Thirty-seven

 

Conner

 

“What’s wrong with you?”

It’s the same question Tess asked me yesterday, and I try not to let it irritate me, but to be honest, everything about Declan is irritating me tonight, even more than usual. His voice, his face. Even the way he scoops ice makes me want to punch him in the mouth.

I know why. It’s because of Henley. The fact that she’s come home. I’ve blamed him for the way things happened between us for a long time. The way he made it his mission to pull us apart. After she left, I pretended to let it go, but really, I just let it fester, along with everything else that he did that summer.

I can’t say that things would’ve been different if he hadn’t been such a dick, but I know for a fucking fact that it didn’t help matters any.

Having Henley home just brings it all to the surface.

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I mutter, jerking on the taps so hard, I’m surprised I don’t snap it off. I made Patrick switch stations with me a while ago. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he says, keeping his tone conversational. “But I’m not the one fuckin’ up everybody’s rotation.”

I flip the tap and set the pitcher down on the tray, along with a stack of frosted pints. “What the hell are you talking about?” I can feel my irrigation double. I was on time. I’m behind the bar, pulling my weight. What more does he expect?

“You’ve been here almost four hours, and you haven’t Gilroyed anyone,” Cap’n says, leaning over to grab a tray of clean glasses out of the automatic washer he had installed a few weeks ago. “It’s freaking him out.”

Friday nights have settled into a routine. It’s the night all of us are behind the bar. Patrick and Declan handle happy hour with me waltzing in at eight to pick up the slack. Usually, picking up the slack means busting up fights—or starting them—and trolling for chicks. It’s September, the first Friday after the start of fall semester, usually, my favorite night of the year. It’s like Christmas, my birthday and New Year’s Eve, all rolled into one.

This place is teeming with fresh-faced co-eds that have never heard of Conner Gilroy. Cap’n’s right, by all rights, I should have one of them bent over a bathroom sink right now.

Right now, I can’t even make eye contact with anything sporting a set of double X chromosomes.

“I’m not freaked out,” Dec grumbles while angling a bottle of Jameson over a row of rocks glasses. “I’m wondering what the hell—” He stops talking, suddenly focused on the round of drinks he’s building for the knot of college bros on the other side of the bar.

That means Tess just walked in.

It bothers me that he watches out for her. That he thinks he has the right to even look at her after what he did to her. I know it shouldn’t. That it’s none of my business, but I can’t help it. I’m protective of her. Probably too protective but it’s not like I can just shut that shit off. Maybe it’ll even out once he and Jessica get married. Maybe I won’t feel like I have to guard Tess like a rabid pitbull.

Maybe.

But I doubt it.

Because whether he wants to admit it or not, my brother is still in love with her.

“What’s up, bitch?” Tess calls out to me above the din. As soon as she speaks, it’s like a spell has been broken. Declan snaps out of it and moves away from me, looking like a puppy who got caught pissing on its owner’s favorite rug. For a second I let myself feel sorry for him, but only for a second. He did this to himself. I’m not generally in the habit of feeling sorry for stupid people.

Pushing big brother out of my mind, I look over, forcing a grin onto my face. Before I can say anything, Cap’n leans over and whispers in her ear. “We’re pretty sure his dick is broken—he’s been here three and a half hours and not one Gilroy.”

Tess laughs like she’s supposed to, but she’s also looking at me like she feels sorry for me. Like she knows exactly what I did, and how fucked up I really am over it. As soon as Patrick hustled down the bar, she speaks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” It’s a stupid question, but I use it to buy myself some time.

“You know what.” She looks scared. Like she wants to slap me. “Why didn’t you tell me that the whale sitting in your office was Henley fucking O’Connell?”

I shrug. “What was I supposed to say—Hey, guess what? Henley’s in town—also, I accidentally fucked her last night. Whoops.”

“Yeah,” she says, planting her hands on her hips, chin tipped up so she can glare at me. “You could’ve started with that and ended with—Oh, and by the way, that’s her in my office.”

“How did you recognize her?” It’s a dumb question one that really doesn’t matter, but I still want to know. I’m still trying to convince myself that I didn’t know who she was when a fucked her last night. As it stands, I’m fighting a losing battle.

“I saw her standing in front of her old apartment building this afternoon, and I don’t know…” Tess shakes her head. “It just clicked. I just saw her.” Now she looks at me, worry etched plainly on her face. “Did you know it was her? You know, before you…” She knows me better than anyone. She knows how potentially disastrous Henley’s coming back can be for me. How hard it was for me last time she left.

