Page 49 of The Endless Want

“She usually does.”

“That’s the fucking problem.”

Rory nods toward the bar, toward the women gathered there, toward the flirting and the laughter and the easy, uncomplicated heat in the air. “Go find someone who doesn’t talk back.”

I shoot him a dark look. “I don’t want someone else.”

Rory blinks once, then nods slowly. “Jesus. You’re gone.”

Conor smirks, trying to lighten the mood. “Imagine telling Liam you caught feelings for his right-hand strategist.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He’s right, and it pisses me off. The booth feels too small, the air too thick. I stand abruptly, the movement sharp enough to rattle the table. “I’m checking the back rooms.”

Rory frowns. “Everything’s already checked.”

“Then I’m checking them again.”

Conor lifts a brow but doesn’t stop me. “Don’t pick fights you don’t need, yeah?”

I don’t answer. The hallway behind the bar is narrow and shadowed, lined with storage rooms and the entrance to the private gambling den—invite only, Italians and Irish both vetted at the door. I walk past it, past the crates stacked against the wall, past the muffled laughter from the card tables.

My footsteps echo, too loud in the quiet. Ailish’s face flashes in my mind—eyes bright, jaw set, defiance and devastation braided together. It’s a wonder I ever thought I could keep her at arm’s length.

“Declan?” Conor’s voice follows me, heavy boots clicking against the floor. I don’t turn. “You need to calm down,” he says. “You’re pacing like you’re waiting on a bomb to go off.”

“Maybe I am.”

He blows out a breath. “You’re not doing her any favors thinking like this.”

I finally turn, the muscles in my jaw aching. “She called me a coward.”

“Because she wants you to pick her.”

“That’s not what she said.”

“That’s what she meant.” Conor folds his arms. “If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t be angry.”

I stare at him, feeling something in my chest twist sharply. “She pulled away. She said she didn’t need this. She doesn’t want me.”

Conor snorts. “Declan, you’re the dumbest smart man I’ve ever met. She pulled away from something. You don’t get that look off a conversation.”

I don’t answer him. That’s answer enough, and we both know it.

It should help. It doesn’t. I feel raw. Frayed. Like someone peeled away every protective layer and left nothing but nerve endings behind.

The boys drift back toward the bar when I say I want another drink. I don’t join them. I lean against the wall near the rear exit, swallowing the burn of the whiskey and the burn of her words. The room keeps spinning around me—music, laughter, cheers—but none of it registers through the static in my skull.

I think about the hallways she walks. The men stationed near her office. The way she tries to hide her exhaustion under sharp words. The way she keeps glancing at her phone like she’s waiting for something she’ll never admit she wants.

The way she pushed me away today because she doesn’t trust what she feels. The way I almost told her everything.

I finish another drink. Then another. Each one does nothing but sharpen the ache instead of dulling it.

Hours blur together. The speakeasy shifts from lively to raucous as the crowd grows wilder with drink. The Italians start placing bets on stupid shit—who can throw a playing card the farthest, who can chug a pint fastest, who can charm the prettiest girl at the bar. The music swells, then stutters, then swells again. Someone starts dancing on a table. Someone else gets dragged into the hallway for starting a fight.