by Cassie Wild
Not really. It had felt empty ever since the day Isabel died. Every place I looked, there was a memory. But I had no desire to move my ass to a hotel or something either.
“I’m sorry.” That smile became a little more pained. “But building codes and other issues prevent a tenant from being in the immediate area when certain repairs are made.”
“So you’re clearing the whole building?”
“It just applies to the immediate area being repaired.” He once more smoothed his lapels down, the smile falling from his face. “Sir, I realize this is terribly inconvenient, but it’s a matter of safety, for both you and other tenants of the building.”
My aggravation grew, and once more, I shot a look back at my apartment. “What about my things?”
“I’ve already arranged for a security guard to be on the premises during working hours, although if you have small valuables or cash, I encourage you to take them with you. Everybody who’ll be on the floor has already passed a stringent background check.” He tilted his head to the side. “I take the safety of my tenants quite seriously, I assure you. I’m confident anything you leave will be secure.”
“Are walls coming down? Will they be repairing any damage?”
“Anything damaged will be repaired,” he promised. “Your home will look exactly as it does now.”
“Shit.”
“You’re not getting falling down drunk every night,” Cedric said, eying me as he pushed open the door to the spare bedroom. “And, buddy, I don’t want to tell you how to live your life, but you can’t bring drugs into this place.”
I made a pointed effort not to look at him. “I figured as much.”
“I’m not kidding, man.”
His somber tone had me looking over at him, and once I did, he continued. “My career can’t afford that kind of thing, and unlike you, I don’t have the kind of influence behind my family name to make anything shady disappear.”
There weren’t too many friends who would have the balls to say that kind of thing to me—too many people period. But Cedric and I had been friends since the first early months of college, and I didn’t just respect him. He was like another brother to me. I jerked my head in a nod. “I know where you’re coming from. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Okay, then.” He smiled and gestured to the room. “Make yourself at home.”
Despite the words, though, not all of the tension totally faded, and once he was gone, I pondered, again, whether I should consider getting a hotel for the duration.
But immediately, I shoved the idea off. I’d go crazy living out of a suitcase for even a few weeks. I’d give it a few days, and if Cedric still seemed worried, I’d call around about renting out some sort of temporary furnished apartment or something.
The last thing I needed was to put stress on the few friends I had.
You can always go home, a small voice suggested.
I ignored it, dumping one of the two pieces of luggage I’d brought with me. I hadn’t worried about much. A gym bag with workout gear and a suitcase with some clothes, a few pairs of shoes and a picture of Isabel, which I’d wrapped in a shirt and tucked into the zippered compartment along with my toiletries. I didn’t want to look at it every day—or any day, really—but leaving it behind wasn’t an option either.
My phone rang as I dropped down onto the bed next to the bags. I gave it a disinterested look as I picked it up. Dad. I debated for a second before answering. I always felt guilty when I ignored him, though, and I hadn’t talked to him the last two times he called.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Sean! I was thinking about coming by. You up for company? We could order pizza, watch a game.”
Well, at least I had a good excuse not to entertain. “Actually, I’m not home. I’ve got to vacate the premises for a few weeks,” I told him, falling back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m staying at Cedric’s for now.”
“Cedric’s?”
The tone in my father’s voice made me smile a little. I couldn’t even see him, and I already knew he was scowling.
“Why the hell not just come home for a few weeks? There’s a lot more room here than at his place.”
“I don’t need room, Dad. I just need a bed…and peace.”
“Not like I’d be hanging out in your room all day.” He grumbled a few seconds, then added, “Cedric doesn’t even have a gym for you to use. You’ll go crazy without a place to work out. You know that.”
I could have mentioned that I was already half crazy as it was but decided against it. “I’ll figure something out.”
He was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. “Alright. Well…” He hesitated, then added, “I might be going out of town for a little while. I’d wanted to see you, but I imagine you’ve got your hands full, having to leave your condo so suddenly.”
“I am pretty tired.” Shoving the guilt back, I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You won’t be gone long, right? We can do dinner or something when you get back.”
The only reason I answered the phone when he called me less than twenty-four hours later was because I still felt guilty over the disappointment in his voice.
Maybe things were strained between us now, but I did love my dad. He was trying to help. I knew that. It wasn’t his fault that I’d gone far beyond help. Still, I answered. Fuck, it was my dad. The man who’d bought me my first basketball and taken me to my first game.
The man whose sad voice still echoed in my ear.
Fuck it all.
“Hello.”
“Sean.”
“Hi, Dad.” I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, a familiar headache already throbbing behind my eyes. Since I’d had to leave the fucking condo to drive over to Cedric’s, I’d hit a liquor store on the way over—and yes, I’d stocked up.
I hadn’t exactly emptied any of the bottles out, but there was no denying I’d had a drink…or few.
“Listen, I need to ask you a favor.”
I stifled a groan. “Ask away, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to help.”
