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I make a phone gesture to Luna on my way out. Telling her we’ll talk later.
She nods, staying with Farrow while he bandages her ankle, and I don’t have the heart to look at Lily. God, if her mom dislikes me, I think I might just fling myself onto the moon and sob.
I dig out a pack of cigarettes.
Three minutes later, I’m outside alone. Smoking in the rose garden of the Frey Manor and ignoring the security posted at the back door, and I’m replaying what I said and trying to tell myself I didn’t implode everything.
It’s fine, Paul.
You can come back from this.
I nod to myself, blowing out smoke. Pacing.
And then comms go off in my ear.
“SFO,” Akara calls tensely. “Everyone needs to regroup in the kitchen, even if you’re off-duty. There’s been an incident.”
Cold rushes down my spine.
Farrow cuts onto the line. “If this is about the broken ceiling, it’s handled—”
“It’s not about the ceiling.”
Cars start to rev in the gravel driveway. I see headlights turn on. Panicked voices of the families flood out the window.
I hit the mic. “What’s going on?”
“Someone tried to attack Beckett after his performance,” Akara says, and my world spins.
“Donnelly, bro,” Oscar calls over the line, worried. “Where are you?”
Today was the deadline to deliver the painting. I didn’t do it. My family was supposed to come at me. Not him.
This is all my fault.
Pain swells inside my head like an unpoppable balloon.
“Donnelly?” Farrow calls. “Pick up, you fucker.”
I click my mic. “I’m outside.” I only tell them so no one wastes energy worrying about me, and I don’t go to the kitchen for a security meet-up.
Instead, I find the security vehicle I parked, climb into the driver’s seat, and chug the water bottle I’d left.
Making sure I’m good to drive.
I get more details on my way to Center City. I make a quick two-minute pit stop at Lucky’s Diner and then I drive to New York.
I’d drive to Alaska if I had to.
My head is spinning, but I pay attention to the road. And then, I park at this massive hospital in New York City. Once I’m inside, it takes a hot second to find the right floor, right room, but I eventually do.
It’s hard to miss with Ian and Vance Wreath posted outside the door. Epsilon bodyguards, the ones who protect Eliot and Tom—the Wreath brothers beat me here, and when Ian sees me, he immediately shakes his head.
“Nope. Nope. Triple nope,” Ian says. “He doesn’t want to see you.”
“You ask him?” I wonder.
“I don’t need to ask,” Ian refutes. “When has he ever liked you?”
I can’t argue with that.
I stare at the door behind Vance. “Aren’t they doping him up with oxy?” I guess. “He’s not going to care who’s in his room. Plus, I brought this.” I take a carton out of the paper bag I’m holding. “You going to really deprive him of cheesecake?”
They give each other a look.
“You have five minutes,” Ian says.
They let me pass, and when the door shuts behind me, I flinch at the sound.
It’s not Beckett on the hospital bed.
It’s his bodyguard, and we’re already staring at one another.
Only problem is one of O’Malley’s eyes is swollen shut, so it’s harder for him to keep looking at me. My whole body goes cold seeing the bruises and welts on his face.
Anger creases the corners of his lips. He glances to the carton in my hand. “Cheesecake?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “From Lucky’s.” I unglue from my spot and approach him.
O’Malley and I have bad blood. He’s poked at me from the moment we met like I’m a scab he can’t pick away. I’ve taken it and then I’ve tossed it back. We’re the same—me and him. Same age. Same height. Irish families. And yet his family is nothing like mine. His upbringing more polished. His life more pampered. It struck his ego when Farrow got special treatment because Farrow is just better than him.
But he’s too chicken shit to really go at Farrow, so he just came at me. Like I was the easy punching bag.
I open the carton for him and set it on the tray table. When I pass him the plastic fork, I realize one of his arms is in a sling. He grabs it with his left.
“Beckett is fine,” O’Malley says.
I know.
Luna texted me. Farrow tried to call but I didn’t answer. I can’t lie to him, and if I tell him the shit about Colin and the painting, he’ll suggest what I already know I need to do.
I’m not letting him do it for me.
It has to be me.
“How are you?” I ask O’Malley.
He swallows some cheesecake. “Three broken ribs and a broken wrist. Doctor says I look worse than I feel, but I feel like I’ve been beat with a baseball bat…which…” He tilts his head and looks to me. “Your family is dirty. Real fucking dirty, man.”