“No.” I’m beginning to suspect it’s a lie, but I tell it anyway because saying it is easier than accepting the truth.

Without warning, Tess reaches up and gives my ear a sharp tug—something she does when she thinks I’m purposely checking out on her. She knows I can carry on a full-blown, in-depth conversation and still be a million miles away from the person I’m having it with. “Stay with me.”

“I’m right here,” I tell her, pushing her hand away. “I’m okay.”

Her face softens as she lets her hand drop to her side. “No, you’re not.”

“Sure I am.” I flash her another grin before chucking my crooked finger under her tipped chin. “Would I lie to you?”

“Yes,” Tess says quickly, her hazel eye flashing. “About this, you’d lie to your own mother.”

“I. Am. Fine.” To prove it, I snag a bottle of Jameson out of the well and yank the speed pourer out of its neck. “Have fun with Mr. Personality,” I say, shooting a look at Declan over my shoulder.

Suspicion morphs into worry in the blink of an eye. “Where are you going?”

“Being cooped up back here with these two Sunday school teachers makes me itchy,” I tell her, taking a long pull from the bottle in my hand before skirting my way around her and from behind the bar. “I’m taking a walk.”

“Con—”

She says something but whatever it is gets pushed back by the crowd that swallows me. I shoulder my way through it, liking the way it parts for me. The way women stop and look, trying to catch my eye. The way guys try to avoid it. They’re little more than impressions to me, faded ghosts, but I smile, and nod like I can’t see right through them. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it.

I’m halfway across the bar, not sure where I’m going or what’ll happen when I get there when I see her from the corner of my eye—just a flash but I know it’s her.

Henley.

Turning, I catch sight of her, standing next to the jukebox. She’s solid. Shines like a beacon--a million times brighter than anything that surrounds her. Dark, slim-fit jeans, tucked into a pair of knee-high leather boots. Loose silk blouse the color of spring grass. Minimal makeup. Arrow-straight hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. One hand tucked behind her back while the other raises a hand to turn one of the doorknob-sized diamonds in her ears. It’s the only indication she gives that she sees me. Knows I’m here.

I mean to walk right past her without so much as a backward glance but that’s not what happens. I can feel myself being pulled toward her against my will. It’s not until I’m practically standing on top of her that I realize she isn’t alone.

Stopping a few feet away from her, I pretend to be amused by the complete ineptitude of the fuckwit trying to pick her up, but really, I’m waiting for him to notice me and pop off so I can smash my half-empty bottle of whiskey over his head. The guy is standing close to her—so close she has to tilt her head to look him in the eye. Clean jeans. Navy sweater vest over a color-coordinated oxford. Goddamned loafers. Clean-shaven jaw, square enough to make mine clench. Good-looking in a bland, forgettable way that reminds me of her fiancé. The guy she’s been with since she left Boston.

Left me.

You don’t belong here, Gilroy, and she doesn’t belong to you. Not anymore.

“... just started my third year at Harvard Law. I can’t decide between real estate or corporate. One of my father got me an interview for a summer internship at one of the big firms downtown—”

“Which one?” I say it loud, forcing them both to acknowledge my presence. As soon as she hears my voice, Henley lets her gaze dart in my direction while the pick-up artist looks me up and down.

“Excuse me?” he says, eyes narrowed, taking it all in. The worn jeans. The scuffed steel-toes. The tattoos. The three-day beard I still haven’t made time to scrape off. He thinks he’s looking at some local lowlife. Someone who doesn’t matter. He’s not wrong.

I grin at him because attitude or not, the instant his gaze finds me standing a few feet away, he starts to fight off the panic in a bid to hold on to his rapidly failing manhood. I’m about four inches taller, and while we’re probably around the same weight, he’s soft. Soft hands. Soft muscles. “I said, which one?” Lifting the bottle to my mouth, I take a long drink, holding Henley’s gaze. She doesn’t look panicked. She looks embarrassed. Like she regrets me. Another knife in my gut but I hold on to it. Use it to push myself away from her. Remind myself that this is not Henley.

Not my Henley.

Not anymore.

“Leonard, Howard, and Hayes.” He narrows his gaze on me when I start to laugh. “Did I say something funny?”

I don’t answer him, I just lower the bottle, shifting my grip around its neck to assure a good swing.

