18. Jhene
EIGHTEEN
Jhene
The Banshee is starting to look like a pub again.
It’s been two weeks since Seamus Callahan’s funeral, and the renovations are moving faster than I expected.
Apparently, Ronan wants the place up and running by the end of summer, a show of strength to the Bratva that they can’t keep the Callahans down no matter how many buildings they burn.
He’s hired a whole team of contractors to make it happen, and they’ve been working around the clock to meet his deadline.
Tom’s been overseeing most of it, which is a relief considering how badly injured he was after the fire.
His burns have mostly healed, though he still winces when he moves the wrong way, and there’s new scar tissue creeping up the side of his neck that wasn’t there before.
He’s lucky to be alive, and he freely admits as much.
Teagan isn’t so lucky. Last I heard, he’s still in the hospital, and nobody’s sure when—or if—he’ll ever fully recover.
He’s in intensive physical therapy to learn to walk again, and the brain damage he sustained is so severe he can barely talk.
Me and the other servers have started showing up to help Tom get things in order before the grand reopening.
There’s still work to be done—new tables and booths to arrange, glassware to unpack, menus to finalize, decorations to put back up—but the foundation of the place is solid again.
The charred walls have been replaced, the smoke damage scrubbed away, and if you didn’t know better, you’d never guess the place nearly burned to the ground earlier this summer.
I’m in the middle of wiping down the new bar top when Bridget breezes through the front door, a large iced coffee in one hand and a designer purse in the other.
Tom notices it too.
“Well, well, what do we got here?” he says, setting down the box of napkins he was carrying. “That’s a fancy looking bag you’ve got there, Bridge. Swear my wife’s been begging me for one just like it. One of those designer ones, isn’t it? Thousands of dollars?”
Bridget’s cheeks tinge pink as she stirs the straw in her iced coffee drink. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. Just a gift.”
“A gift? Mighty expensive gift,” Tom says with a raised brow, clearly amused. “From who?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but this new guy I’m seeing. He’s been spoiling me a little. Is that a crime?”
Tom’s gaze drops to the gold tennis bracelet glinting on her wrist and the diamond studded earrings. “Spoiling you a lot, from the looks of it. That jewelry new too?”
Bridget’s flush deepens. “A woman doesn’t tell her secrets, Tom.”
She walks off toward the back before he can ask any more questions. Tom turns to me with a tickled look on his face.
“You get a load of that?” he says. “I know I’ve been out of commission for a while, but I’ve never known Bridget to have so many nice things. You got any idea who this new boyfriend is?”
My mind goes back to the funeral. I didn’t get the impression Bridget was in a new relationship. She was trying hard to get Killian’s attention (what else is new?).
If she has a new man in her life, she certainly wasn’t acting like it that day.
But it’s not my place to speculate, and I’m not about to start rumors based on a hunch.
“You heard her, Tom,” I say, shrugging. I turn back to the bar counter and pick up the rag to finish wiping it down. “Women never tell our secrets.”
We spend the rest of the day unboxing things like glasses, plates, and flatware and debating if we should change the floor layout.
It’s minutes before seven in the evening when I finally make it back to the studio. I toe off my sneakers and collapse in Killian’s bed with a low sigh, relieved to finally be home.
…or what’s begun to feel like home.
It’s still a little unreal to think only a couple weeks ago Killian had to fight tooth and nail just to get me to stay here overnight.
Now I’m willingly crashing on his bed and looking forward to relaxing here. Even better once he makes it back too.
He had some important business meetings today with his manager and potential sponsors.
I’ve been reclining in bed with a puzzle book for about fifteen minutes when I hear the key in the lock.
The door glides open, and Killian trudges in scowling and clenching a stack of papers in his fist. I sit up, noting the weary vibe he gives off.
His shoulders are tense and slumped at the same time, and he looks as if he’s returning from war. Attending business meetings with corporate jerks in suits probably is Killian’s idea of war—or maybe torture would be more accurate.
He’s made it clear he’s more of a brawn type than anything to do with the prim and proper setting of the business world.
“Long day?” I ask.
“That’s putting it mildly.” He kicks off his boots and peels his shirt over his head, tossing it in the general vicinity of the laundry basket. It misses by a solid two feet, but neither of us comments on it. “I’m fucking starving. What do you think about ordering in? Maybe Chinese?”
“Chinese sounds good.”
