This wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted sex with Lauren and I didn’t want to care what she did when we weren’t having sex. But I also wanted more, maybe a lot more, and I couldn’t explain how or when or why that happened, but I wanted it.
And she didn’t.
“Are we checkin’ jobsites or what? I want to be at the bar at McGreevy’s with two beers under my belt before kickoff.”
I shifted my attention from the phone to squint at Riley. “You check in on our sites. I’m taking off.”
Riley pivoted, looking around the hallway as if I was speaking to someone else. “You’re lettingmedo that?”
“Christ, Riley, what the fuck did they teach you in Rhode Island? Just go to a few sites, look around, make sure nothing’s crashing down tonight, and get on the GC’s ass if you need to. Don’t change any plans. Don’t talk to any inspectors. Understood?”
“Got it, yeah, all over this.” Riley nodded enthusiastically. “Where’re you going?”
I popped to my feet and pocketed my phone. “I don’t know yet but I need to get the fuck out of here.”
*
I started witha run along the Charles River, crossing over the bridge into Cambridge and through Harvard Square, looping back to follow Storrow Drive, but the miles did nothing to quiet the pounding in my head. Neither did the numbers. I counted everything I saw—parking meters, bridges, women who vaguely resembled Lauren—and created insane equations in my head with those numbers.
I elected to leave my phone in the cup holder of my car. I needed to get away from my father, my siblings, my work for the night, but it felt as if I lost a limb and my only tether to Lauren. I reached for my absent armband nearly every half mile, holding out hope that she would call and explain it all away.
Veering off my original course, I opted to push my limits by jogging to the gym for a grueling hour of burpees, tire flipping, and box jumps. When I dropped to the ground to guzzle water, my muscles burned with exhaustion.
“Whatever you’re thinkin’ about, you’re thinkin’ too damn hard.”
I slanted my eyes toward the light Texas drawl and allowed a grim smile. Nick Acevedo, the brother I chose, yanked his t-shirt over his head and wiped the sweat from his face before falling beside me. “They let you out for the night?”
“Yeah,” Nick said. “They figure I’ve spent the past eighty-nine hours in surgery, so I get a couple off. I’m free until tomorrow. Or when they page me. Whichever comes first.”
“Do you do exorcisms?”
I wasn’t sure who needed it more, me or Angus, but I wanted a practitioner at the ready either way.
“No sir, I do not. The American Medical Association frowns upon medieval surgical practices and I like my medical license.” Nick tossed his empty water bottle aside and studied me as he braced his head in his hands. “Although my grandmother did have a lot of remedies down on the ranch for batshit crazy. Maybe we can get you some scorpion venom and prickly pear juice. You’ll be set. What’s ailing you now?”
In which order should I roll out my issues? There was Angus’s singular desire to piss all over my sweet mother’s memory, plus his focus on destroying my siblings one by one: Patrick was a traitor, Shannon was a cunt, Riley was dumb, Sam was gay, and Erin wasn’t his.
None of it was true, but didn’t nearly matter.
He never came after me directly, and it was only because I was the referee. He preferred to drown me in his complaints about everyone else, assuming he was gaining me as an ally for his cause, and I supposed it was better that way.
And then there was Miss Halsted and her general refusal to answer text messages within a reasonable timeframe.
Nick stretched his legs straight in front of him, his fingers wrapping around the soles of his sneakers as he dropped his head to his knees and grumbled at the sting of sore muscles. I followed his lead and started stretching as I anticipated the stiffness I would feel in the morning. The steep office stairs would kick my ass worse than any quantity of planks.
“Walsh, I’m not going to drag this shit outta you. I need a shower, a beer, and some red meat. In that order. If you want to unload your problems, you can buy me dinner.”
I studied the hard set to Nick’s pale hazel eyes before shaking my head. “You need to get laid.”
“Right. That way I can spend my time being just as miserable as you.”
*
“How do youdrink that?” I held Nick’s Hobgoblin brown ale up to the light over the booth and studied the liquid.
“I don’t like the fruity, hoppy IPAs out there these days. I like it thick. Real men chew their beers, Walsh.” Nick wiped the last of the Russian dressing from his fingers. Burgers at JM Curley’s in Downtown Crossing was a satisfying event, though a messy one. “I can’t remember the last meal I ate sitting down. Hell, I can’t remember an actual meal.”
“You make residency sound like a cult.”
