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Fifteen
Declan
“What the hellare you talking about? Of course he’s dead. I saw him die.”
“No, you didn’t,” Conor retorted, finally getting to his feet and coming to stand. He left his laptop on the floor, stretched, then bent down to grab it before yawning. “He’s not dead.”
I grunted at his surety, then stormed out of the elevator only to find my brothers there, waiting on me.
Gritting my teeth at the sight of them, then at the sight of the gas guzzling tank that I loathed riding in but knew would fit us all, I grumbled, “What are you doing here?”
Eoghan and Brennan shrugged, exposing bumps at their shoulders that revealed they were carrying. I mean, I was too. But…
Shit.
Had I lost that much weight?
I peered down at the suit which, I had to admit, hung on me where before it had fit like a dream, hiding the bulge of my piece where it was fully visible on their frames. “Crap.”
“What is it?” Eoghan asked, his brows furrowed.
“I look like a bag lady.”
“I think bag ladies wished they wore custom-tailored suits,” Conor replied, carefully replacing his laptop in a carry case that Brennan held out for him.
“You just need to get some weight back on you,” Brennan remarked. “You’ll look more normal in your usual gear.”
True, and I wanted to hug the bastard for knowing exactly where my mind was at.
Conor, as usual, had his head in the clouds.
The last thing I needed was to look like a pussy. We already had enough fucking crosshairs dancing on our chests, we sure as hell didn’t need any more. And sometimes, the slightest glimmer of weakness was all it took for some motherfucker to think they could overtake your patch.
Sure, I was an O’Donnelly, and that gave me more protection than most, but there was always some bright spark who started thinking shit they shouldn’t.
Case in point Cillian Donahue.
Mind racing as I leaned back against the fender, well aware we weren’t going anywhere until Conor’s baby was wrapped up tightly in the case he hefted everywhere with him. It was like constantly traveling to the goddamn airport. He couldn’t be without his laptop, which meant he had a very expensive pacifier.
“Cillian died,” I said unequivocally.
“Did you see him flatline?” Conor queried.
I blinked at him. “No. Why would I have?”
“Then how do you know?”
“We went to his fucking funeral,” Eoghan groused, slapping Conor upside the head.
“Was it an open or closed casket?” He wafted a hand. “We go to so frickin’ many, I can’t remember. Hell, I can’t even remember if Rogan’s was and that was last week. Jensen’s was open though, so I’m not too brain dead yet.”
“Christ, I should have been at both,” I said guiltily.
“Trust me, you didn’t miss anything,” Conor replied. “I mean, nothing changes.”
“Is it supposed to?” I retorted.
“Well, you’ve been to one and you’ve been to them all, is what I’m saying.”
