Chapter Thirteen
Killian
Eden spun around and rammed into me, two bottles in her hand. “I told you before…fucking watch where you’re going,” I said, through gritted teeth. “You’re still making rookie mistakes.”
She glared at me. “I was going to apologize, but if you’re going to be an asshole—”
“I am an asshole. You should have figured that out by now.” I’d been acting like a dick ever since she’d walked through the front door tonight, as if I held her personally responsible for my fucked-up life. If I stopped to analyze it, which I wouldn’t, I’d understand the reason I was doing this. She made me want something I didn’t deserve.
“I guess I’m a slow learner. Thanks for clearing that up for me, Prince Charming.”
I gritted my teeth. I wish I’d had the foresight to work the outside bar, instead of being stuck inside with just her, the girl featured in all my late-night fantasies. When I was alone with my hand and visions of her.
“What did you need?” I asked, stopping in front of two blonde girls.
“Are you on the menu?” one of the girls asked in a Southern drawl.
Even her accent pissed me off. I glared at her. She flinched. “Drinks?” I asked brusquely. I had no patience for these sweet-as-pie girls. Or anyone else. Tonight, I hated the world.
“Oh yeah, sure. Um….” She scrunched up her nose as she read the specials on the blackboard. Then she consulted with her friend and they chatted about it. I’d reached my limit.
I turned to go. She grabbed my arm. I gave her a look that prompted her to release her hold. Read the warning signs, baby. Danger Zone. Keep Out.
“Wait. We know what we want.” She looked at her friend, waiting for the answer.
“Two mojitos.”
I looked at them more closely. Even in the dim lighting, I could see the thick layers of makeup on their faces. They were young, trying to look older. “I need to see some ID.”
“We’re twenty-two. Well, she’s twenty-one but almost…”
I held out my hand and wiggled my fingers for them to hand over their IDs. They dug their licenses out of their wallets, and I checked their birthdates. Twenty-two and twenty-one. From Georgia.
I set two glasses on the bar mat and bashed the hell out of the mint leaves. By the time I was done, it looked like the mint had been chewed up and spit out.
I served the Southern belles their drinks and one of them handed me a card. “We’re just visiting. It’s our first time in New York.”
Why was she still talking to me? Didn’t my attitude make it clear that I was in no mood for chit-chat?
“We heard Williamsburg has a good party scene. Where do you hang out? Like…after work?” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger and licked her lips. I opened my mouth to say something that would effectively shut her up for the rest of the night.
“Yeah, Killian,” Eden said, coming to stand next to me. Her sunshine scent washed over me. It made me dizzy. Tendrils of hair escaped her ponytail, the column of her neck exposed. I wanted to kiss my way up it and sink my teeth into the soft flesh of her earlobe. Release the blonde waves of her hair from the elastic and fist it in my hand. Bury my face in it and breathe her in. Fuck. “Where do you hang out after work? I bet you know where all the good parties are, don’t you?”
I gave her a tight smile. “Why don’t you tell the ladies what to do for fun in Williamsburg?”
She flashed me a fake smile. “Certainly. I know all the hot spots.”
I raised my brows. “You do?”
She nodded and brushed past me, stopping in front of the girls. Five minutes later, they were still talking and laughing. I tuned them out and made a concerted effort not to look at Eden’s ass in her tiny black skirt. Or all that golden skin on display. Was all her skin that golden color or did she have hidden tan lines? Ava, in her infinite wisdom, had ordered tank tops instead of T-shirts for Eden. More skin exposure, bigger tips. Maybe I should fuck this mood out of my system. Bend her over the desk and take her from behind…. Jesus, I needed to stay away from her. She needed someone who wasn’t so fucked-up. Eden wasn’t the kind of girl you fucked and left in the middle of the night. And she certainly wasn’t the doormat Prince Charming wiped his feet on. She’d proven, more than once, that she could hold her own.
For the rest of the night, I continued to be my charming self. She alternated between ignoring me and calling me out for my rude behavior. If she’d ever entertained any notions of getting closer to me, I was hell-bent on blowing those plans out of the water.
“I’m going home with Zeke,” Eden announced after they finished counting their tips at the bar, the two of them laughing and talking about God knew what. Even from the office, I’d heard their voices and laughter.
My gaze snapped to the doorway. “You’re going home with Zeke,” I repeated.
She nodded. “We’re going to grab a bite to eat. Catch you guys later.” She waved goodbye to me and Louis and sauntered away.
He arched his brows. “What did you do to piss her off, Romeo?”
I ignored Louis and followed Eden out into the hallway. “Where are you going?”
She stopped and turned to face me. I crossed my arms over my chest. She took a few steps closer and planted her hands on her hips. “If this is how you act after letting me sketch your face, I’m sorry I asked.” She was beautiful when she was angry, her skin flushed and those green eyes flashing heat.
“You think everything is about you, princess?”
Her eyes flared. “I don’t know what to think. How could I? You don’t talk. All night you acted like…”
“An asshole. You said that already. A few times.”
“I call it like I see it.” She tilted her head, trying to make sense of my behavior. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Text me when you get home.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Why?”
“So, I know you got home safely.” How hard was that to understand?
Eden rolled her eyes. “I can take care of myself, and if you ever call me princess again, I’ll—”
I leaned my shoulder against the wall and gave her a lazy grin designed to piss her off. “What will you do?” I glanced at her balled fists and laughed. “Punch me?”
Her chest heaving with indignation, she stormed off.
“Don’t forget to text me,” I called after her. She held her middle finger in the air as she rounded the corner. I chuckled under my breath. I loved it when she got feisty. How could I not find her irresistible?
I whipped out my phone and texted Zeke. Make sure she gets home okay. And remember what I told you.
Friends. No benefits. Got it, he texted back.
