by Liv Rancourt
“And it’s not like I want to keep it a secret.” She curled her hands into fists and shook her head until her hair dropped down, hiding her face.
He lifted the ginger strands and tucked them behind her ear. His fingers itched with the urge to grab her by the back of the neck and go for some mouth sex on the counter. “I pretty much hate guessing games.”
Movement near the center island drew Ryan’s attention. He dropped his hand, then frustrated, determined, he reached for Dani again. She’s going to deal with this, damn it.
Niall came out of the dining room crowd, moving in the direction of the back door. His gaze traveled from Ryan to Danielle and back, his face settling into his professional blank look. Cop face. “Wassup?”
Dani jerked around, pulling free of Ryan’s grasp. “Niall.”
Ryan flexed his fingers. “Not much, bro. What’s up with you?”
“Maeve came out of here with her tail feathers on fire,” Niall said.
Danielle crossed her arms. Her smile held very little humor. He hadn’t seen this side of her before, the plastic version. Their gazes met. He gave her a nod. Your turn.
Her blank stare turned his gut as brittle as her expression.
Either she recognized his reaction, or he’d been flashing back to Cherry’s bullshit. At any rate, her slim fingers interlaced with his and she relaxed.
“Yeah,” she said, “she’s pretty annoyed with me.”
Niall flicked a glance at their clasped hands then rubbed his shaved head. “She’s been whacky about mixing brothers and friends ever since I went out with Nan Pierson.”
“Who?” Ryan asked, unable to guess what Niall thought of a Ryan-Dani hook-up.
“Before your time. She was in Maeve’s class and I went out with her. It didn’t end well and Maeve almost got suspended for fighting.”
“That sounds…” Dani began.
“Ugly.” Niall’s smile was tired.
Ryan didn’t need any more details. Their eleven-year age difference meant it had only been the past year or two since they’d been able to talk like friends instead of brothers.
Maeve elbowed her way through the crowd around the buffet table, with an expression somewhere between surly and snarl, headed in their direction. When she came around the edge of the center island, Dani dropped his hand like it stung.
“Mom asked where the cheese puffs were.” Maeve elbowed Niall out of the way and directed her question at Dani, as if Ryan had caught a case of the invisibles.
“Oh crap.” Dani whirled toward the oven. She flung open the door and was lost in a cloud of black smoke.
Ryan grabbed a dishtowel and snatched the cookie sheet away from her, carrying it – and its cloud – out the back door. When he came back, Dani and Maeve were in some kind of grimbitch face-off. Maeve had a height advantage. Dani had a tougher snarl. Maeve had more fire. Dani had more frost.
Maeve had a saltier vocabulary.
Dani had the last word.
“Get over it.”
Without a glance at Ryan, she scooped up her shoes and stalked out of the kitchen, disappearing into the crowd. He almost followed, except he’d exceeded his Christmas limit for chick drama.
Instead, he went outside and got himself a cold one.
Two beers later, he gave up trying to deal with the crowd in the house. He camped out by the cooler, where it was easier to reach the next one. He was buzzed enough to be warm despite the forty degree temperature and surly enough to stay well clear of Maeve.
She’d be a spike-haired matador’s cape to his charging bull.
Joey came looking for him, barely stuffing a grin behind a false front of coy reserve. “Mom wants you inside.”
Ryan wasn’t in the mood to play. “Whatever.”
“What you all twisted about, man?” As usual, Joey aimed for painfully hip, ruining the effect when he fumbled getting a beer out of the cooler.
“Nothing.” Which was a total lie, but if Ryan opened his mouth to tell the truth, Lord knows what would come out. He tossed off another deep swallow of Michelob, determined to keep his cool.
Then Maeve thrust her head out the back door. “Mom says everyone in for Christmas carols.” She was back inside before Ryan could respond.
“Bitch,” he said to her retreating shadow.
“Right?” Joey snickered into his beer. “She’s crazy stressed about something.”
Ryan tilted his beer bottle, rocking the bevel of liquid from side to side. “She’s just plain crazy.”
