Owen

You’d think, after all these years, I’d be used to it. The feeling of my heart being torn from my chest every time I see them together.

But I’m not. Not sure I’ll ever get used to seeing my best friend and the only woman I’ve ever really cared about lip-locked like they’re the other’s only source of oxygen.

Aiden lets out a deep, rumbling laugh as Emer whispers something into his ear. One tattooed arm reaches out to draw her closer to his side, protectively. She smiles up at him like he hung the fucking stars in the sky, a hand resting on her very pregnant belly.

I grunt and take a deep swallow of beer, motioning for the pretty little waitress that’s been batting her long, fake eyelashes at me all night, to bring me another one, then lean back in my chair and try to ignore the pressure of the mounting migraine that pounds inside my head.

Goddamn headaches have been getting worse lately. Especially after a show. And last night’s concert was epic. Who would have thought a few years ago that we’d be able to sell out the Aviva Stadium? And being our last concert for God knows how long, we gave our fans here in Dublin a show they’ll never forget.

My gaze roams around the table and I hide the frown that tugs at my lips behind my beer bottle.

We’re supposed to be celebrating. But no matter how many beers I toss back, that empty hole inside me just keeps cutting deeper and deeper.

I knew things were going to change when Emer dropped the bomb that she was expecting. Because there was no way in hell Aiden was going to leave her alone with a baby. Not that I blame him. If I was in his shoes, I’d have made the same decision.

There was talk among the men to replace him for a second tour, but after my brother Cillian’s announcement last week that he and his wife Delaney would be welcoming their own little Gallagher later this year, we made the decision to put all talk of touring on hold.

Family came first. Always.

But family, to me, had always been the other three men sitting around the table. Cillian. Aiden. Shane. With Cillian and Aiden starting their own families, I don’t really know what that means for me.

Emer rests her head on Aiden’s shoulder, her fingers twining with his, a look of contentment softening her features. Aiden catches me watching them, and his grin stretches across his face like he knows he’s the luckiest bastard on the planet. There’s no arrogance in the look. No hint that he knows how fucking jealous I am of what he has. Just happiness.

Asshole. Me. Not him.

I force a smile, something I’ve become good at lately, and ignore the bitterness the burns up my throat, focusing instead on what a bastard I am for pining after my best friend’s girl.

Emer yawns, her eyes growing heavy. It’s been a long week. And we’re all exhausted.

“I think ye better take my sister to bed,” Shane says to Aiden, flipping his dark hair out of his eyes, then groaning. “Jeezus, did I really just say that?”

Aiden grins at Shane and chuckles. “My pleasure.”

“Asshole,” Shane mutters.

Emer just shakes her head at them, then admits with a small yawn. “I am tired.”

“And Ma hasn’t even arrived yet.” Shane says through a grunt. “Just wait.”

With a groan, Emer stands. “Remind me to thank her for planning a wedding right after your tour.”

“It’s your wedding,” my sister-in-law Delaney says, brushing her long hair off her shoulder. “You should be excited.”

“I don’t need a big celebration to tell me what I already know.” Emer takes Aiden’s hand. “This man is mine.”

“Always,” Aiden says, cupping the back of her head and kissing her hard, his palm resting on her stomach. “But ye know yer mother won’t believe we’re really married until ye’re standing in front of a priest. Doesn’t matter that we’ve got a certified Vegas wedding certificate to prove it.”

“I still can’t believe ye tied the knot that way,” Shane says, shaking his head. “Ye nearly broke Mom’s heart. But ye made me the favorite child for a few days.”

Emer just laughs. “Ye’ve always been the favorite. She never really forgave me for not being a musical prodigy like you all.”

“I’m still convinced that Owen is her favorite,” Shane grins. “Ye never could do anything wrong in her eyes.”

I grunt. “Maybe if the two of ye didn’t find ways to torment the poor woman-”

“Ye’d still be her favorite,” Emer says.

There’s a round of chuckles and concurring nods.