He grunts in acknowledgment, then drops the thick stack of papers he’s been holding onto the kitchen counter. You’d think it was junk mail the way he treats them.
In two strides he’s throwing himself down beside me on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and I find myself giving him the hello kiss I didn’t seconds ago.
“What’s that?” I ask afterward, nodding toward the papers.
“Some contract for a sponsorship deal. Haven’t really looked at it. It’s fifty fucking pages of numbers and percentages and legal bullshit. Makes my head hurt just thinking about it.”
I chew on my bottom lip, debating if I should offer. Numbers and percentages happen to be my thing, and I’ve helped Killian with them before.
It could be a way to make myself useful to him. Something I’ve often felt guilty about as he’s sacrificed so much for me…
“I could take a look at it for you,” I offer. “If you want.”
Killian shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”
I slide off the bed and pad over to the counter, picking up the stack of papers and flipping through the first few pages. It’s dense, full of legalese and fine print, but the numbers start jumping out at me almost immediately.
…and they don’t look right.
I flip to the section outlining the payment structure, my frown deepening with every line I read.
There’s a breakdown of earnings, split between Killian and his manager, and the percentages are... wrong.
Extremely wrong.
“Killian,” I say slowly. “Does your manager always get double the amount you earn?”
“Hmmm?” He’s lying on the bed, eyes closed as if about to drift off. “What’re you talking about?”
“This contract.” I carry the papers over to him and point at the relevant section.
He finally sits up for a glance. “According to this, Dez is getting fifty percent of the earnings from this sponsorship. You’re only getting twenty-five.
The other twenty-five goes to your team and everybody else you employ. ”
Killian squints at the page as if trying to make sense of it. I can tell from the frustration flickering across his face that the numbers aren’t clicking for him when he looks at the breakdown.
It’s not his fault. He’s mentioned before that numbers sometimes appear backward to him. Dez has obviously been taking advantage of that fact.
“I’ve never paid attention to how much Dez makes,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “The money’s never mattered to me. I just sign where he tells me to.”
“Well, it should matter,” I say. “Killian, this isn’t right. You’re the one doing all the hard work in that ring. You’re the athlete, the star, the reason these sponsors are paying anything at all. Your manager shouldn’t be taking half your profits while you only get a quarter.”
His scowl returns, his jaw pulling tighter. “When you put it like that, stray….”
“Do you have copies of your other contracts?”
“Should be in there somewhere. Bottom drawer.” He’s jerked his chin toward the dresser against the wall. The one he keeps stuff like his underwear and socks in.
I cross over and pull open the bottom drawer, rifling through the mess of papers until I find a folder stuffed with old contracts and agreements. I carry the entire thing back to the bed and start spreading them out, scanning each one for the payment breakdowns.
What I find makes my stomach roil.
“Killian,” I say in disbelief. “It’s not just this one contract. It’s all of them.”
He leans over my shoulder as I point out the numbers on page after page. In some contracts, Dez takes fifty percent while Killian gets twenty-five. In others, the split is even worse—sixty-five percent to Dez, only twenty to Killian.
“That fucking weasel,” Killian growls, his hands curling into fists. “He thinks I’m too stupid to notice. Thinks I can’t do the math, so he can skim whatever he wants off the top.”
“You’re not stupid,” I say firmly. “He’s a con artist who’s been taking advantage of you. There’s a difference.”
“I’ll be paying him a visit to find out what the fuck this is about. Real soon.”
“You should. But please don’t put him in the hospital.”
His expression lightens slightly as he grabs my chin and drags my mouth over to his for a kiss.
“Always trying to be my conscience. He’d deserve it if he’s been cheating me this long.”
I can’t argue that point—if Dez really has been cheating Killian so blatantly, he would deserve some karma.
“You know what? You up for going out for dinner instead?” he asks. “I’m thinking dinner and a movie.”
I smile. “I would like that. It’s been a while since we’ve hit up the Rialto.”
We grab burgers from a spot a block down from the Rialto. It’s low stakes and casual, with burgers that arrive in greasy wax paper and a huge container of fries that even Killian doesn’t finish.
He talks about how he’s already started training for his championship match against Ivan Sharapova and absolutely should not be having things like greasy cheeseburgers and salted fries.
“But here I am,” he says, taking a large bite of his burger.
I let out a small laugh. “You’ve never been one to follow the rules so it doesn’t surprise me.”