Though I didn’t feel like a genius, no matter what my IQ test indicated.
After that stupid-ass dinner, we went to visit my family or hers almost every weekend. Dinner with the Brennans was the tits.
Sparrow Brennan was a world-class cook (literally), and it was fun watching the infamous Troy Brennan getting the third degree from his spitfire wife and hell-raising daughter. I even learned how to get along with Sam. Sort of, anyway. He was a scary motherfucker.
We talked about every subject under the sun—politics and TV shows and new things to do in the city and the future, but never about money, which felt fresh. Da and Cillian only talked about money. Sometimes Aisling tagged along, which I liked, too, because she was pretty much the only family member I had that I was sure didn’t want to maim me to death with a dildo. But also didn’t like it, because she looked at Sam like he had the world clenched in his dirty-ass, violent palm. Aisling and Sam were a bad idea.
She was the princess in the ivory tower, and he was the punk who was going to steal and corrupt her on his lunch break from setting the world on fire.
He was too everything—old, experienced, and dangerous—for my baby sister.
Sometimes the Penrose sisters were there, too. I didn’t mind them all that much. I told myself they probably had no idea Sailor and I were fucking. They no doubt thought I didn’t deserve her, or worse—that I had no chance with her in the first place. Both were true, by the way.
Things didn’t go as fine and dandy when we had to visit my family, but as long as I kept my interactions with Da to a minimum, I survived. I even shared a few lukewarm words with Cillian that entailed zero profanity—mainly Patriots crap or how the new refinery in Maine was going down the shitters (my words, not his, God forbid). Still, it counted for something. One day at work, Kill even brought a cheesesteak sandwich and a large Coke to my desk when I was studying for an exam and didn’t have time to take my lunch break.
“Here, Legally Blonde.” He tossed the food onto my desk without sparing me a look.
“Fuck. Thanks, old sport.” I looked at the food in disbelief. “Juggling college and work is a bitch.”
Kill slid a piece of paper with an email on it across my desk after the food. “Have someone else write your essays for you. Have them make you summaries for the tests. Life’s too short to pretend you give a damn about business law.”
“Do you give a damn about anything?” I jested. My parents had fucked both of us up thoroughly, but in different ways. I cared too much and acted up. He didn’t care about anything at all.
“I’m sure I do, but I’ve yet to find it,” he said.
“Liar.”
“The truth is overrated—an uncreative, uninspired way of seeing things.”
I got used to the hard work and the late-night studying. I even got used to fucking just one girl. The only thing that made me frustrated as hell was Sylvester. I listened to his recordings thoroughly, almost every night, and still couldn’t find anything concrete to nail him with.
One day, Da called me into his office. I could count the times he’d done that since The Dinner on one hand, so I approached in a sour mood. Pushing the door open, I noticed Kill and Syllie already seated in front of him.
“Sit,” Da spat, barely glancing at an empty chair next to Syllie.
“I’d rather stand. What’s up?” I asked.
All eyes darted to me. I think they were as surprised as I was to hear my voice, low and sober and lacking that playful, wannabe-rapper twang my family loathed so much. I was growing a spine. The growing pains were a bitch, but I was starting to recognize that I didn’t have much choice.
“Hunter,” my father warned.
“Leave him be, Athair. There are much more pressing issues right now,” Cillian growled impatiently.
I’d have kissed him on the mouth if he wasn’t my brother and my lips weren’t partial to a little redheaded banshee.
“Well?” I jutted my chin out.
My father sat back. He looked worn out, tired as fuck.
“The three of us—you, me, and Cillian—are going on a trip to monitor the progress on the refinery. We’re giving them the opportunity to sort the machinery mess, but it is clear something needs to be done. There have been too many hiccups with the project, and I think it could raise overall morale if we show a united front and go there together,” Da said.
I was surprised to be included. At this point, I was thankful they didn’t put a pair of goddamn orange shorts and a white bra on me and call me their office Hooters waitress, but something else irked me.
“What about you, Syllie? Are you coming?” I flashed him my good-natured smile.
The man turned to me, shaking his head.
“Someone needs to make sure everything runs smoothly here. Also, my wife has that thing,” he added as an afterthought.
“What thing?” I pressed. Someone goddamn had to.
“She’s a bit under the weather. She underwent surgery a little less than two months ago.”
“What surgery?” I didn’t relent. I could see Kill in my periphery, smiling in amusement.
“Oh, I’m not sure this is a conversation she’d appreciate me having. Obviously, I regret I cannot join you.”
“Obviously,” I repeated, cocking my head, examining his face. He met my eyes with defiance.
“Weren’t you the one who brought it to Athair’s attention that we were falling behind schedule on the refinery and it would never pass health and safety inspections at this rate?”
Syllie’s smile began to fade. I knew I was pissing off more than just him. Da hated being criticized. Especially by me.
“That’s his job,” my father boomed behind his desk. “What’s your point, ceann beag?”
I shrugged. “No point. Just putting things together.”
“Your job is filing things, not gluing them into a narrative,” Da reminded me. “It’s settled then. You’re coming with us. You’re excused now.”
I saluted him, marching out. Instead of sitting back at my desk, I sauntered all the way to Syllie’s office, checking on all the BS I’d used to record him, seeing that nothing had been moved. Since that first time I’d met Knox, I’d paid him two more visits and managed to put a tracker on Syllie’s phone (he used burner phones, but even the slyest motherfuckers slipped sometimes). I’d gotten two numbers for reliable private investigators, but I knew something like that could blow up in my face if I didn’t handle it carefully.
My nights were spent as follows:
Come back home.
Fuck Sailor.
Talk about our days over takeout food—she was my Western Wall, there to listen without judgment, to hear without shoving her opinion down my throat—then listen to Syllie’s recordings after I was done with my college shit. Sometimes Sailor helped me. We would sit together on the couch, I’d massage her legs, and we’d both have our AirPods tucked in, listening to different parts of Syllie’s recordings. When one of us felt we were on to something, we’d play it for the other. So far, though, Syllie was too careful for his own good.
Finally, when we retired to bed, I’d fuck her again. Sometimes she fucked me. Sailor was a feisty one.
We didn’t talk about what we were.