Joey poked him with glances. Ryan refused to give him the satisfaction of explaining the situation. Instead, he drank. About ten minutes later, ten long minutes of tense silence interrupted by his brother’s unspoken questions, Maeve was back.
“Now.”
“No.” Ryan shut his eyes. His answer had been more of a bark than a word. Too much anger. No way Maeve would ignore the chance for a fight.
“Fine, Mr. The-Rules-Don’t-Apply-To-Me. I’ll just go tell Mom you’re going to skip Christmas carols this year.”
“Fine, ya damned diva.”
Joey ducked back as if to make sure he was out of the line of fire.
Maeve took one step through the door, then another. “What’d you just call me?”
Ryan gripped the bottle so hard he almost snapped the glass. “You’re a fucking diva, Maeve. “ He stopped, clamped his jaw, and took a deep breath. “Dani and I might have something good, and you need to back the fuck off.”
She crossed the back patio in three quick steps, reaching up to plant a knuckle in the middle of his chest. “Pull your head out your ass, dude.”
He grabbed her wrist hard enough to make her bare her teeth.
“Let. Go.” She jerked her hand.
He didn’t let her pull away, anger burning through what was left of his restraint. “Priorities, Maeve. You want to be friends with Dani or not?”
“You think she’s going to choose you over me?”
“I think she’s smart enough to make her own damned decisions about who she spends time with.” His voice rose until the words came out at a yell. He caught a glimpse of Joey covering his mouth to hide his laughter, which just irritated Ryan even more.
Maeve sneered at his heat. She planted her spike heels and pushed him. “Let go of my wrist, asshole. I mean, come on. She’s dating Christopher.”
Ryan laughed at her weak attempt to stir up trouble. “Either she’s lying,” — he towered over his sister, giving her a good dose of the anger running like flames through his bloodstream — “or you are.”
“What the hell is going on out here?” Their father stomped through the back door and slammed the door shut. Mike O’Connor was an older, greyer version of Ryan, and one of the only people who could talk him down when he was this far gone. “The whole neighborhood can hear you two idiots yelling at each other.”
Ryan released Maeve’s wrist, splaying his fingers like she’d shocked him. “Nothing, Dad.” He rubbed at the tension in the back of his neck. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing.” Maeve took a couple quick steps away from him, stumbling on the uneven pavers leading to the back steps. No matter how bad they hated each other, neither would squeal to their parents.
Ryan bent down to set his beer on the grass and held his hands palms out to prove he was calming himself down. “Sorry. I’ll come inside in a minute.”
Maeve was still breathing hard, her lips pinched together like it took physical effort to keep the words back.
“Get your act together, son.” Mike O’Connor pointed a sharp finger at Ryan. “And you,” he said, turning on Maeve. “From what I can tell, you need to mind your own business.”
He ducked back into the house. Joey waited a couple seconds before heading toward the door, as if he was afraid of missing something fun. Maeve followed, stopped on the top step, and pressed her palms into the door frame. “You and Cherry are good together,” she said.
“Says you,” Ryan swallowed the na
usea churning like magma at the bottom of a volcanic crater. “In some fantasy land you two have created. Like Dad said, you mind your business, and I’ll take care of my own.”
She snorted and stalked inside, slamming the door as a nonverbal exclamation point. Ryan made a slow fist with his right hand, squeezing tight, then releasing, relaxing, doing his best to let the anger go. He and Dani hadn’t even slept together yet and she had him by the ‘nads so tight he’d risked effing up his parents’ Christmas party. Smooth. For a woman who was older, smarter, and leaving in two months. Real, real smooth.
Flat-out rage blew Danielle out the front door of the O’Connor’s house and down the street toward Green Lake Way. She needed every gust she could get because her horrible high heels chewed on her toes and rubbed her heel bones raw, and she could almost convince herself the tears clotting her lower lashes were there because her feet hurt.
Almost.
