Double Vision

by L. M. Halloran

  Home.

  I clear my throat. “Can I come in?”

  Liam steps back from the doorway. “Yes—absolutely, come in.”

  My body humming with his nearness, I barely resist reaching out to touch him as I walk to the couch and sit.

  Liam closes the door and takes a step toward me, then stops. Whatever expression I’m wearing causes him to change direction. He leans against the desk instead. Hands braced tightly on the surface to either side of him, he watches me expectantly.

  I lift my chin. “Will you tell me now?”

  He nods. “Anything you want to know.”

  The question that comes out of my mouth first surprises both of us. “How did you find where I hid the diamonds?” Until asking, I hadn’t realized how curious I was.

  A brow arches. “Burying a lockbox under a porch wasn’t exactly original.”

  Chagrined, I demand, “But how did you figure out my connection with Benny? I never told you about him.”

  “Trade secrets,” he says, smirking.

  “Liam!” I bark.

  The familiar, joyful rumble of his laughter makes my heart pound hard. I want badly to smile, but maintain my stern expression.

  He finally lifts his hands in surrender, laughter lingering in his eyes. “The new phone I gave you before you left L.A. was bugged. I tracked you to Benny’s. Wasn’t hard to figure out the rest.”

  My eyes widen. “I knew it!” Feeling vindicated, I lean forward and cross my legs. “Okay, now tell me about Hernandez.”

  Liam sobers, chest expanding on a sigh. I study him carefully for signs that he’s preparing to lie, but I don’t find any. For better or worse, whatever’s coming is the truth.

  “Hernandez tracked me down in Dublin last year. I don’t know how, but he put together what happened to the diamonds. He gave me an ultimatum. When the time came, either I did whatever he asked me to, or he would freeze the account and arrest you for the theft. I called bullshit—until he told me about his move to the CIA and named the bank on Cook Islands. And I knew he wasn’t bluffing.”

  I release a slow breath. “And then?”

  “He called me when you went missing. Same day as the shooting in your hospital. We improbably found ourselves on the same side—trying to find you and the Donnellys.”

  “Why didn’t he want me to know?”

  His eyes soften with apology. “Because six weeks… it’s a long time for a person to be victimized. Even after I found you, when you were rehabilitating, he wasn’t convinced he could trust you. I told him he could, Eden. I swear it.”

  I snort in disbelief. “He thought what—that I’d been brainwashed into a bloodthirsty Donnelly?”

  “Or had Stockholm syndrome, yes.” He says it without judgement.

  Though we’ve never talked explicitly about Chris and the complex feelings he evokes—hatred and sympathy—from the compassion in Liam’s eyes, it’s clear he can relate. Knowing he has similarly conflicting feelings about his father is both tragic and cathartic.

  I’m not alone.

  “It’s a psychological mindfuck, isn’t it?” he murmurs.

  I nod, sighing. “I guess I can see where Hernandez was coming from. But why didn’t you tell me that day? Was it because he was in the room?”

  “No, love,” he says softly. “Blame it on the blood loss. I do, sometimes. I couldn’t get my head straight. All I knew was that you were walking away from me, and that if I tried, I could stop you. Instead, I pushed you away. A large part of it was I didn’t believe I deserved you. I still don’t—not really. But I also knew you needed something I couldn’t give you.”

  His gaze flickers over my body, cataloguing everything from my relaxed posture to my long, unbound hair and the bold, sultry dress. I hear his words, even if he doesn’t speak them—whatever it was, you found it.

  I drag in a shuddering breath. “Then you came here and waited to see if I’d come back to you.”

  “Aye,” he whispers. “And have you?”

  I want more than anything to fall to my knees before him, to surrender in a way I never have before. A way I didn’t understand before. Resisting the instinct takes every ounce of willpower I possess. Or nearly every ounce, because with the last drops I have left, I stand and square my shoulders.

  “It depends.”

  “On what?” he breathes.