Agnus loves us all, but she tends to treat Emer and Shane like they’re still in nappies, wanting to control every area of their lives. Mine as well, if I let her. And unlike Emer and Shane, I tend to cave more easily. Because when all is said and done, she’s the closest thing Cillian and I had to a mother.

Emer snuggles into Aiden, looking so damn content, it makes my chest squeeze. I want to be happy for them. And I am. But it doesn’t mean the jealousy isn’t eating away at my already gnarled heart.

I glance away, meeting my brother’s hard gaze. I know the look he gives me, and the question in his eyes, the one that wants to know if I’m okay. The same damn question everyone asks me multiple times per day. And I’m getting pretty fucking sick of it.

I rub my temple, placing the cold beer bottle the waitress hands to me against my forehead.

“Ye okay?” Emer asks, her eyes filled with concern.

“Fine,” I mutter, draining half the bottle in a single swallow.

She shakes her head at me. “If ye’re having headaches again, ye should make an appointment-”

“Said I’m fine,” I say a little too gruffly, which wins me a few scowls from the other men.

Not to be deterred, Emer crosses her arms and narrows her gaze at me, giving me one of her mothering looks. “Instead of medicating yerself with booze, ye need to call Dr. Bishop. Maybe there’s another migraine medication ye can try.”

That’s Emer. More stubborn than any woman I’ve ever met, and yet more compassionate than Mother Teresa and Gandhi combined.

I shrug, and drain the rest of my beer. The last thing I want or deserve from any of them is sympathy.

Emer mumbles something to Aiden, and he looks over at me, lips thin, brows drawn down, then gives a small nod, before helping her stand. “If I’m going to survive the next week of wedding preparations, I’m going to need all the sleep I can get.”

“I’m going up, too,” my sister-in-law Delaney says, kissing Cillian’s cheek.

My brother’s arms wrap around his wife’s waist and he pulls her back into his lap. “Now what kind of kiss was that?”

She chuckles and places her hands on his face, then leans in and kisses him hard.

I look away, more jealousy eating at me. Not for Delaney, but for the happiness my brother has found with her. I’m glad for them both. Never thought any woman would pull Cillian from his brooding long enough to tame him. But Delaney has. She’s good for him. Never seen him as happy as he’s been these past months.

They’re all happy. Even Shane, with his evolving door of women. And I envy them. Not just their happiness, but their sense of identity, of knowing what they want and fighting like hell to get it.

My own identity revolves around the people at this table.

The band.

My family.

Cillian may be the only one related to me by blood, but Aiden and Shane are just as much my family, as well as Emer, and now Delaney. They’re the only thing in this world that matters. And I’d do anything to protect them. Nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice.

The table goes silent as we watch the two women walk out of the restaurant towards the hotel foyer.

“Emer’s right,” Aiden says when they’re out of earshot. “Ye need to go in and have yer head looked at again. Ye’re turning into a temperamental bastard these days. Skulking around like the world’s about to end.”

I grunt, hearing the affection in his harsh, but true, words. “I don’t skulk.”

“Ye do,” Cillian agrees.

“He just needs to get laid,” Shane says, leaning back in his chair, eyeing two pretty blondes at the bar.

Dressed in slinky little dresses that leave more skin exposed than covered, the women giggle when they catch Shane staring. When he gives them one of his fuck-me grins, the women slide off their stools and start towards us.

Perfect. I roll my eyes, knowing the drill. Now that Cillian and Aiden are out of the game, I’m his wingman. Even though I have no doubt that Shane could, and probably will, handle both women all by himself. Tonight, I’m not in the mood for casual sex. For the desperate affections of fan girls who want nothing more than to fuck me so that they can brag about it.

“Ye’re too fecking serious,” Shane says, shifting in his seat, and pulling out the chairs that Delaney and Emer had just been sitting in to allow the women to sit down. “Have a little bloody fun now and then.”

The women continue to giggle as Shane leans back, arms resting on the backs of their chairs, a smirk plastered across his face before diverting his attention to one of the Barbie clones.

