Risk It All (MacAteer Brothers Book 4)

by ML Nystrom

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I was on the verge of sobbing. I still had his dick in my hand, and I jerked it away. “No, I can’t… I just can’t yet… I….”

  “Sloane, please fucking tell me why.”

  My turned-on buzzing body screamed at me to take the risk, and my overwhelmed head trumpeted to retreat and regroup.

  I chose the latter.

  Tears filled my eyes as I shrunk into a babbling incoherent version of myself. “I can’t tell you…. Please let me go. I can’t think…. I can’t— No!”

  I fled. There’s no other word for it. Me, Sloane, Gallaghers’s tough feisty bartender and business owner, ran from the man I wanted more than anyone else.

  He yelled my name as I pushed out of the refrigerator and scrabbled at the locked door to the staircase leading to the upper floors. I didn’t stop until I reached my apartment and walked out on the roof deck. I clutched myself and let it out. This wasn’t a pretty cry. This was hard, wracking sobs that erupted out of me with volcanic force. My throat burned with the effort and I gagged several times. Why me? Why why why why?

  Eventually, the tempest inside me calmed, and I curled up to sniffle and spasm on one of the long lounge chairs, not caring that the wet from the rain soaked into my clothes. My phone chirped with several texts from both Gordon and Patrick. I couldn’t bear to read the ones from Patrick, but I did answer my brother.

  Gordon: You okay, sis?

  Me: I’m fine. Just not feeling too hot. I’m gonna take the rest of the night. You good with closing?

  The dots bounced around for a bit.

  Gordon: Yeah, Patrick and I got this. You sure you’re okay?

  Me: Promise.

  Gordon: You’d tell me if something’s wrong, right?

  Me: Yes, and nothing is wrong. I just need a break.

  Gordon: I get that. Patrick and me got this. Don’t worry. Talk tomorrow, yeah?

  Me: Sure.

  Three more chirps added more texts from Patrick as I turned off my phone. Tears kept leaking from my eyes as I gazed out on the city. I swiped my arm across my nose, not caring about the mess I made. My brain ran the same pattern of thought over and over again like one of those crazy joke flow charts that recycled the reader back to the beginning on every path.

  Patrick likes you and works at the bar. Tell him and see what he does. He stays, or he leaves. Don’t tell him and see what he does. He stays, or he leaves. Get mad and tell him it’s none of his business. He stays, or he leaves. Trust him with the truth. He stays, or he leaves.

  My temples pounded, making my stuffed nose worse. I could tell my eyes had swollen up and were probably red from me rubbing at them. The rain had left the night cooler than normal, and I shivered. I went back down into my apartment to take a painkiller and to get my thickest quilt. Not ready to shower and go to bed, I wrapped up in the quilt and laid down on my sofa in its cocooning warmth. I didn’t intend to fall asleep as I thought myself too wound up for it, but I did.

  Chapter Ten

  Patrick pulled into the parking area and turned off his truck. His mouth formed a hard and determined line as he stared up at Sloane’s floor through the windshield. After he and Gordon closed down the bar last night, he’d left her alone and gone home himself. He’d spent the rest of the night staring at the cracks in the ceiling with his hands behind his head. Over and over again he went over their conversation in his mind, looking for flaws in what he’d said or done.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “No, I can’t… I just can’t yet… I…”

  “Sloane, please fucking tell me why?”

  “I can’t tell you…. Please let me go. I can’t think…. I can’t— No!”

  He figured it couldn’t be another man as he’d been at the bar often enough he would have noticed or heard someone say something. Claudio? Not him. The bastard acted possessive sometimes like he wanted to get back with Sloane, but so far he’d seen no evidence she reciprocated it.

  The bar? Impossible. Gordon said the bar’s finances were good. Not great, but good. He’d even floated the idea of bringing him on full-time.