She collapsed onto a bench in front of the Starbucks on the corner of 71st and Green Lake Way. The store was closed, the streets were empty. She rapped her knuckles hard against the slatted seat, mad as hell that she’d let Maeve talk her into buying such stupid shoes. If Danielle’s knuckles hurt, she wouldn’t notice her feet, and if she got mad at Maeve over shoes, she wouldn’t notice the essential stupidity of the current situation.
Ryan asked me out, Maeve. Deal with it!
Danielle rubbed the tears off her face and dug around her useless little clutch purse until she came up with her phone. Thinking about Ryan was the dumbest thing she could possibly do. She 4-1-1’ed the number for Yellow Cab but ended up on hold, grinding her teeth through a scratchy Silent Night.
When they finally answered, she gave the cab’s dispatcher her location, then curled herself into as small a space as possible. The air temperature was somewhere in the thirties, and while the short skirt and filmy blouse worked nicely in a house full of people, her nose, toes, and fingertips – all the small pointy bits – were numb despite her wool coat.
It was still early. If the effing cab would show up, she could get her stuff packed and over to her Grandmother’s house. She hung onto her phone because for once, she wanted to talk to someone. She couldn’t talk to Maeve, couldn’t even think about Ryan. Surely she had some friend, somewhere, who could listen to her rant about the worst Christmas in her life.
She came up empty. Most of her “friends” in L.A. were associates of Braden – and therefore off-limits. As an assistant manager, she couldn’t be pals with the nurses at work, and while she liked the other two assistant managers, neither were girl-chat material. One was likely handcuffed to a bedframe playing hide-the-mistletoe with her husband and his best friend, and the other had a houseful of kids and a motherin-law to entertain.
The wind blew icy grit into Danielle’s face, and she ducked behind the collar of her coat. Maeve had always been her go-to phone call, even back in the day before everyone had cell phones with free long-distance. Alienating her meant Danielle was all alone on a freezing foggy northwest night.
“Damn it!” The words came out louder than she’d intended, but there was no one around to look awkwardly away from the crazy lady talking to herself in front of an empty Starbucks on Christmas Eve.
Then a car pulled up to the corner, one of those stunted looking Nissan Leaf electronic things, so quiet she wouldn’t have known it was there unless she’d seen the lights. The driver idled the engine, although there were no other vehicles waiting at the five-way stop. The driver’s door opened and Eamon O’Connor got out.
“What are you doing?” He faced her over the roof of the car.
“Waiting for a cab.”
He nodded without changing expression. “Be warmer if you waited in here.”
Another gust of wind sprayed her with ice. “Right.” Danielle stood slowly, feet squealing in protest, and limped across the sidewalk. The door popped open and she sank into the passenger seat, lifting her legs one at a time into the car. “Yeah, um, thanks.”
“No problem.”
A car passed, barely slowing at the stop sign before driving on into the intersection. Eamon pushed a button on the dash and the seat warmed under her butt. Muscles along her spine started to unwind. The tension in her jaw and in the pit of her belly, not so much.
Eamon waited, quiet, one hand on the steering wheel, the other in his lap. Danielle didn’t know quite what to say. Even when they’d been in high school, Eamon had kept her at a distance. He was the braniac, the kind of guy who took Physics for fun. He was two years younger, and they’d overlapped at school, but she’d never had an actual conversation with him.
Finally the silence stretched longer than she could handle. “Well…”
He still didn’t say anything, though he reached across her to pull something out of the glove box. “You should probably call the cab back.” Without meeting her gaze, he patted her knee and sat back. “I’m either going to talk you into coming back before Mom has a seizure, or I’ll drive you over to Maeve’s.”
Damn. Vickie O’Connor was upset she left. Not cool. “That’s okay. I’ll just…” She lost her train of thought, more curious about what he was doing than what she was saying.
He held a small red, white, and green woven pouch, the kind that closed with a cheap metal zipper and was handmade by Indians in Guatemala or Peru and sold at Pier One Imports. From it, he brought out a small pipe and a tiny zip-locked bag of weed.
“Want a hit?”
“That’s okay.” She couldn’t entirely suppress an uncomfortable smirk. “I’ll take the contact high.” She hadn’t smoked pot since the one time in college when her dorm mates insisted she try some before a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert.
