This Life 1

by Cara Dee

  I knew what he was saying, and he wasn’t exactly wrong. There was a lovely ring on my index finger that whispered of family, a sense of belonging, and having a home. Being safe and protected. Cared for.

  It all came down to trust. I couldn’t trust Finnegan’s word, and therefore, I couldn’t trust his promises. Right?

  “Have you ever killed someone, Finnegan?”

  “Uh…not what I expected you to ask.” He chuckled and reached for his smokes.

  I left the little nook of comfort and sat up straighter. Because this was important.

  He could tell, and his expression became gentler. “No, Emilia. I’ve never killed anyone.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “I know the rumors you’ve believed about me, and most of them aren’t true.” He lit his cigarette and inhaled. “The O’Sheas—particularly my generation—have dealt a lot in expensive shit. Cars, art, jewelry. Collectibles. What you’ve heard…human trafficking? Rape?” He made a face, and his jaw ticked with tension. “All that is sickening to me. I may not have the highest morals, but the crimes I’ve been charged with don’t make me a man without limits. Hell, I fire men who so much as slap their wives around.”

  An ounce of hatred trickled back inside me, and it was a good feeling. Though, it didn’t mean much. He was so convincing that I started believing him.

  “Are you still involved with that now?” I asked. “The cars and art, I mean.”

  He smirked. “Me? Nah.”

  I narrowed my eyes. That smelled so much of bullshit—and it hit me. Of course, he wasn’t going to be completely honest. He didn’t trust me, and why would he?

  There was a big difference between his denouncing the crimes that made me sick, and what he was doing now, waving off the theft and stuff. He’d taken me seriously at first and answered. Hopefully, truthfully. He wasn’t a murderer; he didn’t deal with humans as objects. And then now…that cocky smirk when switching to cars and art. It was the word alleged all over again. He wasn’t someone who’d say anything incriminating, but what if he was trying to be as obvious as he could? What if he was trying to tell me that no, he wasn’t the man I’d accused him of. But yes, he did do some shady crap. He wasn’t blowing smoke up my ass by claiming he was a saint.

  “Ugh.” I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples.

  Could I live with someone who stole for a living? Sarah’s talk about the future and everything we could do in three years made my heart hurt with longing, though not as much as the prospect of discovering what family was about.

  It was the reason I’d acted on impulse last night and sent Agent Caldwell a message where I straight-up lied. I lied to a federal agent because Nessa had made me a pink paper crown, Patrick had cooked an awesome dinner for us, Alec had told me I was gonna love Finnegan’s house in Ireland, and Finnegan… Finnegan was getting under my skin.

  Agent Caldwell hadn’t responded yet, maybe because we had plans to meet up tomorrow. And that thought drove a wedge of guilt into my chest. It sickened me, almost. I was going to meet up with him, and he wanted dirt on the people who seemed so fucking wonderful.

  “Do you ever hurt anyone?” I asked hoarsely. “Physically, emotionally. Do you hurt people? Other than stealing.”

  “I don’t steal, remember?” There was a hint of the same smirk from before. “Are you trying to bargain with yourself?”

  No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know!

  “Please answer me. I need to know.” Or else I’d for sure lose my mind.

  Finnegan took pity on me, and he watched me for the longest time. He exhaled some smoke through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. Honesty. Yeah, I sometimes hurt people. If they betray me or pose a direct threat, I have to defend myself and my family, and violence is a language everyone understands.”

  That was borderline incriminating. Maybe? Or maybe it wasn’t, but it was one hell of a confirmation. Again, he wasn’t painting himself as a saint. He admitted he hurt people sometimes. If they hurt him.

  The only question now was, could I trust him?

  If I thought the conversation on Finnegan’s patio was uncomfortable, it had nothing on the feeling I got when we pulled up outside my house.

  Once upon a time, there’d been a nice backyard with a picket fence and a lawn. These days, I couldn’t separate the driveway from the patch that used to be green. The house used to be white. Now it was gray and dirty.

  “Remember what I’ve said, princess.”

  It would be impossible not to.