  “Whether or not you’re still willing to serve.”

  His eyes widen with surprise, swiftly overtaken by relief. That’s all I glimpse before he steps toward me, bows his head, and lowers gracefully to his knees.

  “I serve at your pleasure.”

  The next breath I take crosses the boundary of flesh into spirit. Does the soul sleep, only to awaken? Because that’s what it feels like is happening—my soul’s first breath of life after a long sleep. An expansion of unparalleled warmth and rightness.

  Tears prick my eyes as I take his face in my hands and guide it upward. In his brilliant eyes, I see us together. Not as we might have hoped, but as we are. And we are perfect.

  I stroke my thumbs across his cheekbones. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about topping you. Can you imagine me with a whip? I’d probably hurt myself. And you know I can’t tie knots to save my life.”

  I lower to my knees, shifting forward until we’re chest to chest. “I like this better, anyway.”

  Liam’s confusion shifts to something infinitely more transparent and precious. His warm, strong hands cover mine. Mirth and love shimmer in his eyes.

  “Eden Elizabeth Sumner, did you just make your Dom kneel as a test?”

  I nod. “Yes, definitely. In case you were wondering, you passed.”

  His lips twist comically before he releases laughter. “Thank God. I’m not very good at following orders.”

  My laugh is light—as light as I am.

  “Neither am I.”

  Epilogue

  LIAM

  When I was a lad, my nanna used to tell me about the man she hoped I’d become. Loyal and kind like my grandad. Brave and strong like my great-uncle Cornelius. Intelligent and ambitious like the sons of our neighbor who left home to earn college degrees. Generous and passionate like my mother, though Nanna was adamant that I not listen to the latter instinct until I was much older and wiser.

  I’ve always known the past cannot be changed, but for many years I didn’t know I could find peace with it. Nor did I imagine I could ever see myself as the man my nanna wanted me to be.

  Not until I met her.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asks, her hands sliding over my shoulders to my chest.

  “You,” I answer, tilting my face to see her upside-down smile. “Come here.”

  Bare feet round my chair, angled to face the cliffs and the aqua waters beyond. I don’t notice the view—not right now—but watch her instead, waiting to see what she’ll do. How she will present. It doesn’t matter to me which path she chooses, only that the decision is hers.

  I love her submission, of course, but not for the reason she thinks. With her, it’s always been less about control than how free she allows herself to be in my care. Her trust is the greatest gift I’ve ever received, one I strive daily to prove myself worthy of.

  Eden pauses beside my chair to gaze for a moment at the ocean. She takes a deep breath, then another. I study her profile, noting the faint lines of weariness.

  “Tough day, love?”

  She glances back at me with a shrug. “Not especially. Some days just hit harder than others. The lack of basic healthcare of so many of the island’s residents…” She shakes her head. “It’s appalling and frightening. My work here will never be done. But I’m also homesick. I feel guilty, I guess.”

  “Miss the boys, do you?”

  She nods, finally turning to face me. “Don’t you?” she asks wistfully.

  “At the moment, no. While your parents were running errands today, the heathens decided to take apart the engine of Ben’s beloved ’64 Mustang
.”

  She gasps in horror. “Oh God. Where was Maria?”

  “Out back in the garden. The boys told her they were going to watch a movie.” I bite my lip against a smile; to tell the truth, I’m rather proud of my savvy little deviants.

  Eden groans. “That poor woman probably wishes she’d never left Los Mochis.”

  “Unlikely.”

  Her eyes soften. Getting Maria away from the Solórzano cartel wasn’t easy—the best undertakings rarely are. Six years later, though, neither of us regret the dent the transaction left in our joint wealth. Maria is family, as much a grandmother to our boys as Margaret, Elizabeth, and my mother. They’re lucky to be so loved. As I am.

  Eden’s voice brings me back to the present. “Are the boys still alive?”

  I chuckle. “Quite. As punishment, Ben is making them put the car back together. Under supervision, of course.”

