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CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CONOR

The wind slams the door behind me as I walk into the club. It smells different from usual—the lingering chemical scent of a hospital. Fuck, how much blood did I lose in here? Even with the strange aroma, it’s comforting here. Like a second home. Walking toward the bar, I run my hand over my short hair.

It’s probably way too fucking early, but I bark, “Double Jameson on the rocks.” I don’t look up to meet either Declan or Tristan’s faces, I need the drink. The burn of whiskey running down my throat will give me something to focus on other than… well, everything that may or may not be happening in Victoria’s apartment.

Declan slides the glass across the bar to me. “I’d argue, but fuck… You almost died. Have the whole fucking bottle.” He places the half-full bottle beside my glass and leans against the bar.

I stare at the whiskey in my hand, the thought of downing a whole bottle before noon not exactly seeming like a bad idea. I could forget about the chaos bomb I dropped this morning.

“A whole bottle at 9 a.m.? Living with the loves of your life not going that well?” Tristan smirks, entering the room with an air of sarcasm.

I take a long sip, relishing in the burn running into my chest. “I left them to work through some shit,” I mutter, my eyes focused on the bar top. “After I stirred the pot.”

Tristan arches a brow and slides onto the barstool beside me. “So, it’s safe to they’re either fucking each other’s brains out or killing each other,” he teases, his lips curling into that damn cocky half-smile.

Shaking my head, I let out a deep, heavy sigh. “Exactly.”

Declan chuckles, leaning over the bar and grabbing the bottle. Uncapping it with a quick twist of his wrist, he pours himself a shot. “Well, at least you have an alibi. Or, if you want to go the other route, you know a few guys that can help clean that up for you.”

I laugh, somehow finding his dark humor comforting. The rattling from my lungs hurts like a son of a bitch, and I grasp at the wounds on my side. I throw back the remaining whiskey and lean against the bar, muttering—mostly to myself—“Fuck… I hope they’re making up.”

“What do you want, Conor? Seriously?” Declan asks, quickly refilling my glass as I stare into the amber liquid swirling into the ice.

“I want them to work it out,” I answer, the knot in my chest tightening. Only, I don’t know what they’re working out. I don’t know why Victoria has been pushing Elena away. Fuck… for all I know, it’s me. They were happy together for years before I came into the picture.

Fuck… what if it is me?

I love them both far too much to walk away. But I need them both. I don’t think I could pick between them with a gun to head. They’ve both taken an equal hold in my heart.

Tristan turns on his stool and plants his hand on my shoulder. “Here’s the thing, Con. You’ve got two women who, for some ungodly reason, both want to be with you?—”

“Fuck off,” I jokingly interrupt, rolling my eyes.

“And that shit is messy as fuck,” he continues. “You’ve got your relationship with each of them, their relationship, and your relationship as a whole. All of those relationships need to be good for it to work. So, let them fuck. Let them fight. Either way, they’ve got to figure out their shit.”

It stings, but it’s true. I stirred the pot, and I forced them to talk, but I can’t fix their problems for them. They have to do that on their own.

“I’m worried they’ll fall apart over me,” I lament, shaking my head.

“Jesus Christ, big guy!” Layla exclaims, and I can practically hear her eyes roll from across the bar. “That’s some big fucking ego you’ve got there.”

“Well, sweetheart, that’s because it’s the same size as my di?—”

A scowl on his face, Tristan interrupts with a smirk, “Watch yourself, brother. I’m not above putting a fourth bullet in you.”

Layla reaches us, and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her between his thighs. “My ass will probably regret this later”—she leans back against her husband—“but the world does not revolve around the Evans men.”

“Yours does, mo chuisle ,” Tristan gruffs in her ear, eliciting a smile.

“Shit happened when you almost died.” Her tone is sharp, but her eyes give away the worry she had that night, too. “The two of them went through the ringer. Their roles reversed, and the woman who fought so hard over submitting to you totally fucking crumbled… leaving her submissive to pick up her pieces. Trust me, what they’re working through doesn’t have shit to do with you and your”—her eyes drop to my crotch—“big ego.”

She’s probably right… she’s always fucking right.

Tristan rests his chin on Layla’s shoulder as he stares at me, the faintest hint of seriousness crossing his face. “Elena and I talked when Victoria hit rock bottom. She knew exactly what she was doing when she took control. I have faith, Con. She’s a smart girl. If she knows that’s the problem, she’ll figure out how to give it back.”

God… I fucking hope so.