SEVENTEEN
Layla
Twelve presents nicely wrapped, apple green bows and iridescent paper all around her, had done little to keep Layla from her snippy mood.
“Merry freakin Christmas,” she said to her empty room.
It had been an attempt to keep her from thinking of stupid things. Things like Donovan and him following her from her Marketing class two days before. Things like his attitude and how easily he dismissed what had happened the last time they’d been together. Christmas was supposed to be a time of happy, happy, joy, joy and lots of liquor and laughter and buying her friends things they didn’t need. She’d gone shopping alone, like every year, earlier that day because pulling together scarves and gloves and jewelry she knew would match Mollie’s olive complexion or Sayo’s eyes, or Autumn’s hair, calmed her. Fashion kept her focused, kept her mind distracted enough that she didn’t have to think on whatever weighed down her thoughts.
It worked every year when the semester ended and Layla’s constant worry over her finals and her GPA and what the next semester would bring, never failed to overwhelm her. But, today at the mall in Knoxville, not even the winter collection of Coach bags could pull a smile from Layla. And it was all Donovan’s fault.
“The Demon,” she told herself, mentally kicking her own ass for not remembering that. “The boy who put a frog down my shirt during our eighth grade field trip to the Knoxville Zoo.” She threw the box holding Mollie’s small pearl studs onto the floor. The boy who made sure everyone in our high school thought me and Father Benson were having a torrid affair.
She wouldn’t focus on the other thoughts, the ones that made her sick to her stomach. The ones that promised disaster if she paid attention to them. The ones that promised her she’d never be the same after Donovan. She hated herself for missing him. She hated him for acting as though the last time they’d been together was just another night of naked debauchery that meant utter shit.
“Layla!” That scream from downstairs could have woken the dead. “Did you text Ethan about lunch on Tuesday?”
God, but was her mom’s voice shrill. Her hearing had always been terrible—the constant tone-deaf tune of every conceivable Christmas song she’d been humming all week was evidence enough of that—so Layla crawled from her spot in front of her bed and reached up to open the door. “Yes!” Her voice was loud, shouting really, but the woman wouldn’t hear otherwise.
“What?”
“Jesus, Mary…” she stopped cursing when her father stopped in front of her door, eyebrow arched in a silent warning. “Will you please tell her Ethan will be here at eleven?” She decided not to tell her father about her smart ass brother’s text of “I’ll get there when I can, Cinderella.” And because she forgot to remind him that morning, she smiled at her father, hoping her voice was sweet enough to keep the scowl from his face. “You forgot the trash. It’s in the laundry room waiting for you.” Her father sighed and Layla shut out the noise of her parents shouting back and forth information from the stairs to the landing below.
Two quick chirps alerting her to a text and Layla grabbed her phone from her bed, smiling for the first time in two days when she saw Mollie’s face pop up on the screen, her hair in a faux Mohawk and her eyes red-rimmed and rolled back. Last Halloween. Mollie had been sauced beyond her limits and Layla caught the moment before she passed out with one click of her phone. She giggled every time Mollie called her.
Mollie: I need to talk to you ASAP.
Layla hoped this wasn’t about Donovan again. In the weeks that Mollie had discovered their stupid little tryst, she’d hounded Layla incessantly about why she was sleeping with him. It hadn’t been as bad lately, especially when Layla told Mollie that she’d stop going to his apartment every night. That had seemed to satisfy her best friend, so did the weekly trips Layla made with Mollie to Maryville that ended with Vaughn screaming and torturing them both all in the name of “fitness.”
But Mollie had been MIA that week, claiming to be sick, swearing that she’d jump back on the CrossFit bandwagon after she’d gotten rid of whatever funk had crawled into her stomach and kept her out of commission. Still, Mollie wanting to speak to her in person, despite feeling like walking death, meant that something significant had happened or, you know, the gossip was too juicy to be told over the phone.
Layla: Everything okay?