When it’s obvious that Aiden and Cillian aren’t interested, the other blonde locks her gaze on me, her eyes roaming down my chest then back up to my face, her tongue darting out across her lips. She’s speaking to me, but I don’t care about the words coming from her mouth, or the way her manicured hand drops to my leg when she leans closer.

I feel nothing. Just the damn numbness that never seems to go away.

Maybe I’m fucking depressed. Or maybe I’m just tired of the same shit day in and day out. All I know is that something needs to change, before I end up drowning my wretchedness in more than just booze and women.

I see the worried looks Aiden and Cillian give me. The same look they’ve been giving me since I had my head busted in last year by some drunk asshole who stuck his nose, or rather his fist, where it didn’t belong.

I can hold my own in a fight. Hell, I’m Irish. I was born fighting. But the asshole clipped me with a dirty punch. One that landed me in intensive care with a brain bleed.

I’ve heard them muttering that I haven’t been the same since. Maybe I haven’t. But I know this emptiness inside me started way before that incident. I just finally stopped trying to hide it.

“Need to get some air,” I say, ignoring the blonde’s pout when I stand abruptly, causing her hand to drop from my leg.

“I’ll come with ye,” Aiden says, pushing his chair back.

“No. I’m good, man.” I don’t look back as I walk out of the hotel restaurant into the crowded Dublin streets.

I love this city. Love the whole fucking country. But coming home is bittersweet. Because I have no clue what the hell I’m going to do with my life now that everything’s changed.

Money isn’t an issue. I can live off the royalties from our last two albums. But going home, back to the empty house I built a year ago, and watching Cillian and Aiden settle down and raise their kids isn’t an appealing option.

Shane and I discussed opening a recording studio here in Dublin. It’s something I’ve been tossing around for a while now. There’s so much talent out there, so many voices that just need a chance to be heard.

The first couple drops of rain hit my face, but I barely notice when the clouds open up, causing the crowds to quickly disperse into the open pubs and restaurants that line the streets. I keep walking, pulling my hoodie over my head, stopping only when I reach the Liffey.

Forearms resting on the stone wall that lines the river, I take a deep breath of the cool, salty air.

There’s no other city in the world like Dublin. The old and the new merging. The steady, unrelenting heartbeat of a country that, despite all the tragedies of the past, can’t be snuffed out.

Even through the splattering of rain, and the soft hum of vehicles, I can hear the sound of laughter and music coming from the different pubs.

I think about going into the Brazen Head. Allow the folk music and a couple of pints of Guinness to fill some of the hollowness inside me. And I would if I thought I could sit in a back corner and drink myself into oblivion.

But my face is too recognizable now. And I’m not in the mood to deal with fans, so I keep walking until my hoodie is soaked through to my t-shirt beneath, and my feet ache with the blisters I’ll have tomorrow, and try to find the lyrics that have been just at the edge of my mind lately. But they stay in the haze, unattainable, just like my own happiness.

I’m too close to sober when I finally walk back through the hotel doors.

The restaurant bar is closed, the guys gone, Cillian and Aiden probably up to their rooms with their wives, and Shane no doubt with either Barbie one or Barbie two, maybe both.

Thank God for the stacked minibar in my suite.

I curse under my breath when I remember that I emptied it earlier today.

It’s late, well past midnight, and other than a woman checking in at the front counter, the lobby is empty.

Despite hotel policy, I know from experience that a hundred euros should get me more than a handful of those mini liquor bottles delivered ASAP to my room.

Dripping wet, I shove my hands in my pocket and wait while the mousy-looking concierge looks down his pointed nose at the woman whose back is towards me.

Long dark hair, damp from the rain, hangs in a simple ponytail down her slender back, resting just above a perfectly shaped ass.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but there aren’t any rooms available.”

“I have my reservation number right here,” the woman says with an accent that I recognize as American. Most likely from one of the northern states as the words have a harder edge, rather than a slow southern drawl.

