Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“Rian,” Conan says.
I pull myself out of my thoughts. “I think you’re forgetting who you’re talking to. I’m the one with the say in this family. Not you.”
“I’m not trying to take your role. I’m trying to be your friend,” he says, words hitting their mark with a sharp sting the way they were intended. Conan is my friend. The oldest, truest one I have. “Do you need me to do it?”
My shoulders tense, every inch of my skin going hot. I bite down on my tongue to keep myself from snapping out an angered reply, telling Conan he won’t touch him, that he can’t, that he’s mine, because all that will do is make him even more certain I can’t handle this.
That he’s mine…
Mine to kill is what I mean. There is no other option.
“No. I’m doing it. I just need a couple more days to heal, and then it will be done, and I’ll come home. Everything is fine, Conan, and I’d appreciate it if you remembered that and stop trying to turn this into something it’s not.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and then, with a cold detachment he’s good at, he says, “Whatever you say, Boss.”
It’s the way he would have spoken to my brother, not with the care, friendship, and respect he uses with me. Guilt builds in my gut, rising to burn the back of my throat. “I’m not him. I’m not trying to be him. It’s just…” Just what? This man has an effect on me that I don’t understand. One I both want to set fire to, but also nurture. Because when he says things to me like he did a little while ago, like tell me he doesn’t want to add another body count to that eight-year-old boy I used to be, I feel like I matter in a way I haven’t in too long.
“A few more days,” Conan says. “We need you, Rian. Don’t forget that. Cillian needs you.” And the best way to ensure I’m there for my son, that I stay alive and out of prison, and that Abbott doesn’t bring our whole fucking operation down because of things I’ve said in front of him, is to kill him.
“I could never forget that.” I end the call before Conan can say another word.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and go inside, not giving myself time to think about my conversation with Conan or anything that’s happened with Abbott while we’ve been here.
He doesn’t speak, but keeps his gaze firmly fixed on me as I close the door, walk over to him, and unlock his cuffs.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” he says, a sort of sadness to his voice that hadn’t been there before I’d locked him up again. Maybe I should cuff him afterward. We both need it because he shouldn’t be sad or confused about why I’m treating him the way I should in the situation we’re in.
There shouldn’t be any kind of comfort or familiarity between us, but somehow that’s happened…maybe even from the start.
For now, though, I just nod toward the bathroom and say, “Go,” instead of following him.
He cocks his head slightly but doesn’t linger long before going. Abbott doesn’t close the door, and he’s only in there a minute before the toilet flushes and the water turns on, telling me he’s washing his hands.
“Baked chicken?” he asks when he gets back into the kitchen.
Ignore him. Cuff him. Better yet, do what you need to do. Kill him and move on.
“Baked chicken,” I confirm.
Without thinking, I pull my cell out again and open one of my playlists. Gorecki’s Symphony No. 3 begins playing as I pull the chicken from the fridge.
“You listen to classical music?” he asks.
I cock a brow his direction. “Yes. Not what you expected?”
“Not much about you is what I expected,” he replies. There’s a quiet voice inside of me asking, What else? Tell me everything, but I manage to shut down those thoughts. “You acted angry when it played in my car.”
Yes, yes, I had been, but that’s because it’s something that belongs to me, and after the whirlwind of the physical reaction I had to him and then everything that happened, it was too much for me.
It should be too much for me now. “It’s not a big deal, Abbott.”
“I didn’t say it was.” He leans against the counter, pensive as he says, “My mom thought I would be a musician. I used to not be able to sleep unless I had classical music playing. What child loves instruments like that? She took me to the symphony when I was eight. My father was there. It was rare that he did things like that with us, but you know, have to make a show of things sometimes. I remember crying, it was so beautiful. What eight-year-old cries when they hear music?” he asks, but I can’t answer, can’t find words. I’m just…riveted by this story, though I don’t know why.