“Well, that’s the thing. I hate it, son, but I really need your help. You see, Briar finally managed to find a girl to help me rebuild my library, but she’s got her set to start here in a few days.” He let out a deep sigh. “I didn’t realize it would be so fast and here I am, set to fly out soon. I don’t much like the idea of somebody being in my house unattended. The girl’s already moved in. Gave up her apartment for the job. I can’t make her leave.” He hesitated, then added, “I really don’t want to put off my trip. I’m flying back to Ireland with Declan to see some old friends. I’ve put it off too long, and I’m getting along in years…”
The words trailed away, and guilt, as it often did, kicked in.
“You want me to come stay at the house?” I offered.
“Yes.” He heaved out a relieved groan. “Sean, it would take a weight off my shoulders if you would.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Although if you could avoid drinking all the good scotch, that would be good.”
“I’ll leave a bottle or two.”
I expected a laugh, but he just sighed, and I had a feeling he was taking me at my word. The sick sense of shame settled in me, and I wanted to reach out, grab the words and yank them back.
“When do you think you can be here?” he asked as I was fumbling for a way to change the subject.
“I…” Had he told me when they were leaving? I didn’t really want to be there with both him and Declan. It was hard to be around them both and see the worry in Dad’s eyes, the frustration that bordered on censure in Declan’s. “I guess I’ll come tomorrow. When are you leaving?”
“The day after. Glad I’ll have a chance to visit with you before we leave, boy. I’ve been missing you.”
A knot filled my throat.
He rushed to fill the silence. “I know, I know. You need time. I went through the same kind of thing when your mum died. I know how hard it can be, how the gui
lt and grief can choke you. I just want you to know your family is here for you.”
“I know that, Dad. I’ve got to go, okay?” Disconnecting the call without waiting for an answer, I blew out a breath and sank back onto the bed, feeling completely and utterly drained. All from talking to my dad. It was bullshit. It shouldn’t be so hard to talk to people.
And it wasn’t just talking to people.
It was the mask I put on. It was exhausting trying to pretend I was even a little okay when I wasn’t. But nobody needed to see the mess I was inside. It was like everything in me was mired in toxic sludge, and there was no hope of cleaning it out.
Dad had said he understood about the guilt?
How the fuck could he?
Mom had been killed because a driver crashed into her.
Isabel had died because she got into my car, and the bomb meant for me took her life instead.
How did it even compare?
“Hey.”
A sharp rap on the door had me looking over as Cedric pushed it open just enough to look inside. “I’m going to order a pizza. Want any?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I went to pull my wallet out. “I’ll get it.”
“No, it’s good.” He narrowed his eyes, studying me. “What’s wrong?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “My dad just called. He’s flying to Ireland with Declan for a trip, and he wants me to stay at the house. Guess you don’t have to worry about me getting drunk, falling down or otherwise.”
He didn’t say anything for a long while, then finally, he said, “Sean, you could probably do to spend more time with your family anyway, you know. Shutting yourself up like you have is like textbook depression shit.”
I lowered my hand and gave him a baleful look. “I don’t want an armchair analysis.”
“I took enough psych courses to offer a bit more than an armchair anything,” he replied, not thrown by my bullshit. “You’re still in a very dark place, man, and it ain’t good for you. You know that. I’ll call for the pizza. Probably be about an hour.” He rapped his knuckles on the door once more and left me alone.
I was tempted to tell him to shove the pizza up his ass.
But I didn’t.
Seventeen
Tish
The library was going to be amazing.
In all honesty, it was already more impressive than anything I’d likely ever own, with original, first-edition classics by authors like Lord Byron and Mary Shelley, as well as a complete set of both The Iliad and The Odyssey, translated by Alexander Pope. First editions in near flawless condition. The set alone was worth thousands and thousands of dollars.
Briar and her father had given me a walk-through of the library when I’d arrived a few days earlier. Since then, I’d been cataloging the books and making notes based on what Mr. Downing said he’d like to focus on.
He’d had a decent list, thanks to the care of his butler, of what had been destroyed, either due to smoke or water damage. Looking at the losses made me sick. The books that were now in the library had come from his wife’s personal library, one he’d told me hadn’t been touched since she’d died years earlier. It had been at the back of the house and had miraculously avoided being damaged.
There were also newer classics and contemporary titles that had been purchased and had yet to be shelved or had clearly been placed wherever it was convenient at the time. My fingers itched to put them in some sort of order, but it didn’t make sense to do much of anything until I had a better idea of just where everything would go once I got around to ordering books and taking shipments.
Seamus had presented me with a business card the night before, one that had my name on it, along with Downing Enterprises embossed below. I hadn’t been expecting that, and he must have guessed by the confused look I’d given him. He simply smiled and rubbed my shoulder. “You know the basics of what I want, and I’ve already told you which ones are most important and should be first editions. If you find them and have concerns about cost, talk to Stansfield. He helped me curate my old library so he’s got a good eye as to whether I’ll be willing to invest. Some titles I’ll want regardless, if you can find them. Others, I’ll haggle but might forgo. He’ll help you figure it out.”