  Patrick had been surprised as hell at the time, but when Gordon explained about the restaurant idea and Cammie’s excitement, plus that they’d already been looking at a house over toward Swannanoa close to her parents, the offer had left its mark. The couple’s plan was to tag team working until their daughter, Courtney, started kindergarten. Then they planned to hire someone to work the nights and some weekends.

  Gordon had gone on to say that his daughter’s life would be nine to five, Monday to Friday once she started school, and he and Cammie wanted to get their lives scheduled as close to that as possible. He didn’t blame him for not wanting his daughter raised by a bunch of sitters while Gordon poured drinks until midnight every night and Cammie decorated fancy plates for rich people.

  Gordon had been adamant that he thought they could make the changes happen, and as soon as they did, he was out of the bar business. And Patrick? Apparently, he was the perfect replacement.

  Patrick grabbed the bag of cinnamon rolls fresh from the bakery and two coffees. At 9:00 a.m., he should have been at the job site with Owen and Angus, but he’d begged off as this was more important. He planned on trapping Sloane and hashing things out, one way or another.

  The more he thought about Gordon’s proposal last night, the more he wanted it. His stomach churned at the thought of taking the plunge. Never in his wildest fantasies had he ever thought he would face this decision. He’d believed for years that he’d spend his entire life traveling around the country, working jobs with his twin and family. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d be able to do that forever as eventually, his body would break down from all the hard, physical labor, but he imagined that would happen decades from now. The last few months, hell, the last few years, showed him different, and his eyes opened to new possibilities. All three of his older brothers found partners for life. Women totally devoted to them and their growing families.

  What he saw when he looked at Connor, Owen, and Garrett was more than just happiness. Much more. Every time he visited with them, he found them filled with contentment, satisfaction, and sheer joy in their lives. It showed in the look of delight on Owen’s face as he smiled at Melanie while juggling baby Ryan in his arms. It showed in Garrett’s glee when he designed another expansion project for the Bed and Breakfast Inn he and Bertie ran together. It showed in the pride Connor took when he watched his wife get named teacher of the year, or when any of his step-kids won a school award.

  Patrick balanced the cardboard drink tray in one hand as he keyed in the lock combo. The door clicked, and he entered the back office space. The second door to the upper apartments stayed locked, but he also knew that combo. Gordon mentioned one night that his birthday was the code to the outer door and Sloane’s birthday opened the inner.

  Patrick pressed the buttons he knew by heart and heard the door lock disengage. He took a huge breath and let it out slowly. Last time he'd climbed these steps, he'd done so with Angus to measure Gordon’s apartment and get some ideas for the future renovation. He’d never been in Sloane’s unit at all.

  A lump rose in his throat as he stared up the dimly lit steps. Fuck how the hell did men do this shit?

  Morning, Sloane. Wanna be my girlfriend?

  Hi, I think we should date.

  Can I put my tongue in your pussy?

  All sorts of phrases came to his mind as he climbed the steps. His work boots sounded dull echoes through the stairwell.

  Never had he been in this situation before—one where he had no control over the outcome. Love ’em and leave ’em had been his modus operandi until now. He finally acknowledged the truth about the trail of broken hearts he left behind him everywhere he’d gone and regretted it. He wished he could go back and ask forgiveness for the callous way he’d used so many. For the first time in his life, he found
himself on the potential receiving end of rejection. His plan was to bring breakfast and lay his heart in Sloane’s hands, in the hope that she would give him a chance. She could just as well take it and rip it into pieces before throwing him out of her life permanently.

  He stood before her door, his heart pounding, head spinning, and gut churning. Two deep breaths and he knocked.

  Nothing. No peephole either.

  Patrick frowned, thinking he needed to put one in for her. He knocked again and waited.

  Still nothing.

  His hand tested the knob and found the door unlocked.

  “Christ, the woman is nuts.” He walked into the apartment with the idea to start off the morning with a safety lecture. Yeah, that would be a good icebreaker before we get to the heavy shit.

