Page 23 of Carnal Urges

When he turns to go, I say impulsively, “Hey. Gangster.”

He turns back, his smile faint. “Aye, lass?”

“You got this.”

He frowns a little, not understanding.

“You heard me. Whatever you’re about to go do, you’re gonna do great. Just take a deep breath and remember who the fuck you are.”

Looking stunned, he repeats faintly, “Remember…?”

“That’s what I always tell myself when I’m not feeling one hundred percent. Remember who you are.”

I can tell he doesn’t want to ask, but curiosity gets the better of him. “And who are you?”

“The only one of me who ever has been or ever will be. Same as you. In a word: irreplaceable.”

His lips part. He gazes at me for a long, silent moment. “You were dropped on your head a lot as a baby. That’s it, isn’t it?”

I have to smile at the depth of his astonishment. “No. There was no dropping. I was the middle kid, so I was mostly just ignored. But I did learn to be my own cheerleader, and you know what? The more you try to believe in yourself, the more you actually do. Your mentalself-talk is very powerful. You have to keep it positive. So just go out there, say to yourself, ‘I got this,’ and believe it. You’ll be fine.”

Now he looks angry. “You’re giving mea pep talk?”

“You look like you could use one.”

He says flatly, “You’re not from this planet.”

“Thank you.”

Irritated by my smile, his old glare-that-could-melt-steel returns. Muttering something under his breath, he turns around, yanks open the door, and walks out, slamming the door shut behind him.

EIGHT

DECLAN

Not even ten minutes later, the texts start.

I’m sorry I annoy you so much.

When I ignore that one, she sends another.

Okay, “sorry” might be a stretch. Here’s the list of stuff I need.

She sends a list so long, I regret giving her the phone. The list includes specific items of clothing, makeup, toiletries, and food. Organic food, to be exact, exotic things I’ve never heard of with names like rambutan, cherimoya, and aguaje. Plus four different varieties of kale.

There’s a pause of no more than five minutes, then the texts start up again with only a few moments lapsing between each one.

Did you let Natalie know I’m okay yet? I’m worried about her.

Is Sean alive? I didn’t see him get out of the limo. I’m worried about him, too.

Why is there no television in your bedroom?

There are suit makers other than Armani, you know.

Remember: you got this.

I finally have to turn off the ringer because everyone keeps looking at me strangely. I’m standing in a room full of thirty Irish mobsters who came to pay their respects, and my phone is blowing up like some teenager’s in the midst of an emotional meltdown.