Fumbling with her wallet, she pulls out a piece of paper. “Five, zero, T, two-”

The concierge tilts his chin up at her, looking through narrow slits, and says without even a hint of apology, “That reservation is for tomorrow.”

“I booked it for the eleventh-”

“Which is tomorrow.” He says each word slowly, with more than a touch of disdain.

My immediate reaction is to intervene. It’s after midnight, so it’s technically the eleventh. But I’m still holding out hope for the re-stock on my mini-fridge.

“Your room will be ready after two tomorrow afternoon.”

“And what am I supposed to do until then?” There’s a hint of panic in her voice now.

The man just blinks at her, apathetic.

“Look.” She places her forearms on counter. “I just spent seven hours on a plane, and another hour trying to get a damn taxi, which, after everything, ended up dropping me off at the wrong hotel. I walked another two blocks in the rain, and all I want is a damn bed and a shower-”

“If you’d like to store your bags-”

The woman lets out an exasperated breath that sounds more like a strangled cry. “I don’t want to store my bags. I want a room. Please.”

“Miss.” Frustration creeps into the man’s tone, and he rolls his eyes at her. “If I had a room to give you, I would.”

Even I don’t believe him.

“Fine.” She throws her hands up. “I guess I’ll just walk the streets. But if I get mugged or murdered, it’s going to be all your fault.”

The man’s face remains deadpan. “You’re more than welcome to sit in our lounge. Breakfast will available in five hours.”

“Thanks,” she mutters, grabbing her purse, then leaning down to pick up her luggage.

She must not have been aware that I was standing behind her, because she spins around quickly, all her frustration evident in the movement, and collides straight into me.

I catch her elbow to steady her.

“I’m sorry. I-” She blinks up at me, her mouth parted on the words she was going to say.

The woman is beautiful. Her face is void of the heavy make-up most women wear. Her skin pale next to the dark strands that have escaped her messy ponytail. Bright blue eyes framed with thick, black lashes blink up at me.

There’s something familiar about her. Something I can’t place. And for the first time in weeks, my cock reacts to something other than my own hand.

The man behind the counter coughs. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Gallagher?”

Red creeps into the woman’s cheeks and she glances away, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. Obviously either recognizing my face or my name, because I can see the star-struck look in her eyes. But somehow, with her, it’s different. Appealing, rather than a turn-off.

“Mr. Gallagher?” the concierge repeats.

“No,” I huff out, not looking away from the beauty in front of me, even when she takes a step back. Liquor is the last thing on my mind now.

“Rough night?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, studying the soft lines of her jaw, then dropping my gaze to take in the rest of her perfections.

“I just need a bed. Sleep,” she mumbles, not glancing away when I raise my eyes and catch her staring.

A heated moment passes between us, and I can barely catch half of the emotions that flicker across her expression.

The woman intrigues me, pulls at something inside of me.

Yeah, yer dick, jackass, my brain warns. Despite the girl-next-door vibe she’s giving off, and the innocence in the startling blue of her eyes, trouble emanates from her. Not the kind of bad girl trouble I used to enjoy, but a sense that she’s got more baggage than just the luggage she’s holding.

The trouble is, I’ve never been able to resist a damsel in distress. Emer calls it my white-knight complex. And this girl is in definite need of saving. At least, for tonight.

The numbness from earlier is gone, replaced by a simmering heat from the way the woman looks at me. Need and something else that I can’t quite place, shimmering in her gaze.

She’d taste sweet. Hell, after the dry spell I’ve been in, she’d probably taste like manna from heaven. I can almost feel the way the soft curves of her body would mold against mine, hear the soft moans she’d make when I dragged my tongue across her clit.

Yeah, there’s no way this girl is sleeping in the fucking lobby.

Without a second thought, and knowing I’ll probably regret it, I take her bag from her hand and toss it over my shoulder.

“Wha-what are you doing?”

I grin down at her. “Ye said ye needed a bed. I just happen to have one.”