  The apartment had the potential of being a steampunk dream—lofted ceiling with industrial ductwork, red brick walls with big windows, and completely open space. The small kitchen area had semi-modern appliances and the sitting area had a couch and flat-screen TV on an entertainment center, otherwise the place appeared cavernous.

  Not even the bedroom was partitioned off. Patrick took in the rumpled sheets. A colorful quilt laid crumpled up on the couch and he surmised she slept there last night. Why? Another question to ask her. A sectioned off room close to the back wall had to be the bathroom. It made sense as he spotted the array of pipes adorning the ceiling. The natural light from the windows cast a harsh glare, and he took several steps into the apartment to get a better look at everything. What met his eyes blew confusion into his brain.

  “What the fuck?” he muttered under his breath.

  A row of wigs on Styrofoam heads lined a shelf mounted above the dresser. Blonde with green tips, Brunette with long waves, one with tight black braids, the multi-colored one he’s seen her wear for Cinco de Mayo, another one in long blonde curls, even the Star Wars Rae-styled one.

  A shuffling noise sounded, and he stood stock-still as Sloane came from behind the partition. Obviously, she had been in the shower when he knocked earlier and hadn’t heard him. The lecture about putting in a peephole and the dangers of leaving her door unlocked died from his lips as he took in her appearance in utter shock.

  She stood before him in all her naked glory, not quite bony, but definitely skinny. Small thighs, slim hips, tiny waist, thin arms.

  “Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” His whisper sounded loud in the silence.

  And a completely bald head plus two horizontal scars where her breasts were supposed to be.

  The light streaming through the tall windows woke me up with a cramp in my neck and a line of dried drool across my chin. Fuck, I fell asleep on my sofa after all. I clicked off the muted TV as I gingerly rose, my back locking up in protest. Damn, I needed to get my ass over to the yoga studio. I arched, trying to stretch the tension from my muscles, but the painful protest had me bending over like an old lady.

  Coffee. I needed coffee, but first, a hot shower since I didn’t get one last night. I shuffled into my bathroom and stripped, letting the clothes land on the floor. I had a hamper in the corner but bending over to grab my stuff proved to be more than I could handle. No one lived here but me and seldom did anyone visit other than Gordon, Cammie, and Courtney.

  You could have had Patrick up here last night, my inner voice mocked.

  Gah, why did that thought have to crop up? I started the shower and sat on the plastic bench I’d placed in here. The huge tiled space had no curtain or door as I never saw the need to put one up. I had a gorgeous view of the toilet and sink vanity on one side, and the claw-footed tub and linen shelves on the other. The extra-wide shower head mounted directly above me poured steaming water over my head and back, and my groan echoed against the walls.

  Wonder what Patrick would think of your shower design?

  Stop it, Sloane!

  He’s not as shallow as you think.

  Doesn’t matter. It’s not going to happen.

  You should tell him.

  I can’t risk it.

  He might surprise you.

  I might also be devastated.

  I shook my head to clear the voices arguing inside it. Fuck, the man had me talking to myself.

  When my neck released enough to stand, I reached for my favorite body wash and squidgie-thingie. The ginger-orange scent never failed to give me a boost. I needed every bit of positive I could find. At some point, I had to talk to Patrick, and that terrified me. What was I supposed to say?

  I really like you, but I have this situation.

  Maybe we should just be friends. No more kissing.

  Can we fuck with our clothes on so you don’t have to look at me?

  I had no clue what to do, but thankfully I had some time to think before seeing him tonight. Maybe he would stay home or go somewhere else for a change. I could dream, right?

  I ran a hand over my head to check for stubble and reached for the shaving cream and razor. My hair didn’t grow back as I’d hoped. It came up in random patches in some areas and nothing in others. What did grow back was thin and brittle, unlike the rich chocolate it used to be. I decided to just keep it shaved unless it all came back uniform.

  I still waited, even after these past few years.

  I swiped my hand across the fogged mirror to clear it and assess the damage last night’s crying had left me. My eyelids were still puffy and slightly red. Hopefully they would go down enough to apply false lashes later. Coloring in my wispy eyebrows could wait too. One advantage I supposed was the lack of leg and arm hair. No pubes either.

