Page 158 of Empire State Enemies

Oh my god. Is he serious? Killian thinks this is about me?

“Watch yourself,” Connor warns, a lethal edge to his voice. “Leave Lexi out of this. It has nothing to do with her.”

Mortification floods my cheeks as I try to shrink into the couch cushions, wishing I could disappear like a fart in the wind.

Their argument escalates, each trying to assert their dominance over the other. Their poor mom must be a saint dealing with these two testosterone-fueled knuckleheads.

I want to make a run for it and escape this macho showdown, but I’m frozen in place.

Their argument feels like it goes on for hours, but it’s probably only a few minutes.

“Get your act together, Connor. You’re off your game, letting me down.”

“I get that I’ve had a couple of bad weeks but get off my back,” Connor snaps. “The last billion dollars this company made was off the back of my ideas and innovations, not yours.”

They continue arguing until Killian decides he’s had enough and storms out.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

“Sorry you had to see that pissing match,” Connor finally murmurs, taking an aggressive swig of his beer.

I go over and stand beside him at the table, taking his free hand in mine. “Did you really have somewhere to be, or was it because of your hearing?” I ask gently.

“I had places to be.”

He’s lying. I can tell from the tension in his neck, the look in his eyes. My heart goes out to him.

“You should tell Killian the truth, Connor. He’d understand.”

He just grunts and moves toward the couch, looking ready to start hurling furniture. I’m nervous when he’s in this mood—I don’t feel like I can get through to him.

But I have to.

Undeterred, or maybe just naive, I scoot closer, wrapping my arms around him in what I hope is a comforting hug, but his shoulders might as well be made of concrete.

“I’ve been doing some reading about what you’re going through,” I say. “Trying to understand, that’s all. Even if I can’t really help.”

He stiffens further, scowl carved deep in his features. “You don’t need to,” he mutters. “I’ve got the best of the best on this. Nothing you can do about it.”

My stomach twists. Connor is hard to push. There’s a part of me that’s still on edge around him, especially after witnessing his wrath mere minutes ago. He’s hardly the poster boy for open dialogue, especially about something as touchy as this.

But I can’t just sit back and watch him self-destruct.

He’s meant to be reducing his stress, but instead he’s actively creating more and more of it for himself. If a house is burning to the ground, you don’t turn your back on it or keep it a secret. You ask for help.

“Maybe you could talk to others further along in their diagnosis, see how they cope,” I venture, trying to keep it as breezy as possible. Dead silence follows. So, I plow ahead. “Or maybe meeting people who’ve completely lost their hearing. Hearing loss communities maybe? Kind of like staring your biggest fear in the face . . .”

He levels me with an icy glare. It’s clear he’s not in the mood for what he sees as pity or unnecessary help.

“I’ll go with you,” I add quickly. “To appointments, or whatever you need. You don’t have to do this alone, Connor.”

“I’m handling it. I’m pouring funds into the best research team out there to find a cure.”

I gnaw my lip, nerves frayed. Connor thinks he can wave his AmEx around until this disappears. But from experience, it rarely works that way. Not with something like this.

But deep down, I know he’s smarter than that. It’s funny what we tell ourselves just to summon hope, though.

“Dad did the same when Mom got sick,” I say gently. “We threw money at every possible cure, clinging to hope,” I push, fully aware I’m treading on thin ice. “Even chased after some bizarre alternative treatments. It’s one of the reasons we spiraled into debt. That magical cure never came.”