There was a delay, only a few seconds between each message and when Layla read the second text, her worry increased.
Mollie: Meet me at McKinney’s in fifteen. At the booth. You’ll need alcohol for this news.
The booth was reserved for close confidence and silent conversations. It had always been that way. That booth held all of their secrets and if it could speak… well, Layla had a box of matches reserved if that unlikely event ever occurred. Knowing what the request of a booth appearance meant, Layla hurried from the floor, picking up her black leather jacket and gray cable knit sweater before she grabbed her boots and bag and swung open her door. But her father’s tall frame stopped her. His skin was pale, pasty, and Layla’s stomach immediately twisted hard when that scowl on his face deepened and he jerked his head up to glare at her.
She didn’t see his hands, barely registered how often he swallowed, as though whatever it was he held was some distasteful, cruel joke.
“What the hell… the fucking shit is… Layla, for the love of God…”
He didn’t seem able to make the words connect or pull enough focus away from that thing in his hand to organize his thoughts into coherent phrases.
“Daddy?”
And then, Layla finally moved her gaze from his reddening face, the anger, the disappointment. He stretched his arm, thrusting that small plastic stick in his hand right at her and when he finally spoke a complete sentence, the words were loud, enraged. “What the sodding hell is this?”
“So, I say to him, ‘calm your bullocks, you daft wanker. You can’t be going over to that bitty girl’s home to read her a fecking bedtime story.’ Those poor people are having her home for one bloody week. Like they’d want his grumpy arse around their dinner table. It’s like he’s no common sense a’tall. And it’s bloody clear he’s never heard anyone tell him to piss off.”
“It’s the rich bastard attitude, man. I’ve been around assholes like that my whole life.” Donovan shrugged, remembering how most of his grade school friends had carried on, moaning when the nuns asked them to pick up after themselves or threatening to have them—nuns for Christ’s sake—fired if they didn’t perform well on exams. Their parents never brought them to school, never showed for matches or practices. The only time any of them made an appearance was during formal school events like Christmas plays or mini-graduations. It didn’t surprise Donovan that Declan’s brother had a rotten attitude when someone told him no.
“Yeah, well, I’ve never seen anyone so pig headed in all my bloody life and I’ll remind you that Joe was my stepda and Autumn is my woman. Those two, I thought were the worst of the stubborn lot, but bugger me if my own brother shames them.”
Quinn, the man in question, was at the bar, surprisingly nursing a pint and not trying to hit on the new McKinney’s bartender. She was a pretty blonde with a round face and soft curves. Just Donovan’s type, but her eyes were brown, not blue and her tits were fake. Even her hair was too dark, seemed over-dyed. She had a sweet smile and a raspy, sexy laugh, but even that didn’t attract him. Watching the girl, Donovan smiled, then instantly felt like an asshole for it when she winked at him. Get over yourself, Donley.
“She’s fit, mate. Why don’t you go chat her up?” Donovan could hear the laugh underneath Declan’s words and he shook his head, knowing that his best friend knew why he wouldn’t approach that bartender. Donovan hadn’t said a word to Declan about Layla, but his best friend had figured on his own that things had changed between them. There hadn’t been a prank in ages and when they were around each other, they either played dumb to the others’ presence or couldn’t keep their eyes off one another. Donovan knew their friends suspected something and he’d let Declan continue to assume, continue to laugh at him. But if he knew the truth, knew what Donovan had done, what a shitty asshole he’d been to Layla the last time he saw her, Declan’s laughter would turn nasty and he’d try beating Donovan’s head in.
“Not my type, man.” He ignored Declan’s sigh, the way the Irishman shook his head like he thought Donovan was a coward.
“If you say so.”
Donovan ignored him, deciding that he needed to have a piss and as he walked away from the table and headed back to the bathrooms, he stopped short when he noticed Mollie in the booth near the rear exit.
