“Girl, I get it. But it was amazing. Sold three pieces, including the Basquiat-inspired one I was obsessing over. Ooh, and this fine silver fox named Gregory bought the biggestpiece of the night and asked for my number.” She giggles. “Fifty-three, divorced, and owns a hedge fund.”
“Wait, what about Derrick?”
“What about him? He’s child’s play. Gregory’s more my speed.Exactlymy type.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Of course he is.”
“But seriously, Sim, if you’re miserable, let’s get you out of there. My dad has a private jet. We could be in Cali by tonight. You can hide out at the vacation house. Who’s going to check you? Nobody! He won’t even know you’re gone ’til you are.”
I consider it for half a second. Then reality crashes back in.
“They’d find me,” I say quietly. “And it would only make things worse.”
“So what are you going to do?”
I sit up, a spark of defiance lighting me up.
Ronan gets to go out every night, doing whatever he pleases while I’m stuck here like some decorative houseplant.
Two can play that game.
I might not leave the state or even the city, but I can get my lick back in a different way.
“Get dressed,” I say. “We’re going out for drinks.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” I stand and head toward the bedroom. “It’s time I have a little fun. If Ronan can stay out all night, so can I.”
NINE
Ronan
There’sa fundamental difference between my family and the Langstons.
The Langstons call ahead. They schedule meetings and reserve conference rooms.
The Callahans? We show up when we feel like it and kick the fucking door in.
It’s a Tuesday morning when we pull up outside the Langston Defense Solutions Headquarters building in Midtown.
We storm through the front doors like we own the place.
Me, Killian, and a couple of the boys—Cian, Sean, Teagan—steamroll through the lobby and pack into the elevator, taking it up to the top floor.
The moment the elevator doors split open, we’re flooding Malcolm Langston’s private office floor, striding past the sleek reception desk, ignoring the wide-eyed secretaries who try to stop us.
“Excuse me? Sir, you can’t?—”
“We can,” I interrupt without slowing down. “Weare.”
The women exchange shocked looks, though none of them dare utter another word.
We look every bit the problematic Irish gangsterswe are.
Tattoos visible on our hands and forearms and stamped on our necks. Mean mugs that could make the toughest guy on the street piss himself. Black coats that barely conceal the fact we’re heavily armed.
The corporate types in their pressed suits and designer heels don’t want none of this. They know good and well it’s best to stay out our way.