  I didn’t pay any attention to my surroundings as I left my bathroom and sauntered buck naked into my sleeping area. No need to call it a bedroom as there weren’t any other walls in my place. I supposed I could be concerned about the windows, but from this angle, all you could see was the sky. Since I couldn’t see the other buildings, the other buildings couldn’t see me, right? Frankly, who would want to? One look at my breastless chest would scare off any Peeping Toms.

  My mind listed tasks for the day to keep from thinking about Patrick and what to say to him. Get the inventory done, make the orders, pick up groceries, run the reports, and get the books caught up, get the deposits ready—

  “Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  My stomach dropped through the floor like an anchor. Patrick stood in my apartment in front of me, two coffees in one hand and a bakery bag in the other.

  I stopped breathing.

  For a split second, we just stared. His face was slack with shock and mine with humiliation.

  He saw.

  He saw everything.

  There was nothing close by to cover myself. I put my hands over my chest, but that left my pussy exposed. But if shifted my hands down, my scars were visible. Nowhere to run. Bathroom? I’d get trapped in there, and if I knew Patrick MacAteer the way I thought I did, he’d come after me. I resorted to crouching down, hunching over to hide as much of me as possible, and gasping as I started to breathe again. Fight or flight? No way out, so fight it is.

  “What the fuck are you doing here? Get the fuck out! Get out! Get out! Get OUT!”

  My screech reverberated through my apartment as I clawed at the top sheet on my bed for some sort of cover.

  “Go! Go! Go!”

  The windows in my place should have shattered at the decibels coming from me.

  Patrick remained routed, staring as I screamed. He watched as I fell apart. I picked up a tennis shoe near my bed and chucked it at him.

  “Get out! Now!”

  It didn’t reach him, and he didn’t move so I picked up another one and threw it harder. This one hit him in the stomach. I was sure it didn’t hurt that hard washboard of his, but the impact did cause him to drop the coffees and the bag. Brown liquid spewed over the hardwood floor and I looked around for something else to throw.

  “Get the fuck out!”

  He turned away. God in heaven, he turned and walked away from me.

 
I died.

  My heart shattered so hard the pain sent me to the floor. I went blind, it hurt so bad. My hands curled into fists as I resisted the urge to tear at my flesh. I was beyond crying, taking in huge gasps of air and screaming silently in my head. The pressure built to the point I needed to scream for real or explode.

  My world spun as the heavy quilt I’d left on my sofa came down over me and I got scooped up in two arms. Two strong arms that encircled me, my back to his front. Two arms that no matter how hard I scraped at them to let me go, banded me in solid steel. Two arms that held me still until I stopped struggling.

  “Calm.” Patrick’s rough command huffed close to my ear. “Breathe with me, baby. In over four, hold, and out over four. Ready? Follow me.”

  I had no choice but to do as he said. I drew in a choppy breath, smelling his woodsy cologne and held it. His exhale tickled my ear as I aped him.

  “Again.”

  My bowstring tight body started shaking, but he kept his grip on me. Another breath. Then another. And another. I stopped fighting him, but that didn’t make the pain in my heart or the panic in my mind go away. The way he held me, fuck, what I wouldn’t give for this to be real. “You can let go now.” Please don’t!

  “I can, but I’m not going to. Breathe with me.”

  The sundial clock on my wig shelf clicked through ten minutes before the iron grip around me relaxed a bit, but he still didn’t release me.

  “Cancer.” He made this as a statement, not a question.

  I couldn’t hide it from him now. Best just to put it all out there and let the chips fall.

  “Four years ago. Double mastectomy. Six weeks of chemo and radiation therapy. One more year, and I’ll move up to the status of a cancer-free survivor.” I sniffed as the tears broke free and fell. “I’m also one of the statistics in that my hair never grew back right and at this point probably never will.”

  “I wondered how you changed hairstyles all the time.”