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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
RORY
It’s been six days since Jorge walked out of my apartment, and I’m still trying to go more than five minutes without thinking about him. I should’ve followed him. Stopped him. I should have done anything.
I should reach out and try to fix this, but every time I pick up the phone, something holds me back. I’m too proud. Too stubborn. Too fucking scared. I’ve been running from real connections for so long that when it finally happened, I acted like a fucking twat.
Even tonight, I’m fucking idiot. I’ve passed on family dinner, and I’m sitting on a fucking stakeout for Ivan’s thieves-in-law, Vlad, so I can avoid Jorge. It’s easier to hide in my car, where I can pretend everything is fine, than to face him. Resting against the steering wheel, the buzzing of my phone pulls me from my thoughts, my heart skipping a beat when I see his name on the screen.
JORGE
Can we talk?
Swiping it open, I’m mid-response when two sheriffs’ cars pull up outside the police station as a swarm of officers line the doorway. Closing out my text to Jorge, I pull up Conor.
They’re moving him now.
CONOR
Follow them
We have to know where they’re taking him
Keep me posted, we can’t be more than five minutes from you
I drop my location to Conor’s phone and follow the police cruisers, ensuring I keep a safe distance so I’m not spotted. They pull to a stop, and I maintain my speed, driving past them and parking further down the block. In my rearview, I watch them take Vlad inside and set up a police perimeter. They know someone is coming for him.
Swiping my thumb over my phone, I call Conor. He answers immediately, and I share, “I’m parked down the block. They’re walking him in now. Single-family home. Looks like they’re setting up cops at the front and back. This is going to be a fucking blood bath.”
“Are you up for this?” he asks, and I realize that I haven’t been masking my personal turmoil nearly as well as I thought.
“Fuck you,” I spit. “I wouldn’t be loading an extra mag right now if I weren’t. Why don’t you kids get your asses here already?”
Finn teases, “How the fuck did we all agree to add a second Declan to this family?”
Drawing my best impersonation of Declan, I gruff, “Don’t be a fucking twat, Finn.”
When I see their headlights turning onto the street, I hang up the call. I watch from down the street as Conor and Ivan deal with the two cops at the front of the house. Finn and I join them as they're stowing the bodies in the back of the police car.
Following behind Ivan, we’re inside within seconds. Bullets fly and drywall dust peppers my clothes. A plain-clothed cop steps around the corner, and I fire a round into him before he has a chance to react. He crumples to the floor as we move deeper into the house.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
My ears ring from the shots, nearly drowning out Finn’s cry. “Fuck! Con!” Rounding the corner, I look down to find Finn kneeling in a rapidly growing pool of Conor’s blood. So much fucking blood. I freeze for a second, my mind drifting to the SUV—blood pumping from my chest so viciously that I could feel its warmth pooling in the seat beneath me.
Not Conor… At least not today.
Being the stubborn ass that he is, he tries to push himself from the floor, but he’s already too weak. Bending, I pull his arm around my neck as Finn does the same. Ivan grabs his legs, and the three of us carry him down the hall.
Struggling to carry his heavy ass, I breathlessly grit, “If my old ass can make it, so can you.”
Your life is worth living. You have two beautiful women who love you and a family that would be distraught if you died.
We shove him into the back of Finn’s Bronco, and I shut that hatch after Finn climbs in with him. Sliding behind the wheel, I listen to Conor’s pained cries and gurgles as I race toward the club. Ivan calls Tristan to let him know we’re on our way.
As I weave through traffic, my mind races between Conor and thoughts of how easily that could’ve been me again. How fleeting life is. And how fucking stupid I am for letting one of the only good things in my life walk out of it.