  She laughs softly, eyes warm with mingled affection and exasperation. The remains of her troubling day fade from her expression as she focuses on me.

  “And how was your day, Mr. Rourke?”

  “Productive. Found the missing boy. Turns out he forgot to tell his parents he was taking a fishing trip with some friends.”

  She smiles in the small, private way that belongs only to me. In that smile, I see the best version of myself.

  “Come here, Dr. Rourke,” I say firmly.

  Her shoulders relax at my tone even as her breath hitches. I wait, not anticipating one behavior or another. She will tell me what she needs, and I’ll give it to her. In the meantime, I revel in her indecision.

  Two steps to my side. A pointed glance from those magnetic, mystifying eyes of hers. Then a graceful descent to her knees.

  “Sir?”

  I’ve been silent too long, lost in the beauty before me. “What do you want, siren? Name it and it’s yours.”

  “You, sir. Only you.”

  I cup the back of her head, the weight of her hair sliding against my fingers. She wants me to clench and pull the strands, so I don’t. It’s much more rewarding to watch her squirm.

  “In that case, dear wife, I serve at your pleasure. You have exactly thirty seconds to take off your clothes.”

  The End

  I hope you enjoyed Eden and Liam’s unconventional love story! If you have a minute, please consider leaving a brief review on Amazon. xo, LM.

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  Need to talk about the book, or about life in general? Come join us at L.M.’s Lovelies, a private reader group on Facebook.

  Make sure to check out the Bonus Content

  after Acknowledgements. ➾

  Stalk Me:

  www.lmhalloran.com

  author@lmhalloran.com

  Acknowledgments

  To everyone I pitched this idea to who said, “That sounds horrific and awesome,” thanks for the (wincing) support. I hope Eden and Liam won you over as they did me.

  My endless gratitude goes to all the amazing bloggers and readers who’ve supported this release, and special thanks to the incredible M. Robinson for her cheerleading and invaluable guidance. Ena and Amanda at Enticing Journey, you ladies rock my world! To the fabulous Alessandra Torre Inkers group and the wealth of knowledge and camaraderie so freely given by its members.

  To my fabulous beta readers, especially Beta Boss Extraordinaire, Steph Poe, and to my fellow writers who walk on the dark side. Thanks for being as twisted as I am!

  To my Grammy O’Halloran, who lived and loved like she meant it—with dignity and grace—and gave me my first books on Irish history.

  Also, in no particular order:

  Horror movies

  Gardening

  Michael Fassbender (not kidding)

  Coffee

  Galway antics with KG

  Cartoons

  My crews on Insta and Facebook

  Rainy weather

  Google (#realtalk)

  Did I mention caffeine yet?

  All the husbands who do dishes

  Heating pads

  Ewoks

  D + S (more than cake)

  ☆ Bonus Content ☆

  ➤ Check out the Spotify Playlist for Double Vision, with songs by MISSIO, The Lumineers, Joywave, Spoon, alt-J, and many more. And (of course) “Galway Girl,” performed by the incredible Irish folk group, The Kilkennys.

  ➤ Want an exclusive sneak peek of Perfect Vision, a full-length standalone companion to Double Vision? Click here for a teaser.

  ➤ Curious about the inspirations for Eden, Liam, and other characters from Double Vision? Here’s my Pinterest Character Board.

  ➤ Turn the page for Chapter One of Breaking Giants, a rockstar romance by L.M. Halloran.

  Breaking Giants

  L.M. Halloran

  “A tender, evocative, agonizing, humorous, heartwarming read that you really don’t want to miss!”

  BookAddict

  1. that kind of day

  Outside the cozy interior of Tullamore Café, the rain comes down in heavy, rippling sheets. Water coats the windows like vaseline, morphing street traffic into pulsing ribbons of light. It’s only five o’clock in the afternoon but so dark it might as well be midnight. If there’s a world beyond the windows, I can’t make sense of it.