“Hey.” He looked to the empty seat across from Mollie and then realization hit. This booth, Donovan knew, was the inner sanctum. The girls only sat here when shit got real. Immediately, Layla jumped to Donovan’s thoughts and he hated the quick worry he felt tightening around his chest. Not waiting to be invited, he slipped across the booth from Mollie. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“What?” Mollie’s confused expression relaxed when Donovan waved his hand over the wooden table. “Oh. No, everything, well, it’s not… it’s nothing for you to freak out over.”
“So Layla’s okay?”
“Why?” Mollie lowered over the table top, motioning for Donovan to lean toward her. “You’re not shagging Layla anymore from what I hear or has my best friend on the face of the planet been lying to me?”
Donovan shook his head and sat up straight, looking out of the window to distract himself from the irritating amusement in Mollie’s tone. “No. She’s not lying. It’s been forever.”
He didn’t appreciate the small snort of a laugh she released and casually flipped her the bird when that laughter grew. “You’re pathetic. You don’t have your usual bed bunny and you’re all upset?” He deflected the crumpled napkin she threw at his face and sighed, her shoulders falling back against the cushion. “Lord, Donovan go find some other girl to fall on top of and leave Layla alone.”
He didn’t know why he said it. He hadn’t meant to say anything at all, but Mollie’s attitude stung and for some reason he felt the need to defend whatever it was he had with Layla. “I don’t want anyone else.”
The phone in Mollie’s hand clicked against the table top when she dropped it and her unrestrained shock left her in a small wheeze. “Are you… wait.” She took his hand, pulling his attention away from the window. “Donovan?”
He closed his eyes, tired of pretending. Tired of trying to act like Layla’s disappearing act didn’t bother him. He missed her. Admitting it felt good, it felt somehow right. “Laugh it up all you want, Mollie, but yeah. It’s true. I’m a huge asshole that freaked her out. I broke the rules.”
“How?”
Elbows on the table, Donovan cupped his face in his hands, releasing a muffled whine against his palms. “Emotion is a motherfucker.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, blondie.” She tapped his arm, making him move his head to stare at him through his parted fingers. “You like her?”
“Does it really matter now? She’ll be off to New York after graduation. She’s got plans and they don’t fucking include me. Besides, she told me she’d never like me, Mollie.”
“But she slept with you. For months.”
“And?” He sat up then, noticing Mollie’s surprise, how the girl seemed utterly astonished that Layla would sleep with Donovan and not feel anything. He’d tried it. Tried and failed to ignore what Layla had done to him and vaguely he wondered if Mollie’s surprise was some sort of indication that Layla had possibly lied to him, even to herself about not wanting more from him. “You telling me you never got with anyone you had zero plans of ever seeing again?”
“That is totally different.”
“Is it?”
“Donovan, you aren’t some stranger in a club. Whether we like it or not,” Mollie rolled her eyes as though the thought annoyed her, “you’re in the tribe. You’re like Declan’s brother. Layla wouldn’t sleep with you knowing the shit it would cause if she didn’t like you at least a little. Jesus, you aren’t that hot. Besides, all the shit you two have been doing to each other for years was just…”
“Spare me the ‘long bout of foreplay’ bullshit.” He rubbed his face, not really interested in hearing the same insult yet again. “Please. I hear it enough from McKnow-It-All over there.”
“Okay. Fine. So what are you going to do?”
“What can I do? She won’t come to me.” Her stare was heavy, like she expected some sort of grand gesture from Donovan and part of him knew that’s what Layla deserved. But he wouldn’t make an ass out of himself for a girl who still thought he was unworthy. He hated how soft his voice got and had to look down at his fingers, fiddle with that crumpled napkin just to avoid the hard, hopeful stare Mollie gave him. “Not anymore. She said she was done. I got too close. I was too nice. That last time was…” He waved his hand, not really eager to fill Mollie in on the details. “Anyway, it’s done.”
“You want it to be done?”
