfed by the leather. She doesn’t let it intimidate her. She simply pulls the keyboard toward her and starts typing, her fingers moving across the keys with an air of confidence.
“You’re going to need to give me an hour or two,” she says. “Maybe more, depending on how bad the rest of these files are.”
“Take as long as you need.”
I head over to one of the armchairs across the room and plop down to watch her work, oddly fascinated by the situation.
She’s completely absorbed in the task, brow furrowed in concentration and brown eyes sharp behind her glasses.
This girl is full of surprises.
She’s unassuming at first glance, yet as you peel back layers, you discover things like her dry wit and the stubborn persistence she has for rescuing her sister.
Her apparent mathematical genius and even the ability to crack a smile every now and then.
“I used to do puzzles for fun,” she says suddenly, gaze still glued to the screen. “When I was younger. Logic puzzles, math puzzles, those grid things where you have to figure out who lives in which house based on a bunch of clues. My mom and I would race to see who could finish them first.”
“Who usually won?”
Her eyes flash with triumph. “Me by the time I was twelve. She pretended to be annoyed, but I think she was proud.”
“Sounds like you needed to tutor me on my homework.”
“I did that too. Summer job when I was fourteen. Before…” She shakes her head.
“Before what?”
“Everything in our lives went to shit. I mean, things were bad before then. But they got really bad after that summer.”
I don’t push by asking what she means. She drops the subject and so do I.
We fall back into a silence that’s filled only by the clattering of the keyboard and rapt clicks of the mouse on the laptop.
An hour later, she leans back from the computer with a satisfied sigh.
“Done… mostly. The spreadsheet’s set up, and I’ve reconciled the last three months of expenses. You’ll need to input new data as it comes in, but the formulas will handle the calculations automatically.”
I push myself out of the armchair and walk over to peer at the screen.
Neat columns of numbers stare back at me, organized into categories with color-coded labels I can actually understand. It’s still not my favorite thing to look at, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the mess I started with.
“Not bad,” I admit.
“Not bad?” She arches a brow, blinking up at me in offense. “That’s three months of financial records sorted and organized in under two hours. I’d say that’s a little better than ‘not bad.’ People charge a hundred an hour for that kind of work.”
“Fine. It’s impressive. Happy?”
“Thrilled.”
I snort, shaking my head. “You know, you just might earn your keep after all. Let’s get the fuck out of here. I’ve had enough fucking with numbers to last me a lifetime.”
In the evening, we head to the Banshee for Jhene’s shift and so I can unwind with a couple drinks. Sean turns up as the rest of the pub grows crowded, claiming the seat across from me at our table.
“Busy night,” the redheaded buttonman says.
“Always is on Saturdays.”
“How’s your girl doing? Seems like she’s settling in.”
I shoot him a look. “She’s not my girl.”
“Sure, Kill. Whatever you say.” The grin that spreads on his freckled face is fucking insufferable. “I’m just saying, you’ve been awfully protective of the little stray lately. People are starting to talk.”
“People can mind their own fucking business.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”