Page 87 of Irish Brute

SAMANTHA

My phone rings before I can cross the abandoned lobby. My heart leaps, knowing it’s Braiden, knowing I can go upstairs, that we can start over, that we can talk this through like adults, instead of like desperate, wounded children.

But it’s not Braiden. It’s my boss, Trap Prince.

I want to ignore him. To put this off just a few minutes longer, until I know where my heart is. Until I’m able to breathe.

But I don’t have a choice. I gave up that option when I took Eliza’s money, years ago. “Trap,” I say, keeping my voice even.

“The pictures,” he says. “Are they real?”

Instead of answering, I say, “I’ll have my resignation letter on your desk by noon today.”

“Hold off on that. Let’s see what happens.”

What happens will be front-page news on every one of those papers Braiden reads every morning.Homicide Investigationfor General Counsel of Billionaire Tax Haven. Diamond Defender on Trial for Her Life. Solicitor Slaying Scandal.

“As your corporate lawyer, I strongly suggest it’s in the freeport’s best interest to get a statement out ahead of this,” I say.

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Trap, this isn’t a joke.”

“No one’s fucking laughing.” He pauses for a moment, and I think I can end this conversation, get back to the disaster my life has suddenly become. “Are you with Kelly now?” he asks.

A sound breaks out of my throat that isn’t human. It’s part brutal laugh, part desperate sob, part amazement and terror and sheer, ordinary exhaustion. But none of it is words. I finally manage, “He threw me out.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Trap says. One tiny part of my brain is still functioning enough to be grateful for his language. If Trap ever stopped swearing, I’d know the world was truly coming to an end. “Do you need a place to stay?”

I answer a different question. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fucking fine.”

“I’ll come down there now. I can pack up everything in my office and be out by close of business.”

“The fuck you will.”

“Trap—”

“Shit,” he sounds like he wants to punch something. Or maybe someone. “Goldenrod’s yours,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“Goldenrod Cottage. The one by the bay.”

The freeport cottages are used as guesthouses, prizes for our best clients. They’re always stocked, ready for use in any emergency.

And I guess my life now qualifies as an emergency.

“Thank you,” I finally say, because there aren’t enough words to cover everything else I should tell him.

“I’ll call Kelly in the morning. Tell the motherfucker to get his head out of his ass.”

“He’s your client,” I remind Trap.

“He’s a goddamn idiot.”

“It’s complicated.” That’s the word I choose, because it’s safer than so many others. It’s easier thanAiofe. OrGrace. Orthe Fishtown Boys. It’s simpler thansirandmasterand all the things I’ve let Braiden to do me.