Page 69 of Ciaran
Thirty-six hours have passed since Millie walked out of that bar, leaving me wrecked and alone. Thirty-six hours since I had the shit kicked out of my heart. Thirty-six hours in which I wandered aimlessly around Manhattan, furious with myself, terrified for her, ravaged by feelings I can’t control. Finally spent, I decided to numb my pain by getting blind drunk. I called in sick to work—my first ever sick day. Not exactly something to be proud of, but I can hardly take a shift in this state.
Callum sent me a raft of texts asking what was going on when Millie turned up yesterday to pick up her stuff. I hadn’t replied. If she didn’t tell my brother what was happening, I’m not going to either. Further texts rolled in from Declan. Also ignored. I did send a brief one to Draven with sketchy details but hadn’t answered any follow-ups.
Instead of the alcohol dulling the ache in my chest, though, the drunker I get, the angrier I become. At Tanner. At Mia. At myself. I should have gone to the airport, told that bastard to do his worst, called his bluff. Punched the fucker in the face, then hauled ass with Mia in tow. If it was only my career on the line, I wouldn’t hesitate, but I can’t throw Declan and Callum under the bus. Mia’s right. Even a sniff of police brutality, however tenuous, and the press will descend like a pack of hounds. It doesn’t matter that I barely touched the guy. Perception is everything, and videos and pictures can be made to look a lot worse than the reality.
Both my brothers have worked their asses off to grow their businesses, and I won’t have their hard work go down the toilet because of me. All publicity is not necessarily good publicity.
I slam my fist on the bar at the unfairness of it all. I’d finally made her mine, only for Tanner to steal her away—again. I rub my face hard, my mind playing horrific images on a continuous loop of Mia cowering in a corner while Tanner pounds her with savage words and cruel untruths, stripping her of her hard fought self-worth.
Stop! She isn’t that woman any longer. She’s strong and determined. She can handle whatever Tanner throws at her until I find a way to bring her home where she fucking belongs. But, God…the feel of her lips on my cheek as she whispered her goodbyes will haunt me for years.
My cell lights up, catching my eye. A text from Draven.
If you don’t tell me where you are, motherfucker, I’m going to get every cop in Manhattan looking for you. Imagine what we’ll do when we find you…
The fact I can smile knowing Mia is suffering comes as something of a surprise. Draven isn’t joking. He doesn’t make idle threats. He’ll probably have New York’s finest strip me naked, tie me to a streetlamp, and sell tickets for passers-by to throw rotten fruit at me. All in aid of the Police Benevolent Association.
I stab out the name of the bar and hit send. Tapping my fingers on the bar top, I order another drink. To my surprise, it takes Draven two hours to arrive. I get unsteadily to my feet as he tosses his jacket over a nearby chair, but instead of shaking my outstretched hand, he takes a swing and punches me in the face. I lose my balance and hit the deck.
Clutching my nose, with warm blood oozing between my fingers, onto my lips and chin, I stagger to my feet. Damn, that big bastard has a hell of a punch.
“What the fuck was that for?” I say, my voice sounding thick and muffled, probably because my nose is broken.
“I don’t want no trouble,” the bartender says.
Draven silences him with a single glance. Yeah, he has that effect on a lot of people.
“Two things,” Draven says, glowering at me. “Firstly, do you know there are seven bars with the same name in Manhattan, and this is the sixth one I’ve tried.”
I grab a handful of napkins off the bar and begin to mop up the blood off my face and hands. “You should have texted me back.”
“I did. You didn’t reply.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, fucking ‘oh’. And secondly—which really deserves another punch, but since I can’t break your nose twice, I’ll let it slide—you really gonna let Millie walk away? Again? Fuck’s sake, Ciaran. Fight for her, man. Step up to the goddamn plate. You keep doing the same old shit, you know what you’ll get? Yep, same old fucking results. Your woman is out there with that creep, and you’re in here drowning your sorrows in bourbon. Get off your sorry ass and protect her, or so help me God, I will.”
The scowl I toss at him hurts like a bitch, but I do it anyway. “What the fuck do you want me to do, huh? I begged her not to go, but she wouldn’t listen. I can’t force her to stay. That makes me just as bad as him. If it was only me who’d suffer, I’d have knocked Tanner on his ass before Millie went anywhere near him. But it isn’t. I don’t give a shit about my reputation, but if that motherfucker uploads that video, it’ll affect my whole family, and I can’t, Draven. I just can’t.”
Draven shakes his head. “Well, sitting here ain’t gonna solve anything, is it? Anyway, I call bullshit on this fucker’s ass. Smelly, stinky, dog-crap-on-your-shoe bullshit. You’re a cop. I’m a cop. Let’s dig until we get some dirt on him. ‘Cause don’t tell me someone who abuses his wife, who attempts to blackmail her into going back to him, is all hearts and fucking roses. Two can play that game, and I’m guessing we’ll play it a hell of a lot better than that shithead. Now, get me a goddamn whiskey, and let’s get to planning.”
I stare at him in stunned silence. Draven is a man who doesn’t like to waste oxygen, yet he’s made two impassioned speeches in as many minutes. And what’s worse is that he has a point. Several, in fact.
With my tail up, I order another round of drinks, and the two of us take a seat in a booth away from the flapping ears of the bartender.
“You’re right. Sitting here isn’t going to do jack shit.” I make fists of my hands. “When I’ve finished with that bastard, he’ll have to eat through a goddamn straw for the rest of his life.”
Draven gives a crooked smile. “Cool your jets. You’ll get your chance, but having your ass thrown in jail is hardly gonna help now, is it?” He taps his temple. “Let’s be smart about this, think it through. We need some leverage.”
“You really think he’s hiding something?” I ask, the first stirrings of hope burgeoning within me.
Draven shrugs. “We won’t know unless we dig. But ask yourself this: how many times did he show up here since Millie left him?”
I twist my lips. “Four or five.”
“That we know of.”
“What are you getting at?”