  “You can leave everything behind whenever you want. School, work, your dad. There’s a new life waiting for you. Just give me the word.”

  I twisted the Claddagh ring around my finger, anxious. “I will. Thank you for everything.”

  He inclined his head. “My pleasure. I’ll pick you up on Saturday.”

  Unless I changed my mind. He’d asked me to go with him to the city this weekend, and I’d accepted before he told me I’d meet his parents. The whole thing made me nervous.

  Maybe if I could convince Sarah to come along with Patrick…

  “Okay. Thanks again for everything—and I don’t think you’re getting this hoodie back.” I leaned over to give him a quick kiss, and he wouldn’t have it. He grabbed my jaw and deepened the kiss.

  Goddamn him.

  “I’m a call away.” He pressed another firm kiss to my lips and touched my cheek.

  I nodded, half dazed. Then I left his car and returned to reality. My stuff was still in Sarah’s motel room, so I dug out the spare key from under a cracked pot and entered a house that reeked of stale beer and old food.

  I stood there in the hallway, dressed in my birthday outfit and a hoodie of Finnegan’s to cover up a bit, and I just stared. The low rumble of Finnegan’s car told me he’d driven away. Was Dad—yes, he was passed out in his chair on a day when he should be at work. It wasn’t noon yet. Two photo albums were thrown on the floor next to the ratty chair, as were a couple Styrofoam containers and beer cans.

  Bitterness seeped in and took hold of me. I wasn’t his fucking daughter. I was here to clean up his mess and cover the bills he couldn’t pay, nothing else. I was a tax cut.

  Heading up the stairs, I changed into a pair of jeans and a tee. My shower would have to wait until after I was done cleaning this place. A place that disgusted me more every day. Fuck Finnegan for showing me what was out there.

  I’d saved the big gift box that my first dress had arrived in, and I found myself stuffing it with the few things I cared about. The clothes and jewelry Finnegan had given me, my journal, my mom’s book about saints, and his hoodie. The rest of my gifts were with Sarah, and I thought…I mean, maybe…if I saved up a bit, I could stay with her? I had a box under one of the floorboards with tips from the diner I’d stashed away. There were only a couple hundred dollars, but it was a start.

  To make sure, I pulled out my phone and sent Sarah a text.

  Hi, hon. When I’ve saved enough to cover half the motel room for a while, mind sharing with me? I can’t stand being in this house anymore.

  She was still in class, so I didn’t expect her response until lunch time.

  Last night when I told her I’d be staying over at Finnegan’s, she’d told me to be careful.

  I guess I’d failed.

  Two hours later, Sarah had read my message but hadn’t answered. I assumed she was busy with school stuff, so I continued with what was turning into a spring cleaning.

  I threw out the pile of clothes that needed mending. I’d lost a handful of fucks to give, and if Dad kept tearing his shirts in bar fights or when he fell asleep with a cigarette and it burned a hole in the fabric, he could fix them himself. And he wasn’t going to do that, so out it went.

  I put the thrift store on my list. We needed new plates.

  “That…that you, Emilia?” Dad’s gruff voice came from the living room.

  “Yeah. Did you have a party?” I grimaced and threw away something from the fridge that looked alive. “J
esus Christ, Dad. Could you at least put the food that’s gone bad in the garbage?”

  He grunted, and his chair creaked and protested. Soon, he appeared in the doorway. He looked like death warmed over.

  “Don’t give me attitude. Hand me a beer.”

  I stared at him, almost as if seeing him for the first time. I had no memories of happier times, but there were pictures in his bedroom. Pictures of him and my mom. He’d been smiling in each one, and since then…he’d just decayed. His hair had thinned and gone from dark to silver. He had more wrinkles than he should at the age of forty-five. His muscles had disappeared, resulting in skinny arms and legs. Beer had given him an impressive gut.

  His eyes were lifeless.

  “A real breakfast wouldn’t hurt,” I said. “I can—”

  “Get me a fuckin’ beer,” he snapped. “You know, I thought you’d left. You haven’t been around in a few days. It was nice.”