Could he do without that smile? The way she laughed when he teased her, the slow, warm sensation that always settled in his chest any time he saw her across the room? No. He couldn’t. She was so damn stubborn, so proud, and right then Donovan decided he didn’t care that Layla likely thought she was better than him. He didn’t care what anyone thought about them together. He really didn’t care about those snobby noses in the air. He stopped pretending that it didn’t matter, all the things he’d done to her, how much distance he claimed he wanted between them. He wanted to prove to her that he could make her happy. He wanted more than anything to be someone she deserved.
“No. I don’t want it done, Mollie. I really don’t.”
In the years that he’d known Mollie Malone, that gruff, defensive badass girl who’d come to Cavanagh at thirteen with an attitude and a smart mouth, he’d never seen her smile, not like she did just then. In an instant, with the prospect of Donovan trying to win over her best friend, Mollie became nothing more than an emotional girly girl. The smile was wide, and he actually saw a flicker dance in her eyes. “Then maybe you should…”
“Daddy wait! NO!”
The yell was piercing, desperate and both Donovan and Mollie turned toward it as it echoed from the front of the pub.
Mollie stood before Donovan could even turn around completely and was on her feet jogging forward, calling over her shoulder, “I know that scream. Shit!”
Somehow he managed to bypass Mollie, charging past her toward the bar to find Coach Mullens holding Quinn up against the brick wall, looking like he was just seconds from killing him.
“You fucked my daughter, you asshole?” Mullens shook Quinn once, popping his head back against the brick.
“That what you call it, mate?” The smug bastard looked over Coach’s shoulder, right at a petrified, shaking Layla who Declan was holding back. Donovan had no idea what the hell was going on, but he felt his stomach burn at the sight of Layla’s pale face, her hands covering her mouth as Quinn glared at her. The asshole’s sneer was amused, but his eyes shown bright with a fierce and dangerous gleam. “You tell your da I gave you a ride?” Quinn asked Layla.
That fear Donovan felt quickly transformed and a small flicker of something resentful, something that hurt too damn much crawled up his chest when Layla cringed, then yelped as Mullens slammed his fist into Quinn’s face. Donovan could hear the sick crunch of bone cracking but he couldn’t make his feet move or keep his eyes from Layla. The accusation cut too deep, felt like a betrayal worse than the one his father had delivered to him at eighteen.
Quinn and Layla? No. It can’t be… no.
Declan darted toward Mullens as Mollie stepped behind Layla. The Irishman tried pulling the older man off his brother, ignored the threats of bodily harm, of cutting Declan from the squad if he tried to stop him and all the while, Donovan stood frozen, his heart thundering and a sick, sour taste rising up the back of his throat. Finally, just as Mullens swung back again, Donovan pulled Layla from Mollie’s grip.
“You fucked O’Malley?”
She wouldn’t look at him and he needed to see those eyes. He wanted to know if he saw the same look of shame, guilt coloring her face that had been on her cousin’s expression when Donovan caught her with his father. When Layla kept her eyes downcast, away from his glare, his fingers tightened on her arms. “Tell me!”
“Donovan…”
He wasn’t calm, wasn’t able to keep his voice quiet, to ask the question without a piercing shrill elevating his tone. “You’re fucking O’Malley too?”
And just like that, the circus of a night was silenced. He barely took note of the low curse behind him, his best friend’s garbled curse or the stomping feet at his side.
Mullens came at him, quick and violent, jerking Donovan away from his daughter with a strength that surprised Donovan. “What the hell do you mean ‘too,’ Donely? Are you saying… you and Layla…” he glared at his daughter, “how many people are you sleeping with?”
“Daddy! No… I didn’t… not Quinn!” She looked between them, to her father’s fist tightened around Donovan’s collar, before the fear in her face, the tension in her body seized up, tightened. “I… I only said that because I didn’t want you to hurt Donovan!”
“Well, thanks, darlin’, for throwing the blame my way,” Quinn said, laughing past the blood dripping out of his nose.
