Nya

After Patrick left, I spent a long time, way too long, staring at the door.

I had asked, demanded, ordered that he bring me home so many times I had lost count. But now that he had, I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. No, that was a lie. I knew exactly how I felt about it.

I was happy to see my home, glad to be inside the place that was so familiar, my refuge. Except… It didn’t feel like a refuge. Now, when I looked at my tastefully decorated place, each item something I spent countless hours picking out, arranging to my satisfaction, I didn’t feel my usual pride, my usual happiness, my usual peace.

Instead, I felt emptiness, lack.

And it was all, completely, entirely because Patrick wasn’t here.

Yes, I loved this place, had spent a good deal of my time and my money making it exactly what I wanted. Now it all seemed so shallow and meaningless.

I sighed, forced myself to turn away from the door, an attempt to get away from that feeling.

It wouldn’t work, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try.

I moved through the house, valiantly attempting to ignore that little nagging feeling of sadness.

I always thought the solitude of this place was what I liked about it, but realized that I missed the sound of another person, of Patrick, when I was here. Realized I wouldn’t hear his and his brothers’ uproarious laughter as they said something outrageous. Wouldn’t wander down the hall and find Sean waiting to flirt with me, or even Declan waiting to scowl.

I was clearly having some kind of Stockholm syndrome or something. Because the only reason I knew about Sean’s flirtations, Declan’s scowls, was because of who Patrick was and what he did. That should have killed any feelings I might have had for him, but it hadn’t.

Truth was, I had never met a man like Patrick Murphy before, and I had fallen in love with him.

I made my way to my bedroom, hoping that maybe a shower would clear my mind.

I went through the motions, but it did nothing to pull me away from thoughts of Patrick, the longing to be close to him again, have him in my arms, be in his.

For a moment I couldn’t help but think of my mother. Her warnings during my childhood to be careful of what I wished for. This wasn’t childhood, and I thought I had long left those kind of warnings behind. Clearly I was wrong.

But the bitch of it was, was I wrong for wanting to come home or wrong for wanting to go back?

A smart, sane person would never want to see Patrick Murphy again. A few weeks ago I’d considered myself one of them.

But now…

I turned the water off authoritatively and stepped out of the shower, my mind still churning. Maybe it was both. Maybe I knew better, something about Patrick had activated feelings I didn’t know how to handle, feelings I couldn’t change.

It would get better.

He’d make sure I was safe, and I would get on with the business of forgetting him.

Holding to that plan, even though some part of me suspected it wouldn’t be so simple, I went back into the living area. It was early afternoon, and without Patrick, there was no way I would sleep. I didn’t feel comfortable going out either, and I was again not in the mood for company.

Some part of me wondered if I was on the verge of moping, a behavior that I despised, but instead of giving in to that feeling, I turned on the television, determined to lose myself in some asinine show, one that, for the first time in my life, would in no way be more outlandish than my real life.

As I flipped through the channels, I heard a car turn into my driveway. Instantly, my heart leaped, and a bright, stupid smile covered my face.

I stood, walked toward the door, a spring in my step that hadn’t been there before now unshakable.

I didn’t know why, and it was probably nothing anyway, but Patrick had come back. He said he’d call me in a couple of days, the most perfunctory and noncommittal thing he’d ever said to me, something that suggested a distance and coldness that I didn’t like to associate with us.

But he’d come back, and maybe it was nothing, but maybe it meant he felt some of the connection I did.

The heavy thud of shoes on the porch was surprising, especially given how nearly silent Patrick seemed to move, but I didn’t care, was far too eager to see him and not even a second after I heard the heavy knock at the door did I sling it open.

“You forget some—”

The words died in my throat as I locked eyes with a set of dark blues.

They were familiar, a fun-house mirror version of Patrick’s. The eyes I stared into now were probing, intelligent, and filled with so much malice it made my stomach knot.

“May I help you?” I asked.

I was surprised I managed to get the words out at all, so I cut myself some slack on how stilted they sounded, on how weak-kneed I seemed.

“Yeah, you can get out of the way.”

Patrick’s father didn’t even give me a chance to do that. Instead he pushed past me and into my living room.