Henley doesn’t look embarrassed anymore. She looks like she knows exactly what I’m thinking about doing. “Dalton, this is my friend, Conner.” She reaches over and places a hand on his arm, and the flash nearly blinds me. She’s wearing her engagement ring again. Seeing it on her finger is like a knife in my gut that loosens my grip on the bottle. I have to consciously tighten my fingers around it to keep it from slipping. “Conner this is Dalton. We went to school together at—”

“Trinity,” I say, letting my gaze skate over her without catching hold when I name the exclusive private school she graduated from after she left Boston. “I’m sure that pedigree came in handy when it was time to apply to Sara Lawrence.” I don’t want to see her face when she realizes I’ve basically been stalking her for the past eight years.

“Conner actually graduated from Harvard Law—2010, wasn’t it?” She smiles at me, tilting her head slightly. “It’s a little more impressive when you factor in the dual doctorates he earned from MIT that same year. Cognitive neuroscience and advanced physics—string theory.”

“Superstring, actually—” I flash her a quick smile. “and despite the doctorate, it’s more of hobby.”

Her smile sharpens just a tad. “He also holds about a half-dozen master’s degrees in everything ranging from Celtic languages and literature to Business analytics.”

Seems I’m not the only stalker. Nearly ten years later and I still can’t figure my way around her. No matter what she looks like now, she’s the same puzzle she always was. The only problem I’ve never been able to solve.

The realization pleases me more than it should.

“2010? You graduated from Harvard Law in 2010?” Poor Dalton looks like he’s seconds away from a full-systems meltdown. “How old are you?”

“year older than Hennie.” I look at her now, full in the face. “Twenty-six,” I say, enjoying the ugly red rash that crawls across her chest when I call her by the nickname she’s always hated. “If you manage to get in front of Jackson Howard, tell him Conner Gilroy says hi.” I shoot Dalton a cursory glance before refocusing on Henley. “I’ll see you later.” For some reason, it comes out sounding like a threat.

Turning away before either of them can say anything, I bounce my way down the hall. Jamming my key in the lock, I shove the office door open and slam it behind me.

I’m behind the desk, booting up the computer before the automatic lights click on. Within seconds I’m using the mouse to aim one of Declan’s security cameras at the place where I left her.

She still there, talking to that Dalton guy like I was never there. Seeing her like that, smiling and laughing with someone else, makes me angrier than it should. Makes me when a storm back in there, throw her over my shoulder and take her home.

Tie her to my bed and keep her there.

Forever.

Instead, I sit back in my seat and drink, watching her. Reading every word that passes over her lips while secretly hoping she says my name.

And you called Declan pathetic?

Jesus.

“Hello?”

I look up to find Sure-thing Kaitlyn, staring at me from across the desk.

I narrow my gaze at her. “What are you doing in here?” I mutter, annoyed.

“Uh, you grabbed my hand and dragged me in here.” She shakes her head at me, eyes wide. “I thought maybe—”

Huh. I don’t remember doing it, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t. Impulse control has never been my strong suit.

“I didn’t change my mind.” I cut her off, refocusing my attention on the screen in front of me. I watch as she makes her excuses to Captain Sweater Vest before weaving her way across the bar toward the office. Shit. “Unbutton your shirt and mess up your hair.”

“What?” She looks like she’s about two seconds away from throwing her drink at me.

Standing up, I yank the tongue of my belt loose and unthread it from it the buckle “I don’t have time to explain,” I tell her, jerking the button of my jeans open. “Unbutton your shirt and mess up your hair. Do it, and you and your friends drink for free for the rest of the night.”

She considers my offer for a few seconds before she sighs. Leaning over, she sets her drink on the desk in front of me. “Is this about that girl you were talking to?” she asks, reaching up to open the front of her blouse. When I don’t answer her, she just shrugs, raising her hands to shake them through her dark hair until it looks like she combed it with a wood chipper. “Now what?”

I glance at the screen. Henley is coming down the hall. “Leave.” Reaching out, I swipe a bunch of papers off the desk, knocking over the bottle of Jameson and Delcan’s precious filing system, destroying it in a flurry of invoices and receipts. I enjoy the destruction more than I should.

She turns toward the door, hand poised on the knob. “What am I supposed to tell my—”

“I really don’t care what you tell them.” I come around the desk, opening my zipper. “Tell them I fucked you so hard you suffered temporary hearing loss. Tell them I pulled you in here to drink coffee and talk about economics. I don’t give a shit. Just open the door.”