“Shut up!” Layla screamed.
Mullens released Donovan and stood in front of Layla. Donovan could taste her fear, the anxious worry that had her stepping back as her father’s face hardened and his mouth became a hard, furious line. “The truth, right now, Layla.”
“I’d like to hear that too!” Donovan said, unable to stay quiet. He was desperate, a little overwhelmed at the potential of yet another betrayal. The very thing he swore he’d never allow himself to get near to again.
Mullens jerked his attention to Donovan, that hard lined mouth coming up in a disgusted snarl. “Keep your mouth shut, asshole.”
“Coach…” Declan, tried, walking slowly toward them, hands up as if he needed to show Mullens that he wasn’t a threat.
The man didn’t bother looking at the Irishman, but his voice was sharp, held a threat that told him not to test him. “Back off, Fraser.”
“Daddy, please…”
But Mullens wasn’t having any of her pleas, or the passive way she curled her arms around her waist. “Answers, young lady, right now. Was it O’Malley,” Mullens jerked his head back toward Quinn and then to his left at Donovan all the while keeping his body rigid, his shoulders straight, “or Donley? Whose ass do I have to kick for getting you pregnant?”
And then the air completely vanished from Donovan’s lungs. Gaze flying to his coach, then widening as they caught the way Layla covered her face, Donovan stepped back, shocked, staggered. “Woah. Wait a fucking second. What did you say?” Donovan asked his coach.
Then it wasn’t just Donovan’s shock that changed the mood in the room. He vaguely caught Mollie’s gasp, Quinn’s low, amused snort of laughter behind them and Declan, his overprotective, quick to throttle best friend came at him, angry and looking very much like he was going to clock Donovan good. “You got her up the pole? Are you fecking stupid? What did I say? What did I bloody tell you…”
“Shut the hell up man, I’m freaking out here.” He pushed Declan away, walked toward Layla when she finally moved her hands from her face.
Pregnant? She was pregnant? How the hell…
The others in the room became something Donovan only half noticed—Mollie furiously whispering into Layla’s ear, Mullens and Declan both shouting at Donovan, the other patrons keeping silent witness, muttering to themselves and Quinn’s unabashed amusement as he stretched his long arms against the bar. But Donovan’s attention was on Layla, on how small she looked just then, how she finally kept her gaze on Donovan’s face, staring over his features with her own fear moving her chin.
“Wasn’t bloody me, mate. Damn shame though, aye?” Quinn called, his voice holding an annoying hint of amusement. “Fit little bird that she is.” They all turned to him, glaring and Declan charged his brother, ignoring the humor in the asshole’s eyes as Declan pushed him onto stool, glaring out a warning at him.
When Mullens cleared his throat and his features only tightened, Layla’s gaze moved from Donovan and that quiver in her chin moved faster. “I’m waiting. Answer my damn question.”
She stopped moving, seemed able to only look down at the floor and the pub became silent, except for the sound of a match playing on the television above the bar and Quinn’s drunken drawl of “Hey, love, do you like to party?” as he flirted with the bartender.
“Daddy… Donovan…”
Donovan held his breath, his insides feeling like they might burn him up. And he was conflicted, torn between wanting to thunder out of the pub, leave Cavanagh altogether, scared out of his fucking head, and that urgent, desperate desire to hold Layla, to stop her body from shaking.
“Layla, the truth! Now!”
She flinched at her father’s shout, but didn’t speak. Donovan guessed the look she gave him was supposed to be an apology, but no words came from her, she made the briefest nod toward Donovan and he could only stare, dumbfounded at the tears running down her face before that loud, angry growl left Mullens throat and he gripped Donovan’s collar. He felt the coach’s hot breath on his face, heard the threats he made and the loud scream of “My car. Right now!” but Donovan could only watch Layla, taking in the splotches of red on her face and the apology that wrinkled her forehead.