Page 99 of Wicked Ruin

“Every fucking day,” I tell him, drinking my water and wishing it were something stronger. I lift two fingers to the passing waiter and order a Coke.

“You’re still off it, then,” Cavin says to me, but he doesn't ask why. Maybe he knows why. Maybe I like the fact that the sickly sweet drink reminds me of her every time, every damn day.

It's a battle to stay sober. Always is. Tonight, the call to just give in screams louder than usual.

But I didn't come this far to torch it.

“Proud of you, brother,” he says. I wonder if he'll still be proud of me when I tell him Bridget's pregnant.

“What did we need to talk about?” he says, leaning across the table. “How's Valentina?”

“Eh, she’s grand,” I say with a shrug. She is, I reckon. Every damn day, she texts about the wedding. I don't forget that conversation we had before, when she told me I'd better not fuck this up because she's not marrying the arsehole from Prague. I know it.

“Bronwyn keeps going on and on,” Cavin says. “Says she doesn't trust her, but I can’t say she’d trust anyone outside the family she didn’t know beforehand.”

“She trusted Bianca and Erin.”

Cavin nods. “Well. That’s true, isn’t it?”

“Bridget’s worried about Valentina’s socials.”

“And who the fuck cares?” Cavin says. “Those girls these days think too much of what they scroll. What you see online is all curated, isn't it?” I nod. Cavin hates social media because of the way people treated Erin when their engagement was announced.

“About Bridget,” I begin. Cavin's eyebrows rise a little.

“She alright? Erin says she met with Rosenberg. Seems the phone call I made got through to him.”

“You called him too?”

“Of course I did. I was worried about the lass. She was dragging her damn feet on calling him, wasn't she?”

“Aye.” Cavin nods in agreement. “Apparently, she's not having a relapse, is she?”

“No. He's checked her labs. She's fine, thankfully.”

Fine for now.

I take a deep breath, then lean in and look around to make sure nobody's nearby. I just need to tell him. He just needs to know.

“The thing is, Cav,” I say, clearing my throat.

He waits, perplexed, that divot between his brows deepening, when his phone rings.

With a frown, he looks down at it. “Jesus. Sorry, mate, gotta take this. It’s Erin.” If it wasn't his wife, he'd send it to voicemail, but he has to take it.

I curse Erin under my breath, even though I love her like a sister, because why is she calling now of all times?

Cavin taps the ringer. “Yeah, love?” In seconds, he's on his feet, panic sweeping across his face. Cavin never panics.

“What the fuck?” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “Is he alright? Medics have got there. Oh my god, Erin, did she?” He covers the speaker and talks to me. “It’s Da.”

No.

Cavin’s already up and gathering his things. “Aye, of course I'm on my way. Have you talked to Seamus? No. Of course you called me first. I get it. Alright, lass. You and Bridget take care. We’re on our way.”

Bridget? Now I'm on my feet.

“What happened?” I ask before he's even hung up the phone.