I was shocked, stunned frozen as he stood there, that predator’s gaze moving around my living room before it landed on me.

“You gonna run and hide?” he said.

“No, but maybe you should,” I said.

Those words were a threat, and there was no other way to interpret them. The instant I spoke them, I wondered what the hell had come over me. It was absolute insanity, because this man was dangerous, and I was provoking him.

The next seconds were sick with tension, almost excruciatingly so. Until, to my shock, Patrick’s father began to laugh.

The sound of his raspy, throaty, smoker’s cough bounced off my living room walls. Then, he again looked at me.

“You got some balls.” He shook his head. “Pardon me, lady balls.”

After that odd and not at all comforting statement, he began to look around my house again, walked deeper inside, and I wondered how I’d ever thought he looked distinguished. In the bar, his suit had looked good, but now, I could see how threadbare the cloth was, could see how the poor condition of the suit seemed to mirror his.

His hair was thick but overlong, looked unwashed, and I could see the grime caked under fingernails that hadn’t been trimmed. And when I looked closer, I could see the broken veins under his eyelids, the wrinkles on his face that ran far deeper than they appeared to at first sight.

He’d lived a hard life, one I was sure he’d earned.

I stayed by the door, not foolish enough to get closer, but I said, “May I help you?”

“Don’t get all bent out of shape, honey,” he called without looking at me, far too preoccupied with my home.

“I shouldn’t get bent out of shape when someone comes into my home uninvited?”

“If someone comes into your home uninvited, you should blow his fucking brains out, but I’m not someone. I’m Patrick’s father, and I have every right to know what kind of company he’s keeping,” Aengus said.

I don’t know if there was anything he could’ve said that would have surprised me more. On the surface, it seemed a touching gesture, if not wildly inappropriate, but from the look on his face when he spoke the words, to the way he looked at my home, I knew it was anything but.

I knew so little of Patrick’s world, but I didn’t have to know more to know that this had nothing to do with me. I was again simply a bystander in whatever game Patrick’s father was attempting to play. Though I knew that Patrick was more than capable of taking care of himself, I wouldn’t abide him being toyed with.

“I don’t know what information you have, or where you get that impression, but I’d like you to leave my home,” I said.

I used that firm voice that meant I was in no mood to negotiate or be contradicted, but much like his son, Aengus paid my words no heed.

Unlike his son, his unwillingness to do so simultaneously annoyed the crap out of me and scared me. I edged closer to the door, hating to show even a hint of weakness, but unwilling to deal with the situation any longer. I had no idea what he was really capable of, but he was no friend of Patrick’s, and while he might not wish me any harm in particular, he didn’t seem the type to be above hurting me if it served a purpose.

And I would not be caught in anyone’s crossfire again.

“Like I said, calm down. Consider this a visit by a concerned father,” Aengus said.

I didn’t listen to him much, instead focused on his body as he walked toward me, stopped at the front door, trapping me between him and the heavy wood.

It was a clear attempt to intimidate me, and it was one I would not give in to. So instead of cowering as he so clearly wanted me to, I locked eyes with him, stared up at him, waiting.

“Huh,” he said a moment later. “Smart mouth. Probably think you’re a tough girl. I simply can’t abide bitches who don’t know their place, but if that’s Patrick’s thing, more power to him. A pleasure to see you again, Nya. Your little bodyguard is getting antsy, so I’ll be on my way.”

With that, Aengus walked out of my front door and down the porch, whistling as he went.

I kept my gaze on him as he drove away. He probably expected me to run into the house and bolt the doors, and though the instinct was there, so strong that I wasn’t exactly sure how I managed to ignore it, I stood firm where I was. Refused to give him the pleasure of seeing me hide.

I watched the car until it disappeared, and then stayed and watched yet a moment longer.

I hadn’t seen Patrick’s guard, but I knew he was there, and also knew he was probably making a phone call. Told myself that was enough, and went back into the house.

My fingers shook as I bolted the door, but I ignored that, tried to put the incident out of my mind.

If nothing else, it proved that whatever feelings I might have for Patrick, being with him, loving him would come at great cost.

In that moment, I knew it was a cost I was willing to pay.