  I gnashed my teeth together and handed him a beer. “It really was. No one’s sorrier than me to come back.”

  He let out a hollow chuckle. “Am I supposed to be grateful that at least one of you returned?”

  “What—”

  “You look too much like her.” In a sudden burst of rage, he threw the can against the wall, spraying foam everywhere. “Fuck!”

  “Dad!” I jumped back and glared at him. “For chrissakes!”

  “Get outta my sight!” he yelled. “I don’t want you here, Emilia!”

  I slammed up a wall as emotions threatened to spill over, and I stormed out of the kitchen and ran up the stairs.

  Dad wasn’t done yelling, and I heard him wrecking the kitchen. “You fucking killed her. You killed her, you killed her—my beautiful Elena, why did she have to kill you?”

  I slammed the door shut and leaned back against it, willing my heart to stop pounding. I closed my eyes hard and listened. A drawer was pulled out, and silverware clattered against the linoleum floor. I flinched at the breaking of glass and more shouting.

  “Don’t let it get to you, don’t let it get to you,” I whispered over and over. “Don’t let it get to you, don’t let it get to you.”

  It was nothing I hadn’t heard before.

  The mayhem quieted after a while, and I slid down to the floor. If the slamming door was any indication, he’d left. Probably to go buy more beer.

  Running a hand through my hair, I blew out a breath and did my best to shake the hurt. My phone vibrated in my pocket, providing a welcome break, and I opened the text from Sarah.

  We gotta talk. Meet me at the picnic tables when you can.

  School wasn’t out yet, but maybe she was skipping last period. God knew I was ready to get the fuck out, so I texted her back, saying I was on my way.

  Sarah was waiting for me by the tables as I crossed the parking lot next to school.

  She extended her pack of cigarettes. “You look like crap.”

  “You’re gorgeous as always.” I lit one up and sat down next to her.

  “Did something happen?” She tilted her head, concern flashing in her eyes.

  “Nothing new.” I shrugged and exhaled some smoke. “I killed my mother and all that.”

  She winced and rubbed my back. “I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t want to think about it. I was sick—so fucking sick—of being some pathetic victim. Sick of depending on others. Unfortunately, if I let the frustrations take over, I’d lose my shit and do something reckless. It was better to bury it deep down.

  “You wanted to talk,” I said.

  She nodded. “Sorry I didn’t respond to your message, by the way. I had my phone in my locker and didn’t read it until I texted back. My notifications are messing with me too. I didn’t get the alert.”

  My brows knitted together. Was there something wrong with my phone too? I thought that little sign that says read meant she’d opened the message.

  “Anyway,” she went on. “I talked to Patrick during lunch, because I’m thinking about accepting his proposal sooner.”

  “What? I thought you already said yes.”

  “Yeah, but I mean, like, get out of here sooner. I’m not sure I can wait till graduation.”

  Anxiety clamped a hand around my throat, and I swallowed dryly. “Why?”

  She took a breath, looking ten times more tired. “You did the right thing ditching classes today, ’cause Franny knows. There’re rumors flying around about you and me dating the O’Shea brothers.”

  I clenched my jaw and closed my eyes, silently counting to ten. Was it really just this morning I’d sat in the sunshine and made out with Finnegan? Nausea churned in my stomach, and I was slowly but surely reaching my limit for all kinds of bullshit. Dad, Finnegan, Franny, Agent Caldwell, work, school, my future—everything and everyone could fuck right off. Hell, at this point I was sick of myself and my roller coaster rides too.

  “Patrick said I could transfer to Philly or finish whenever I wanted.”

  Finnegan had mentioned something similar to me.

  “I want you with me, Emilia.” She hooked her arm through mine and rested her chin on my shoulder. “It’s three years.”

  If I heard that one more time… The anger that brewed within me was unlike anything I’d ever felt. I was fed up. Limit reached. I couldn’t take it anymore. My chest felt tight, and a dizzy spell caught me. Too much, too much, too much. I had to cut some strings, starting with Agent Caldwell. I wasn’t going to lie to him again, but I couldn’t help him out either.