He’d given clear instructions on which books he’d considered his regardless list and I’d priced a few already. Just thinking about spending that sort of money made my head spin. But I figured this was good practice.
After all, the money I earned on this job would be the nest-egg for what I’d decided I really did want to do. What would make me happy.
I was going to open a bookstore that specialized in antique and first edition classics. I loved books, period, but there was something about old books, even if it was just a thirty or forty-year-old book of fairy tales for children…or a vintage set of Homer classics worth more than some cars.
I strolled over to the set in question, kept pristine and protected from changes in temperature by the glass case that held them. I stroked my gloved fingertip across the surface of the glass wistfully. I’d let myself look at The Iliad for just a few seconds. Mr. Downing had encouraged me to look at any of the books. “Even that fancy set behind the glass. No point in having them if they can’t be read,” he’d insisted.
But beyond that one look, I wasn’t going to touch them again.
My belly chose that moment to growl. I glanced outside and grimaced when I saw that it had gotten dark. A quick look at the time told me that it was coming up on seven.
“Hell,” I muttered. I had no idea how that had happened. No wonder my belly was growling. I’d had a decent breakfast and had meant to stop for lunch around two, but I’d kept getting distracted. Save for the water I’d been chugging, I hadn’t had anything in my belly since around ten that morning. And my bladder panged insistently, reminding me of all that water.
Blowing out a breath, I looked around.
I’d done enough for the day. I had a partial list of collections that I thought would appeal to Mr. Downing and had even priced a few online. There were two bookstores that I wanted to visit and see what they had in stock, but more than likely, I’d end up buying most of the books online.
My back ached as I stretched. I’d have to remember to take breaks more often and work the kinks out. Otherwise, I’d be walking like an old woman after a few days of this. My posture sucked even at the best of times.
I turned on the lights and started for the kitchen. This time, I made it without getting lost. The first few days, I’d sworn I’d never get through this place without GPS and a ball of string, but I could navigate the important paths now, namely my room to the library to the kitchen and back to my room. That was what counted, right?
The large, open kitchen was empty, which I’d come to expect at this time of day. There was a small household staff, but I’d rarely seen anybody other than the butler and Mary, the woman who’d come in to clean my room the day before. I’d told her I’d handle it. I didn’t know what to make of having somebody cleaning up after me. She’d looked puzzled but had smiled and nodded.
When she’d given me a tour of the kitchen, Briar had pointed out that the kitchen was kept stocked with light snacks and the basic necessities for simple meals like salads and sandwiches, so I set about constructing a massive club. The empty knot in my belly had started to pang angrily at me on the walk here, and once I was done building a monstrous concoction of ham, turkey, cheese, and various toppings, I ducked into the pantry for some chips. I spied a jar of cookies on my way out of the kitchen and paused to grab one. Armed with a tall glass of ice water, a canned soft drink that I’d shoved into the huge double front pocket on my hoodie and the plate, I headed for my room.
At the foot of the west staircase, I paused, looking up at the shuffling, stumbling sound.
Somebody swore.
I jumped at what sounded like somebody falling.
Hurriedly, I put my food and water down on the small accent table near the railing, then
rushed up the stairs.
I froze at the sight before me, heat rushing up to stain my cheeks. Oh. Shit.
Sean leaned against the wall, balefully staring down at the wet stain spreading across the deep burgundy carpet. There was no mystery as to what had happened. He had a faint red mark rising on his cheek, and the small table on the landing, which was normally snug against the wall, was out of place. A bottle of alcohol lay on the ground.
He’d most definitely fallen. Or tripped.
He swayed on his feet.
“Sean? Are you okay?”
He blinked blearily then looked up at me. After another owlish blink, he scowled. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I…” Quick, think? “I could ask you the same thing. I work here.” Looking at the floor, I changed the subject to him. “It appears you’re here drinking.”
“You don’t work here,” he said belligerently. He swooped down, coming dangerously close to hitting his head on the table as he grabbed the bottle and lifted. “Waste of good bourbon.”
Maybe a third of it remained in the bottle. I was tempted to grab it away from him, but figured if I did, it would just be a fight.
“I do work here. I’m helping Mr. Downing rebuild his library. There was a fire—”
“No. There were bombs,” he said, eyes gleaming despite the alcoholic fog. “Somebody put bombs around the house. Half of the place was destroyed because the bombs caused a fire and there was also smoke damage.”
My heart fluttered a bit. Briar had been hesitant about explaining what had happened. I guess I could see why now. He was clearly waiting for my reaction, though. What did he want? For me to be afraid?
Okay. Bombs were scary, but I wasn’t about to take off running out the door, even if my cautious nature was now a bit more on edge.
I could give any number of reasons for that, and number one on top of the list? I was too damn hungry, and my sandwich wasn’t even twenty feet away.
