Because that girl disappeared a long time ago, and I couldn’t even begin to tell you who she is anymore. That’s the problem with lies. Eventually they start to feel real. Eventually, you start to believe them too.
I’m one big hot fucking mess wrapped in pretty lies. The Boston Underworld set its claws on me three years ago and now it doesn’t want to let me go. It’s a cold and lonely place living forever in the shadow of the man that invited this chaos into my life.
I’m so over all of it. The mafia guys. The clients. The ogling and the comments and the grabby hands. While their wives are no doubt at home tending to the children they come here to ogle my tits and slap my ass. I’m exhausted and running on fumes.
I’ve tried to be a good girl my whole life. Just like Ma wanted me to. But now, now I’m ready to do bad. Ready to say fuck this world and everyone in it, consequences be damned. The only thing anchoring me to my sanity at this point is my mother, but once she’s gone I’m all out of fucks to give.
Which reminds me that I need to get a Red Bull before it’s my turn up on stage. The pill in my pocket is beckoning me. Dexedrine, my new favorite vice. They were my sister’s, but now I’m using them as uppers just to stay awake.
I follow Kaya to the bar and add my drink to our order, which the bartender brings first. I don’t usually drink before dancing, or even after for that matter, but lately it’s the only thing getting me through my stage performances. While Kaya’s attention is elsewhere, I toss the pill into my mouth and wash it down with the vodka concoction. But when I open my eyes again, she’s staring at me.
“You look like shit,” she notes.
“Thanks, honey.”
She shrugs. “Just telling it like it is. When’s the last time you actually ate something?”
I try to remember, but I can’t. This morning, probably. I’m thinner than usual, I know that much. But it isn’t really on my list of things to give a shit about right now. My mother is dying. Fucking cancer.
The room spins as the pill enters my bloodstream and hot wires my nervous system. My attention pings around the bar while we wait, observing the blur of laughter and noise. All these people, having a good time. Fuck them. Fuck the mafia. And fuck cancer too. I want to get out of here. Away from this life and away from the blood and gore and darkness that has enveloped every aspect of who I am.
And most importantly, away from him.
Ronan.
The biggest fucking liar of them all. Pretending like he doesn’t give a shit. Pretending like he doesn’t see the way I look at him. Or the way he looks at me for that matter. Like he wishes I would disappear. I’m his biggest regret.
And still, my heart beats for him.
The man who shares my secret. The man who holds my life in the palm of his hands. Sometimes, I think I could love him. But most of the time, I just hate him. For making me weak. For tempting me to stay. For wondering when he’ll finally make good and kill me too.
I don’t know how it’s possible to have feelings that are such polar opposites. I want to slap him. I want to scream in his face and force him to acknowledge me. His cavalier attitude towards me is worse than any of the pain Blaine ever inflicted on me. I’m not even worth his attention. A moment of his time. And yet, when he walks into the room, everything else ceases to exist.
I know he’s here tonight. That’s why I can’t focus. His dark energy hums through the building before I ever even see him. There's always this thread between us. Connecting us. Linking us. I don't know if it's the secret or something else altogether. I don't know if it can be severed. If I even want it to be. He’s like a trip wire, rigged to detonate a category five hurricane of emotions inside of me. But I’m a masochist of the highest order, so I let him obliterate me. Again and again.
I doubt I’ll ever learn.
When Kaya and I take the drinks and head back to the VIP lounge, that’s where I find him. When I pass by his table, he glances up at me. There’s already a drink in his hand. A double shot of Jameson, neat. Never anything else.
I should keep moving. Maintain the course on autopilot. Because any other option is likely to send me careening into a state I don’t want to be in.
I stop anyway.
I can’t help it with him. I can never help it with him. We have a silent agreement, him and I. One where we avoid each other and pretend the other doesn’t exist. Only, I never really agreed to it. But I think there’s also an unspoken stipulation that if I break this arrangement, he’ll probably have to kill me.
I generally don’t provoke him. But tonight, I’m feeling reckless. And on edge. And I want to push him. I want to send him speeding into a state of discomfort for once, just so I don’t have to be alone. I want to chafe at the already raw wound festering inside of me.
My eyes move from his glass to the hands that rest atop the table. Strong. Masculine. Elegant. Those hands take life. Those hands wouldn’t hesitate to take mine too. And yet, in an odd twist of fate, those very hands gave me my life back.