“I don’t like what he’s implying.” Taranis sulks.
“And I didn’t like how your da spoke to my girlfriend, mate.” Robert isn’t backing down.
“If you two are going to come to blows, can we get it over with? I’m starving.”
Taranis pulls his angry stare away from Robert. “What arewe doing for your birthday?” The suggestion that Robert won’t be included in that “we” isn’t hidden, neither is Robert’s surprise that my birthday is coming up. It’s not one of the things we talked about on holiday because I figured he saw it on Wiki or something.
Taranis gives a smug smirk. “Sure, let me know your plans, Rhi.” He gives me a side hug. “Go get something to eat. I’ll talk to you over the weekend, and we can coordinate the fundraiser next week.”
Ah yes, the fundraiser next weekend, where the Morrigan family sponsors a table every year, and we all get dolled up, eat great food, and dance into the wee hours in the name of a good cause. This year, the proceeds will go to Brain Injury Matters, a charity to help those living with an acquired brain injury.
“My shoes are shined, and my tux is ready to go.” Robert flashes a smile that dazzles me but leaves my brother unimpressed.
“Oh, yay. You’re coming too.” He can be such a huffy child sometimes. “Can’t wait.”
When Robert smiles at me, there’s something tight about it. Something rehearsed. Like a man trying to convince himself he’s not part of the problem.
Shit. My angry father, my angry brother, and my fake boyfriend all in the same room surrounded by cameras?
The charity is for brain injuries, which is fitting—in a dark, Northern Irish humor kind of way—because something tells me that someone’s going to leave that event concussed.
CHAPTER 30
Robert
“You okay?”
I ignore Sully’s question and throw a couple more hits at the heavy bag. Thankfully, it doesn’t give me any smack talk. My jaw hurts from clenching.
The thump-thump-thump of my fists on the bag drown out the spiraling, intrusive thoughts that have been festering since Taranis Morrigan’s quip about protecting Rhiannon from me.
“That’s cool. Ignore me, I can wait.” My best friend showing up first thing on a Monday morning smells like matriarchal intervention. My gloves creak as I tighten my fists. I can’t breathe right. It’s like every punch buys me another second of silence before my head fills again. I’m tired of fighting ghosts that don’t exist outside my skull.
My muscles burn, legs ache, and sweat streams down my face.
I tried talking to Pete the Prick, told him I need more time to tweak my draft, but the fucker has already read it on our shared portal for work. There’s no talking him out of it. He said he’s added some bits and tidied it up.
My chest tightens. The last time someone said they’d “tidied up” my work, someone died. Different battlefield, same feeling of being stripped bare.
Mercifully, Pete agreed that he’d wait to let me add the finishing touches before we turn it in.
And by “finishing touches,” I mean try to smooth out those bumps that I know in my gut and my chest Rhiannon isn’t going to like.
I still have time.
I still have time.
But that doesn’t stop other reporters from sniffing around us like bloodhounds.
Fucking assholes.
“Did you see it?” My clenched fist slams into the punchbag, making it swing toward my best friend.
Sully returns the volley, sending the bag into me. “See what? The article from a piece of shit journalist, writing for a piece of shit newspaper, trashing my best friend for using the Raven’s fly-half for street cred?”
I glare at him, and he shrugs. “Nope. Can’t say that I did.”
“Ha.” There’s no humor in my voice. The article didn’t have any direct impact on Rhiannon or the team, but it’s just one other thread of scandal and drama right now that she doesn’t need. We’re trying to get her out of the spotlight, not make it fucking brighter.