  Beneath the mellow jazz filtering through speakers, there’s a low rumble of thunder that makes me shiver in delight.

  “Earth to Rose.”

  I’m stuck to the storm like an insect to flypaper, lured by the violence of nature, by my base craving for inspiration. Fill me up then let me fall, water through your hands. Lyrics float through my mind, a melody teasing up from the depths. Take me back to the deep, I have no skin, no defense.

  “She’ll be right with you.”

  The voice is hollow, a distant foghorn.

  “Rose!”

  Much closer this time, my name spoken with a mixture of humor and aggravation.

  The door to the music in my mind slams shut. The present roars into the vacuum, bringing all the varied sounds of life: murmured words, clanking of knives and forks, pings of ceramic mugs on saucers, and the sweet rustling of newspapers and books.

  Owen, my cousin and co-owner with me of Tullamore, shakes his head as I offer a rueful smile.

  “Sorry,” I say with a shrug.

  “Daydreamer,” he chides, then nods to the heavy binder braced on his forearms. “I’ll watch the front if you want to do inventory.”

  “Hell no,” I say, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s your turn.”

  I scoot past Owen, making my way across the café and around the ordering counter. On the other side of the registers stands a solitary man, currently gazing down at our trifold menu. When I reach him, he glances up with a distracted smile. I only see his face for a second before he refocuses on the menu—but a second is enough.

  Holy shit.

  A wave of tingling shock electrifies my scalp and zings down my spine.

  Julian Ashburn. In the flesh.

  Despite the black beanie pulled low over his ears and forehead, despite a week’s worth of stubble on his jaw and the rain jacket obscuring his physique, I instantly recognize the frontman of Breaking Giants.

  If I were still a teenager, his band’s poster would be on my wall. Being twenty-seven and relatively mature, however, my obsession is limited to purchasing every album and single—digital, CD, and vinyl—that the band releases.

  I knew they lived in Seattle but never imagined I’d see any of them in person. Least of all Julian. He’s notoriously reclusive, rarely grants interviews, and generally avoids press like the plague. He didn’t even show up at the Grammys last year despite Breaking Giants being nominated for Album of the Year and Song of the Year. Not shockingly, they’d won both. The three other members of the band had accepted the awards without their frontman.

  By the furtive glances I�
�m receiving from warm brown eyes, he really doesn’t want me to expose him. And as much as I might want to, I won’t. Not only would it be rude to ignore the prompt, it would also be bad for business. Seattle is ripe with big-name athletes, actors, and musicians. If we alerted the press every time a celebrity walked in we’d lose our integrity.

  Tullamore is a retreat for those who crave the funky, noisy vibe of a non-corporate establishment. Our customers come to blend in and relax. They like that we’re family owned and operated, tucked on a narrow side street in the Seattle neighborhood of Fremont. They like our organic menu and copious vegan options, and the way we showcase local artists on exposed brick walls instead of mass-produced prints and marketing slogans.

  On any given day I’m not wowed by celebrity, having grown up with a music producer father and singer-songwriter mother. Elton John was at my tenth birthday party. But this man…

  This man is a different story.

  My armpits prickle with fangirl sweat as I imagine the sound of his voice. I want—no, need—to hear his voice.

  I clear my throat. “The BLT is a huge hit. If you like bacon. Do you? Or are you a vegetarian? We make a mean SLTA.” I clamp my lips shut to halt the nervous outpour.

  “SLTA?” he echoes, a little frown appearing between sloping black brows.

  Yep. His voice in person surpasses my wildest dreams. Smoke with a touch of honey. There’s a light ringing in my ears—I’m pretty sure several million of my braincells just spontaneously combusted.

  “Sprouts—” My throat constricts, squeezing me silent, as Julian finally gives me the attention of his stare.

  Brown, I immediately decide, is a tawdry adjective to describe the color of his eyes. They’re aged whiskey and tobacco. Sunset in the desert. Gold on brown. Leonine.