Page 4

4

Ronan

HOURS EARLIER

“I ’ve turned on the Wi-Fi.”

I let out a groan as I take the last bite of my greasy burger while stepping into the cabin. If I had to lock myself away anywhere, I guess this secluded... well, dump , would do. I feel conflicted to call it that. The exterior is surprisingly nice, but inside it’s stuck in a time warp from forty years ago.

“No neighbors for a mile in each direction if not more,” Eamon says as he moves past me, flipping on a few lights in the kitchen and one in the dim hallway. It doesn’t matter that the sun is shining brightly outside; once you step out of the main living area, it feels as dark as midnight. “Two bedrooms, one and a half bath.”

He turns to me and flashes a broad smile. The rich kind, with bright white teeth that spell wealth across his lips. It’s carefree, exuding a sense of indifference, as if to say, “I don’t care because I don’t have to.”

Only reason my teeth are nearly as perfect is because, believe it or not, prison really cares about those. Especially my dentist… fucked her real good for a new set of front ones after losing them in a fist fight.

“There’s gym equipment in the garage,” he continues, clearing his throat as he leans against the barstool—one of only two, since the others seem to be missing. He and his wife clearly have money, so why haven’t they kept this place up? Not that I’m all that interested in the answer, but it bothers me. He has something nice, yet he chooses to let it fall apart.

“I’ve got an extra—”

“Will the neighbors know I’m here?” I drag my fingers along the counter, dust pulling in a thick heap as I do. “Can’t have people thinking I’m squatting here.”

When my half-mast gaze meets his, he nods. “Don’t worry, they’ll know you’re here.”

“Your wife, too. I assume she’ll know.”

He laughs nervously, answering my question without saying a word.

“Wonderful,” I groan.

I move around the counter to the fridge, guessing the last time it was used was for some teenage or college party. When I finally manage to pry open the stubborn door, my suspicions are confirmed. Inside are dozens of half-empty bottles of various types of liquor, each one likely subjected to a cycle of warming up and cooling down. I grab a bottle of vodka and kick the door shut with my foot.

Rolling the cap off and flicking it across the room, I lean against the counter and take a swig. Numbness washes over me; I barely feel the burn as it goes down my throat, even though it’s been years since I’ve had any alcohol. Getting caught for it in prison was dumb—I’d have preferred to take my chances with drugs instead.

I’d say that it tastes funky , but who knows how long it’s been in here.

I take another deep chug, then wipe my lips with my bare forearm.

“I’m not trying to kill someone, Eamon. You hear me?”

His eyes widen. “Why would that—”

“If your wife comes here and calls the police on me, I’ll choke that bitch out.” It’s probably not my smartest comment, but what the hell does he expect? I’m a goddamn murderer, after all.

Clearing his throat, he adjusts his black tie. “I’ll tell her, but Ronan, no one comes up here. So don’t worry about it.”

“Why?” I ask purely to understand the validity of the statement.

“Not a lot of time, too busy with work. The both of us.”

“Your ex-wife won’t come? Your son?”

“No, I technically married into this property.”

Humming, I remember I’m missing someone. “And your stepdaughter?”

“Also too busy. She just mentioned how we might as well sell the place. Or maybe that was me. Either way, she’s probably the last person you’ll see up here.”

I take another healthy drink, finishing off the crappy Vodka. Placing it into the sink, I move back into the fridge and grab the same shit but in a different flavor.

“I’ve got something else for you,” he says, and the sound of something tapping against the table makes me turn. Curiosity grips me. On the counter, beneath his palm, lie several hundred-dollar bills with what looks like a check at the bottom.

“Thought this through, huh?” I gulp down several swigs, but the taste of pineapple is revolting, making me cough as I pull the bottle away from my lips.

Through my hacking, Eamon continues, “The cash is from me, the check is from our father.”

I swallow roughly and squeeze the neck of the glass bottle. “Don’t want it.”

“He’s dead, Ronan. His last act was—”

I slam the liquor down onto the counter—surprisingly, it doesn’t shatter—and take two steps to grab the wad of cash and the check. Crumpling it into my tightening fist, I glare at him, one side of my nose twitching. “I’ve got people out here that owe me, I don’t need his fucking sympathy even from his grave, Eamon.”

Tearing the check from the grouping of bills, I toss it into the sink. Grabbing the pineapple shit liquor, I pour it right on top. “Got a lighter?”

He sighs. “Please don’t smoke in the house.”

“Such a fucking straight-edged bitch, living in Colorado, too. Ain’t that shit legal here now?” Once the bottle is empty, I toss it next to the other discarded one in the sink. “Thanks for the…” I count out the bills still in my hand. “Six hundred bucks. I’ll go grab a phone.”

Another tap on the counter has me dropping my head back.

“I’m not doing this for your forgiveness, Ronan.”

Looking over my shoulder, I see a phone still in its box, waiting for me. “Did you also sign me up for a phone plan? How big brotherly of you.”

“No.” I think I’m getting under his skin. “The same courier exists from several years ago, I can help if you—”

“I was in prison, not on another fucking planet.”

He groans and I swing open the fridge, grabbing a tequila bottle this time. Hopefully this does the trick.

“I’ve written my phone number on the back of the box.” I lean back and tear off the lid, feeling ecstatic to find it’s a new bottle. Figures, not their go-to choice in alcohol. “I’ll come by—”

“Don’t bother.” I shove the door closed and raise what I hope will be the death of me at him. “I don’t do interactions. I don’t want to fix this—” I gesture between us. “You, along with every fucking Byrne, died so many years ago to me.”

