Page 29 of Stolen Rebel

Okay, that’s it. I can’t take this shit. I’m not in the right frame of mind to deal with his humor at my expense in a calm and logical manner. I flip him off and storm from the room, stomp down the hallway, and slam the front door behind me. I’m in desperate need of sleep, but if I stay in that house for another second, I’m going to do something I regret. Either stab my brother in the neck or pin Rowan down and fuck her memory back into her.

The car is still warm when I throw myself into the driver’s seat, fire up the engine, and spray stones up at the house as I floor the accelerator. I don’t know where I’m going other than I know I can’t be here.

In less than a week, Rowan fucking Byrne has turned me from a madman known for his iciness and control to this runaway train with no brakes who’s burning through every boundary without giving a shit about the consequences. And it’s not even her fault. It’s mine. I never should’ve approached her in that pub. If I’d had my head screwed on right, I’d have left, taken some time to come up with a proper, well-thought-through plan, and then executed it.

Now, I’m backed into a corner and all the exits lead to hell.

I drive around aimlessly for a while. Without any memory of stopping, I look up and I’m outside my local: the Doyle Arms pub. A drink seems like a fucking good idea. I head inside. The place is empty save for a couple of regulars who basically live here. I nod a greeting and dander up to the bar. Jack, the owner, acknowledges me and wanders over, wiping a pint glass with a tea towel.

“Early for you. What happened to your face?”

“Whiskey. Neat. And mind your own fucking business.”

He chuckles, reaches up to put the glass on the shelf and gives me an eyeful of his hairy beer belly. I curse. “Fuck’s sake, man, cover yourself up. Almost brought up my fucking breakfast.”

Jack just grins. He’s known me and my brothers for years and isn’t bothered by our bad tempers. He sets a triple whiskey on the counter. Ill-advisedly, I knock it back in one go and tap the bar for another. I sip that one slower, staring into space. My life is spiraling, and I don’t know what to do about it.

A gust of wind hits my back as the door opens, then slams shut. My peripheral vision picks up a guy bundled up in a winter coat standing next to me at the bar, but I’m not in the mood for idle chitchat. I turn my back, sending a silent message to fuck off.

When the stupid cunt taps me on the shoulder, I whip around, ready to blast him back out the door. Instead, I groan. “What the fuck do you want?”

Darragh flashes me that stupid grin of his again. “A drink. Like you.”

“Are you following me?”

He makes a kissing sound. “You wish.”

“Fuck off.”

Laughing, he holds up a finger to Jack, then points at my glass. Jack brings him a drink, then sensibly takes up a position at the farthest end of the bar. Darragh touches his glass to mine, then sips. “Okay, give it up before you fucking burst.”

I glower. “Give what up?”

“What’s the plan here, brother? You going to keep her locked up in that shitty room for the rest of her days while you throw a hissy fit toward anyone who treats her like a fucking human being?”

Turning to face him, I prop my elbow on the bar. “What do you care? It’s not like we’re the fucking Walton family. We’re the Sopranos without the therapy.”

“Maybe therapy is exactly what you need.”

I scoff a laugh. “Fuck. That.”

“Liam.” There’s a serious note to his tone that makes me want to hide so I don’t have to face him. “Talk to me.”

I blow out a breath. “I don’t have the words to explain.”

“Try.”

Jack’s ears are on stalks. I flip him the bird, then cock my head to Darragh. We pick up our drinks and sit at a table where neither Jack, nor the resident alcoholics can hear us. Darragh waits for me to say something, his expression open and with a lot more patience and understanding than I’d get from Patrick. Our younger brother has always been the nicest out of the three of us. Oh, he can turn it on when the business requires it, but beneath the family expectations, he’s soft as shite.

“I already told you. I loved her once, and she fucked me over. What else is there to say?”

“Why did she, though?”

“If I fucking knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering. Dickhead.”

A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “Have you asked her?”

“Yes, I’ve fucking asked her. I’m not an idiot.”