Page 44 of Craving Sin

He’s quiet for a moment, and then, with a cold detachment he’s good at, he says, “Whatever you say, Boss.”

It’s the way he would have spoken to my brother, not with the care, friendship, and respect he uses with me. Guilt builds in my gut, rising to burn the back of my throat. “I’m not him. I’m not trying to be him. It’s just…” Just what? This man has an effect on me that I don’t understand. One I both want to set fire to, but also nurture. Because when he says things to me like he did a little while ago, like tell me he doesn’t want to add another body count to that eight-year-old boy I used to be, I feel like I matter in a way I haven’t in too long.

“A few more days,” Conan says. “We need you, Rian. Don’t forget that. Cillian needs you.” And the best way to ensure I’m there for my son, that I stay alive and out of prison, and that Abbott doesn’t bring our whole fucking operation down because of things I’ve said in front of him, is to kill him.

“I could never forget that.” I end the call before Conan can say another word.

I slide my phone back into my pocket and go inside, not giving myself time to think about my conversation with Conan or anything that’s happened with Abbott while we’ve been here.

He doesn’t speak, but keeps his gaze firmly fixed on me as I close the door, walk over to him, and unlock his cuffs.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” he says, a sort of sadness to his voice that hadn’t been there before I’d locked him up again. Maybe I should cuff him afterward. We both need it because he shouldn’t be sad or confused about why I’m treating him the way I should in the situation we’re in.

There shouldn’t be any kind of comfort or familiarity between us, but somehow that’s happened…maybe even from the start.

For now, though, I just nod toward the bathroom and say, “Go,” instead of following him.

He cocks his head slightly but doesn’t linger long before going. Abbott doesn’t close the door, and he’s only in there a minute before the toilet flushes and the water turns on, telling me he’s washing his hands.

“Baked chicken?” he asks when he gets back into the kitchen.

Ignore him. Cuff him. Better yet, do what you need to do. Kill him and move on.

“Baked chicken,” I confirm.

Without thinking, I pull my cell out again and open one of my playlists. Gorecki’s Symphony No. 3 begins playing as I pull the chicken from the fridge.

“You listen to classical music?” he asks.

I cock a brow his direction. “Yes. Not what you expected?”

“Not much about you is what I expected,” he replies. There’s a quiet voice inside of me asking, What else? Tell me everything, but I manage to shut down those thoughts. “You acted angry when it played in my car.”

Yes, yes, I had been, but that’s because it’s something that belongs to me, and after the whirlwind of the physical reaction I had to him and then everything that happened, it was too much for me.

It should be too much for me now. “It’s not a big deal, Abbott.”

“I didn’t say it was.” He leans against the counter, pensive as he says, “My mom thought I would be a musician. I used to not be able to sleep unless I had classical music playing. What child loves instruments like that? She took me to the symphony when I was eight. My father was there. It was rare that he did things like that with us, but you know, have to make a show of things sometimes. I remember crying, it was so beautiful. What eight-year-old cries when they hear music?” he asks, but I can’t answer, can’t find words. I’m just…riveted by this story, though I don’t know why.

“My father was embarrassed. He scolded me about it—about crying. It was weak and childish. I was emotional just like my mother. Real men didn’t cry and certainly not over music.”

The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite down on my tongue…I want his father to die. I want to look in his eyes, hold my hand to his throat, and watch as the life leaves his body.

“I like your heart,” I say. “The world would be a better place if more people had one as big as yours.”

He scoffs.

“I’m being serious. I respect you for it. I could…never do that—I could never be that.”

“I think you probably could,” he says softly.

And because he gave me that, I feel like I owe him as well. “Moira played piano. She taught Cillian, too. When we first started dating, I took her to the symphony. I was young and trying to impress her, but the thing is, I fell in love. I was able to…feel there, feel in this way I wasn’t allowed to do in my life. People thought I went for her, and while she also enjoyed it, I went because of what it did in here.” I touch my chest.

“It makes me feel too.” Even at eight years old, it had made him feel. He watches me with a curiosity that should make me uncomfortable, stares like he’s trying to see something more than I want to show, but I don’t turn away. “I went to my first symphony at the same age that you killed your first man. That makes me so sad for that boy all over again.”

People don’t often feel sad for me. They fear me, hate me, envy me, but don’t feel sad for me. At least, no one other than my friends when I lost Moira.

“Is it weird, Rian? That we share this? Our love of classical music and symphonies?”