Eamon either didn’t notice or didn’t care about her awkward response. He shrugged, a small move she would have missed if she hadn’t been fascinated by his actions. He pinched a dark, dry glob out of the baggie and tapped it into the bowl of the pipe. Next out of the pouch was a Bic lighter. He lit the pipe and inhaled so deep she worried he’d pop. The bowl glowed bright red while he drew on the pipe, then faded as he lowered it. A tiny thread of smoke swirled up from where he rested the pipe against his thigh. He held his breath for several seconds, eyes shut, enough of a smile to show off his version of the O’Connor dimples. Finally, he rolled the window down and blew the smoke out toward Green Lake.
“So…?” she said, trying to restart the conversation they hadn’t really been having in the first place.
“Cancel the cab.”
“Jesus.” She reached for her cell phone. “You guys are all bossy. It’s a wonder you haven’t killed each other already.”
He tipped his head back against the headrest, long hair falling over his shoulders, eyes closed. “Yep.”
The musty sweet smell of marijuana smoke went to work on Danielle’s nerves, like a wide-toothed comb easing the tangles out of her hair after a shower. Following his example, she let the seat back cradle her head and shut her eyes.
“Ryan likes you.”
She laughed, though it came out more like a snort. “I like him, too.”
“And Maeve’s being a freak.”
“Which shouldn’t surprise me.” They’d been friends for almost twenty years, after all. She cracked an eyelid enough to pull up the Yellow Cab number on her phone.
Eamon took another hit off the pipe. This time the cherry went completely dark by the end of his inhale. He held his breath, then opened the window again to let the smoke free. “Want a clue?” He rolled the window back up and gave her time to answer.
“Okay, I’ll bite.”
“Tell Maeve what she wants to hear, then do whatever the hell you want.”
Danielle rubbed her face to smother a burst of laughter, because she wasn’t sure why she was laughing.
“That’s how we all keep from killing her.”
Maybe it was her chemically-induced mellow, but his idea made sense. “You think I should tell her I’ll leave Ryan alone, then keep see
ing him, and he’ll go along with me because he knows it’s a Maeve-management strategy?” Because that sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.
“Yeah.” He met her gaze and for the first time since she got in his car, he focused his whole attention on her, blue eyes slicing and dicing far deeper than she wanted him to see. “Now am I taking you back to Mom and Dad’s, or do you want to go to Maeve’s?”
“You better take me to Maeve’s.” She hit a button to dial the cab dispatcher. “There’s no way I’ll get through the party without making things worse.” She was only going to be in town for another six weeks, and keeping peace among the O’Connors had to be her priority. For about two beats she wondered about Eamon’s motivation, then decided he was too flakey to be up to something nefarious. If he was right, she could keep both Maeve and Ryan happy.
He put the pouch back in the glove box and started the engine.
“Thanks, Eamon.”
Neither had anything else to say.
Chapter Twelve
Instead of spending Christmas Eve hanging out with Ryan in the O’Connor’s kitchen and keeping the partiers supplied with mini quiches and cheese puffs hot from the oven, Danielle packed her suitcase. She drove to her grandmother’s house and reclaimed her grandmother’s old bedroom. The air mattress she bought in November needed air, but she had a pump. Of course, the up and down motion reminded her of another kind of pumping she could be doing if she’d played her cards differently.
Because horny helps everything. She capped the plug on the mattress and threw her sleeping bag down, disgusted. She couldn’t have screwed things up any more if she’d belly-flopped naked into the Christmas tree, taking the herd of angels with her.
The house was cool and dark, and her grandmother’s bedroom window faced west over Puget Sound. Once her bed was made, she leaned against the window sill and rested her head against the glass. Brightly-colored Christmas ships sailed to the soundtrack of the rolling waves along the beach, and she let go of the first couple layers of tension, sending them out over the onyx ocean. Ryan was pissed. Maeve was pissed. Hell, even Vickie O’Connor was probably irritated with her for leaving without saying goodbye.
