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“Great. Maybe with your help I won’t have to get blood on my best suit,” he says before pouring us each another drink.
The whiskey burns my throat as I swallow a huge mouthful. Staring out at the LA skyline as I roll the glass in my hand, I wonder what my brothers and Jessie are doing back home. Mostly I wonder about her. What she is wearing. Whether she is happy or sad. Whether she is thinking about me. With a shake of my head, I put the glass onto the table and sit on the sofa. I’ve drunk too much tonight and it’s making me far too reflective and melancholy for my own good. Even breaking some faces with Alejandro today wasn’t enough of a distraction. Sitting here alone in my hotel room night after night isn’t helping either. I should be down in the bar. I haven’t had sex for three long months and I have never gone this long without fucking before. The last time was with Jessie when we kept her a prisoner in our basement. The memory of that day makes my cock stiffen in my pants. Damn, that woman gets under my skin like no one I have ever known.
The women in LA are hot, and the women who stay in Alejandro’s hotels are rich and hot, which means they take good care of themselves. I shake my head, pissed at myself for even thinking about it. So, clearly I’m not that wasted because I know that is a line I can’t even think about crossing. Not until I've figured out what the hell is going on with Jessie and me.
As I glance at the table, I see my cell phone sitting there, daring me to call her and tell her that I can’t stop thinking about her. I pick it up and dial Conor instead. It rings and rings, but he doesn’t answer. It’s after midnight in New York so he’s probably working in the club, so it’s not that unusual that he doesn’t pick up, but it still sets my nerves on edge not to be able to speak to him. I end the call without leaving a message and dial Mikey instead, who picks up on the fourth ring.
“Hey, bro? How are things in sunny LA?” he asks.
“Boring as fuck.”
“Oh,” he laughs softly.
“Where is Conor? I can’t get a hold of him?”
“Well, he caught one of the new bar staff skimming money from the cash register so he’s enjoying firing his ass in true Conor style as we speak.”
“Ouch,” I wince at the thought of what the bartender is currently being subjected to. Not that the piece of shit doesn’t deserve it. You have to be a special kind of stupid to steal money from our club right under our noses. “How is Liam doing?”
“Great. He’s sleeping loads still, but the doc says that’s a good thing to let his body heal. He should be back on his feet in a day or so. He can hobble to the bathroom on his own now, so that’s good. And when he’s awake, he’s good. Jessie spends most of the day with him, playing cards and watching TV. So the lazy fucker is living his best life really,” Mikey jokes, but I know that no one is more relieved than he is that Liam is okay.
“Glad to hear it. And you?”
“Tired. But all good, bro. Looking forward to you coming home though. It’s not the same without you.”
“I’m looking forward to coming home too,” I tell him, and then we’re silent for a few moments until I’m forced to speak again, if only to break the tension that has edged into what was supposed to be a lighthearted catch up with the brother who is the least likely of all of us to talk about feelings with me. “How is she?” I swallow the ball of emotion that is lodged in my throat.
“Ask her yourself, bro,” he sighs.
“But I’m asking you, Mikey,” I snap, and then I feel bad for taking my frustration out on him. “I mean after yesterday. Is she okay?”
“Why? What did you two do? Because she was pretty happy, and dripping wet, by the time she came to bed.”
“You’re welcome,” I smile and can’t help experiencing a sense of perverted satisfaction and pride at what he just told me. “But I meant after what happened with Vlad."
“Ask her yourself,” he repeats. “I told you what went down yesterday at the park. And I’m not getting any more involved than that.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And it sounds like you’ve had too much to drink. So, get some sleep and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Are you really trying to be the responsible one here?”
“Well, one of us has to be, Shane. Because you are losing your edge,” he replies, and I can’t tell if he is joking or being truthful, or maybe a little of both. I end the call without saying anything else and let him go back to whatever he was doing before I disturbed him. Scrolling through my contacts, I pause at her name, my finger hovering over the call button. She is probably asleep. But what the hell? I dial her number anyway.
After a few rings, she answers. “Hi. What’s up?” she asks quietly and sleepily.
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes. But it’s okay. Is something wrong?” she whispers.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Because Liam is sleeping. Hold on, let me go into the den,” she says and I hear her soft breathing as she climbs out of bed and walks to the other room. “There. I can talk now,” she says louder now. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I admit in a drunken moment of weakness.
I hear the breath catch in her throat. “Why? Has something happened? Shane?” her voice goes up a few octaves too and the concern in it gives me a perverse sense of satisfaction. Not that I needed proof that she cares for me. Despite everything that has happened between us, I do believe that.
