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CHAPTER FOUR

EAMON

I have no clue what hits me harder—the words, or the fact that they’re real. Dee is leaving. Not just the bar. Not just quitting on Nathan. Leaving me.

For the first time in my life, I’m stunned stupid. It’s like my brain’s been wiped and the only thing left is raw, burning panic. The urge to scoop her up and run is so strong I almost black out. I have to get out or I’ll do something unspeakable. I fight the urge to throw her over my shoulder and drag her out of here, like some prehistoric moron.

My feet move on autopilot. I slam the goddamn door behind me, and then I storm down the hall with my heart pounding hard against my ribs. I duck into my office and slam that door, too, hard enough that the glass rattles. Not proud of that. Don’t care. My hand shakes as I punch the lock.

Motherfucker.

I brace both arms on the desk and just… breathe. In. Out. In. Out. While one fucking thought circles through my mind on a continuous loop.

Deirdre Quinn is leaving me.

Not leaving the bar. Leaving me. Walking the fuck out of my life without a backward glance.

I want to punch a wall. Instead, I fold myself into the chair and squeeze my fists so tightly my knuckles go white.

I shut my eyes. Count backward from twenty. Doesn’t help.

God, Nothing has ever riled me like this.

I feel like I’ve been punched square in the solar plexus. I’m supposed to be the guy who always has a plan. I’ve made it through three deployments in war zones and walked away from my family’s less-than-legitimate business without a scratch, but I’m not sure I’ll survive Deirdre Quinn packing up and walking out. I thought I was doing the right thing by ignoring my feelings for her, but I never stopped to consider how I’d feel when she actually made plans to leave me.

I want to go back there and demand Dee take it all back. Tell her she’s not allowed to rewrite the rules on us, not now, not after all these years of her being mine. Even if neither of us ever acknowledged it.

Christ, I sound like a lunatic, but I don’t care. I’ve lost my goddamn mind because I’m sitting here in the dark, staring at the same spot on the wall and grinding my teeth, trying to figure out how to fix this fucked up situation.

My phone buzzes. I ignore it. Then it buzzes again, and I give in because, apparently, I have zero self-control where Deirdre Quinn is concerned.

The rest of the shift drags by, and every time I pass in front of the bar, I remember Dee isn’t here. The place feels hollow, just like my goddamn heart.

Closing up without Dee is a nightmare. Not gonna lie, it takes me twice as long to finish everything without her. Half the time, I’m waiting for her to pop out around the corner with a snarky comment, but there’s nothing. Just me and the leftover silence, trying to clean up the mess.

I lock the back door and step out into the darkness. The sidewalk outside feels twice as cold as it should, and a shiver runs through my body as I walk to where my car is parked in its usual spot. I thumb the remote, and the lights flash back.

I climb into the driver’s seat and sit there, engine idling, staring at my own reflection in the rearview mirror. What I see is a man on the brink. The kind of guy who’s spent his life being the fixer, the muscle, the guy who always knows the next move. The kind of guy who’s supposed to see a crisis coming miles away.

I didn’t see this one. Not even close. I never thought I’d ever lose her. Not that I really had her in the first place, as she reminded me earlier. But that’s a whole other story.

My hands are shaking, which is new. I press my palm flat against my thigh and try to will it steady, but it’s like my body’s not getting the message. She’s leaving. She’s really fucking leaving me in the dust.

I drive.

Not home—fuck that. There’s nothing for me there except a barren apartment and thoughts of her. Instead, I point the car toward the edge of town and let my subconscious take the wheel. The city’s mostly asleep, and I count red lights, every one a chance to turn back, but I keep going and end up at The Barrel, a hole-in-the-wall that serves as last call for the town’s misfits.

I’ve been here before, but never this late and never this raw. The bartender doesn’t even blink when I walk in. Maybe because it’s three in the morning, maybe because the regulars all look like they’re one bad decision away from a mugshot. I have no idea what I look like, but judging by the way the guy keeps his hands close to the baseball bat under the counter, I don’t think it’s “friendly neighborhood security expert.”

“Whiskey,” I rasp, dropping onto a questionable vinyl stool.

The guy nods. Pours two fingers of something brown and mean. I throw it back, and it burns all the way down, but it’s a start.

Dee’s leaving. She’s really doing it.

All the years I spent building walls, keeping every fucking thing buttoned down and tight? Gone. Just like that.

I’m not going to survive this. Not if I don’t do something.