  I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “Are you helping the FBI or something?” The words gusted out in a rush, and at Sarah’s confused expression, I word-vomited. “When all this started, you told me there was a lot going on, and you couldn’t tell me. Then you told me about Patrick and the business offer, so it made me wonder what you left out, and I guess—I mean—you accepted his proposal so fast, and…fuck, I don’t know.”

  “Hey. Breathe, hon.” Sarah stroked my back soothingly as she processed my rant. “I’m not helping anyone but myself here. I’ve told you everything—except… It’s just the shit with my dad. I don’t like to talk about it.” She’d made that clear many times. “Listen. What you’re feeling now looks like how I felt when I told you that Patrick had offered me that deal. Everything was closing in on me, and I don’t remember everything I said word for word.” She paused. “What I do remember is the plan to tell you I was dating him. Then I ended up spilling everything, so maybe that’s why I said I couldn’t tell you all of it…?”

  I wished that didn’t make sense.

  So where did that leave me? Sarah was in it to gain her freedom, however unconventional her method was. No agents involved.

  “How about we continue this back at the motel room?” she suggested. “We don’t wanna be here when the bell rings.”

  Good point. I stubbed out my forgotten smoke and jumped down from the bench.

  Sarah linked her arm with mine again. “We should have a girls’ night with pizza and the story of how my best friend stole a mobster’s car.”

  “Heh.” No thanks. I had enough on my plate. I didn’t need to add the worry of what’d come over me last night when I drove Finnegan’s Aston. Even now, I couldn’t describe the thirst I’d felt.

  I wouldn’t say no to pizza, though.

  “By the way, about your text,” she said. “You’re staying with me until I can convince you to take this bizarre journey with me. Don’t think about the money. It’s not like I’m paying.”

  I had no fight left, so I just thanked her.

  That night, I got everything I didn’t know I’d needed. Sarah and I sat across from each other on her bed, and we laughed, cried, vented, and got drunk on a bottle of wine she’d bought through a friend’s older sister.

  I told Sarah about Agent Caldwell. She merely listened and comforted me. It felt too damn good to get it off my chest, and I breathed a big sigh of relief.

  “I can’t imagine.” She shook her head. “I would’ve peed myse
lf just from meeting him at the library like that.”

  “I freaked out a lot.” I scrubbed my hands over my face.

  When Finnegan texted to check in and see how I was doing, I told him I wanted the night for myself, to which he messaged me again. And again. And again. I didn’t answer, so Patrick started blowing up Sarah’s phone.

  We turned them off.

  “I need more wine.” She hiccupped and poured the last of the bottle into her glass. “Oh! Have I shown you this?” She handed me a note off of the nightstand.

  I squinted at it. Languages: French, Portuguese. Physical: Self-defense, martial arts—pick one.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Classes I’m gonna take.” She smiled widely. “The way I see it, if Patrick’s got all this money to spend, I should spend it on something I can use. And the minute the arrangement is up, I’m going straight to college.”

  I smiled and squeezed her hand. Self-defense had nothing to do with her childhood dream of becoming a doctor and everything to do with her hating feeling weak and defenseless against her dad.

  “You’ll be the best doctor, I know it.”

  She pursed her lips and raised a brow. “And what’re you gonna be?”

  “Stop it,” I groaned.

  “Never. You have to do this with me, and not for my sake. I’m terrified of what you’ll do if I leave you here.”

  I frowned and reached for my glass, emptying it in two gulps.

  “Don’t you see, Em? This is our chance! We’ll stay strong if we do this as a team. We’ll spend the next three years preparing ourselves and building each other up. We can trust one another.”

  Her words cracked something inside me. We’ll build each other up. And so a new crying fest began for me.

  “Oh, Em.” Sarah hugged me to her, and I wept a bunch of nonsense about what I wanted—how much I wanted this, but it came back to the same old question.

  At what cost?

  “I understand that, honey,” she murmured, wiping my cheeks. “But at what cost are you staying?”

  Chapter 13