The anger he had for how I was speaking to him melts into empathy, an even more pathetic feeling. “Ronan, please…”

“I’ll take advantage of your home for a few months, just until I get what I need to survive. Then, just like you did to me, I’ll disappear.”

His eyes draw upward while he shakes his head ever so slightly. I want him to argue with me. Tell me he didn’t have a choice. Give me every excuse to tell him how fucking wrong he is.

“I’ll come by next month” is all he says, before grabbing his coat and walking out the front door.

Heavy is the guilt you bear, Brother… and I hope it swallows you endlessly.

I love to elicit this look. It’s the one of fear, but the paralyzing one. Where you question what to do, and it consumes any cognitive thought.

The blonde is clearly overwhelmed by the intense sensation. If I weren’t so drunk, I might actually get hard from it. Her large, lime-green eyes stare at me, wide and unblinking, like a deer caught in headlights.

She still hasn’t said a word, nor is she making a run for it like any smart girl would. Rich people and their false sense of security. I can tell she fits that mold by her manicured nails, lash extensions, and the faint scent of tanning oil wafting from her.

As my stride continues, her chin begins to tilt toward the ceiling. The moment I’m hovering, she gasps.

“Why are you in my house?!” She sounds uncertain in her response, as if she already knows the answer, but I’m not here to analyze her feelings. “And why are you naked?!”

“I asked you a question.” Now that I’m this close, it isn’t tanning oil. It’s coconut and vanilla. I’ll never forget where that smell comes from, as much as I wish I could.

“Just use the lotion.”

When she raises her hands as if to push me away, I tilt my head and groan. “Don’t touch me.” I keep our distance, but I’m close enough that if she breathes too hard, I’ll feel it tickle against my chin.

“I-I own this house!”

My brow arches and I take a step back, my eyes sweeping over her entire body. She’s wearing black leggings and a cropped tank top, showing off the tattoos stretching from shoulder to shoulder. Both of her ears are pierced to high heaven.

“Didn’t take my brother as a cradle robber.”

Not that I’m here to tell him to do anything, but she is far too young. When I look down at her hands, she’s got several rings on, but not one on her ring finger.

“Brother… Eamon?” Again, her tone is weird, but the blur of the alcohol reminds me quickly that I just don’t give a shit.

Looking from her hands to her chest, I stare at her hard nipples. She’s not wearing a bra, and I can see the small bars through them. Well, the balls attached to either ends. We match, how cute.

Without lifting my head, I raise my gaze to hers. “Who are you?” I ask once again.

“My mom owns this house, along with my stepdad, Eamon.”

“…remarried ten years ago, now have a stepdaughter.”

“Fascinating.” I lean back quickly, startling her, then walk around the counter to the fridge. The liquor swirls pleasantly in my brain, lifting me off my feet as if I’m floating. Just a few more drinks and I might finally get some good sleep. “You can leave now.”

Her gasp is quite girly, causing me to roll my eyes. “Excuse you , you can leave. I don’t believe you are Eamon’s brother. I didn’t even know he had one.” I swear she’s lying but I’m so beyond the reality of caring right now that I brush it off.

“Call your dad to come pick you up.”

Before I close the door to the fridge and bring the whisky bottle to my lips, her eyes go wide, and her mouth falls agape.

“How old do you think I am?”

As the liquor rolls down my throat, I close my eyes and lean back against the counter. “Eighteen.”

“Fuck off. I’m twenty-seven. I also have my own car, I can take myself!”

“Then do it.”

I can’t handle this; I just want silence and solitude. That’s why I specifically asked my brother not to come see me.

Taking another drink, I throw myself from the leaned position I’m in and move back to the hallway. “You’ll be gone when I wake, or I’ll call Daddy to come get you.”

“Woah, woah, woah!” I’m just about to reach the corridor leading to my bedroom when she rushes toward me. “You don’t belong in this house. I can’t have you just—oof!”

She slams into my back as I come to an abrupt halt, and the sound of my towel hitting the floor elicits a deep growl that rumbles up from my chest.

“Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry.”

I turn slowly to face her. She stands upright, looking directly into my eyes. It’s hard to see her clearly in this dim hallway, but I can only imagine that she’s turning red—hopefully due to embarrassment.

I lean into her. “Pick up… my towel.”

She takes a step back and swallows, her eyes darting nervously to my collarbone before quickly locking back onto my face.

“Now,” I grit through my teeth.

Her eyes shut and she drops to her knees, scrambling for the towel. I’m tempted to kick it between my legs, forcing her to crawl like a dog to retrieve it. But no, she doesn’t deserve that. I’m tired, drunk, and craving silence, and she represents everything I don’t need right now—and it’s pissing me off.

Ugh, I have a niece who’s eleven years younger than me. How the hell does that even happen?

Step-niece. Semantics.

As she stands and stretches out her arm, holding the towel, her fingers press against my sternum. I trace my gaze up her wrist to her elbow and along the rest of her arm, noting the small, seemingly random tattoos that adorn her skin. They suit her petite frame perfectly, leaving me curious about whether the rest of her body is inked as well.

Not enough to want to tear her clothes off, so I’ll leave it.

Taking the towel, I turn and make my way back down the hall. “Be gone in the morning, doll face, or I’ll call Daddy to come pick your ass up.”

She doesn’t say a word and I slip through the master bedroom door, slamming it shut behind me. The whiskey in my hand feels heavier as I approach the bed. I lift the bottle to my lips and fall back onto the mattress.

I’m out again. Not free, but I’m out. Let’s see how long this fleeting sense of freedom lasts and whether it can outrun my attempts to drink myself into an early grave.