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Heck, I don’t know what to do. Seeing Brice and Kat only made my decision that much harder, because now it seems so obvious I’m doing the wrong thing.
Only I don’t know what’s right.
Chapter42
Gareth
Ispend a few days in Boston getting a feel for the city. I meet with all the brothers except for Liam—no shock there—and have dinner with Orin on the last night. He seems as stressed as he was back in the office, only drunker.
“Don’t ever forget, they’re out for blood,” he says on the sidewalk outside of the expensive restaurant. He grabs my shoulder, stares into my eye. “They’reallout for blood, Gareth.”
I have no clue who he means, but I can imagine it’severyone. In his business, in his position, real paranoia must be the norm, and a shiver runs down my spine trying to picture myself working for this man.
I can’t stop thinking about the difference between Beach Orin and Office Orin on the flight back to Dallas. I keep seeing him standing there behind the desk surrounded by all the trappings of power—huge windows overlooking the city, oil paintings on the walls, expensive wooden furniture, priceless books and artifacts on the shelves—but looking absolutely diminished.
Smaller, worn down, sanded down into nothing. He’s like a completely different man, and if I hadn’t seen the other Orin, I never would’ve believed the contrast could be so stark.
The Orin down the beach was alive. He was happy, outgoing, loud. Beach Orin looked like he loved life, loved his family, loved waking up in the morning.
But the man in the office was small, shriveled, weighed down by stress and rage, beset by enemies both real and imagined.
It’s a hard contrast, and I’m still trying to come to grips with what it means.
And what it would mean for me to follow him down that path.
Because that’s what will happen when I move out to Boston. I’ll become the Crowley lawyer, working for them full-time—still helping out my other clients, but I can’t pretend like I wouldn’t give the Crowleys most of my attention.
I’d be on the path toward power. Real power, like the kind Orin wields.
Except as I travel closer, I’ll be wrung out, squeezed for more and more of my time and attention.
Seeing it, even that one rare glimpse, didn’t make it seem appealing.
Not in the least.
Instead, it made me think about Fiona. About her white bikini, her skin pink and sun-kissed, her body glimmering with suntan lotion and sweat. About her whimpers as I ran my tongue along her pussy, eating her like a man possessed, loving her taste, loving the way she came. Her orgasm, her gasps, her laughter, her smiles. Her body pressed against mine.
Could I really give that up?
I get back to the apartment, exhausted. Travel always takes it out of me. I step over the threshold, head into the kitchen—and there she is.
Fiona, my wife. Smiling at me. “Welcome home,” she says.
Oh, fuck.
It hits me all at once.
Wow.
She looks stunning. Hair up, in short-shorts and a tank top, showing off her body like it’s no big thing. Glistening slightly, probably fresh from a workout.
Simple. Not made up, nothing pretentious. Nothing fancy.
And still absolutely beautiful.
Looking at her now, I can’t imagine ever walking away.
“Hey,” I say, and the weariness dissipates, like she gives me extra energy.