Five minutes later, he sent me a follow-up text. She’s not too impressed with you right now. If you’re saving her for yourself, you’re doing a shitty job of it.
I didn’t bother replying.
* * *
I swirled the amber liquid around in my glass before I downed it. The burn hit my throat and heat pooled in my stomach, the fire spreading throughout my body. I set my empty glass on the coffee table. Unlike Seamus, I knew how to control my whiskey consumption. The shootout scene in a basement tavern played out on my TV. I’d seen Inglourious Basterds before, so the element of surprise was missing. It was background noise—something to keep me company and pass the time.
I checked my phone again. It was three in the morning, and still nothing from Eden. Fuck it.
Are you home yet? I texted.
Seconds later, my phone buzzed with a message. Yes.
I told you to text me.
And I told you I can take care of myself.
How did you get home?
My two feet carried me.
You walked? At 3:00 in the morning?
I stared at my phone and waited for a response. I didn’t get one.
Fucking Zeke. I swiped the screen and called him. When he answered, I heard music in the background. Something upbeat and loud. Party music. “What’s up?”
“You let Eden walk home alone?”
“No. I walked her home.”
I exhaled.
“Ugh. I burnt my tongue,” I heard Eden say.
“You need to wait until the cheese cools,” Zeke said.
Eden laughed. “I know. I do it every single time. When will I ever learn?”
What the hell? They were cooking? He was in her apartment? Zeke got party music, while I’d been treated to a dirge by The Fray that reminded me of Connor. My walkout song had been the cherry on top of the shit sundae. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’d chosen the music specifically designed to hit me where it hurt the most.
“Tell Killian the most dangerous part of my night is this grilled cheese sandwich,” Eden said. Then her voice came over the line. “Killian?”
“Yeah.”
“I got home okay. I’ll see you at work tomorrow night. Oh…and I told Louis I wanted to work outside with Brody.”
She cut the call without saying goodbye. Mission accomplished. It was better this way. Keeping my distance was the right thing to do. I leaned my head against the sofa cushion and closed my eyes. I saw her face. Her smile. Heard her laughter. I tried to imagine what it would be like to wake up with her every morning. To do simple, everyday things couples did. Go out for coffee. To dinner. A movie. I pictured her on the beach in Montauk, the breeze lifting her hair, her green eyes translucent in the sunshine. My hands massaging suntan lotion into her skin. I thought about all the stupid little things I’d never allowed myself to want before. Someone who knew me, all my faults and weaknesses, but loved me anyway.
Then I remembered who I was. A man who had killed his friend. Failed his brother. With no clue how to repair any of the damage. I had no idea what a healthy relationship would even look like. Why was I entertaining the possibility of a relationship with someone like her? She didn’t belong in my world. She didn’t need a guy who was carting around a shitload of baggage.
I needed to keep Eden out of my head, out of my bed, and out of my messy life.
For the next week, I succeeded in doing just that. At work, I treated her like an employee and nothing more. On our rides home, she didn’t ask me what I was thinking about or ply me with questions I didn’t want to answer. I was polite. Distant. Courteous. I gave her no reason to call me an asshole, and she had no cause to call me out on my behavior or accuse me of acting like a caveman. Until Friday night, when she decided she’d had enough.
“I hate this game we’re playing,” she said, as I was pouring gin from the bottle in my left hand and vodka from the bottle in my right hand. She pulled four bottles of beer from the cooler and flipped the caps. I grabbed the nozzle, poured tonic in three of the drinks, and opened a carton of cranberry juice for the fourth drink. Drinks served, I collected the money and waited for Eden to finish at the register. Normally, she was quick. Tonight, she was taking her sweet time. Considering it was three-deep at the bar, she needed to speed up.
I drummed my fingers on the counter. “Any day now.”
The drawer swung open, and she counted out the change in slow motion before shutting it and stepping aside. “Why are you acting like we’re strangers?”
I keyed in the order on the touchscreen and counted out the change. It took two seconds, tops. “Why aren’t you serving customers?” I asked, brushing past her.
Minutes later, she was in my space again. The bar was long with plenty of room for me, her, Louis, and the bar back, Manny, who was so quiet and efficient, I sometimes forgot he was there.
Eden slammed the glasses down on the bar mat and scooped ice into them, her usual smile nowhere in sight. Meanwhile, I’d been downright pleasant all night. I side-eyed her as she served the customers. No smile. No engagement when they tried to draw her into conversation. No moving her hips to the beat of the music. In other words, she did not look happy. I shouldn’t give a fuck. Unfortunately, I did give a fuck.
For the rest of the night, her bad mood didn’t lift, and I felt solely responsible.
As we left the bar, she walked beside me in silence. Got in my Jeep and quietly closed the door, staring straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap. We drove in silence, my music playing at a higher volume than usual. Neither of us said a word until I pulled up in front of her building. “That painting on my easel…it was you.”
Me? I ran my hand through my hair, not sure what to say. When I’d seen that painting, I’d studied it, trying to figure out why it affected me so much. It was just paint on a canvas. An abstract, no less. It had taken me by surprise that she’d painted something so dark and tumultuous. The only part that looked like her was the burst of yellow. Like the sunshine trying to break through a sky thick with storm clouds. It was the kind of painting people would hang on their wall and notice something different each time they looked at it. A storm at sea. Dark forces fighting the light. Beauty. Destruction. Nature at its most powerful. I’d wondered, at the time, which side would ultimately win the battle? The light? Or the dark?
And now she said the painting was me. Yeah, I had nothing. She wasn’t waiting for a response anyway. She hopped out of the Jeep and closed the door behind her. I watched her fitting the key into the lock and only pulled away when she was safely inside.
She’d gotten it wrong. That painting wasn’t me. It was us.