Reaching Ryan (The Gilroy Clan Book 7)

  Reaching Ryan © 2019 by Megyn Ward. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from the author, except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  FIRST EDITION 2019

  Book design by Megyn Ward

  Cover design by Megyn Ward

  Cover photo by Depositphoto

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Warning: This book deals with sensitive subject matter and may trigger those who have dealt with or experienced trauma due to sexual assault.

  Ryan & Grace Playlist I

  1) As It Was - Hozier

  2) Talk – Hozier

  3) Waves – Dean Lewis

  4) Grace – Lewis Capaldi

  5) Broken Machine – Nothing but Thieves

  6) No Plan - Hozier

  7)

  Chapter One

  Ryan

  April, 2018

  Looking at myself in the mirror, I thought it would be different. That I would feel different.

  Better. More like myself.

  I was wrong.

  I haven’t worn anything but faded T-shirts and flannel pants for six months. Last time I got my haircut was when Con (of all fucking people) pulled a pair of clippers out of his backpack instead of one of his usual bullshit card games a couple of months ago. Shaving used to be almost compulsive, even in-country I’d scrape my beard off with a field knife if I had to.

  Today is different.

  Today, I took the stairs to the first floor and white-knuckled my way through a proper cut and shave in the facility barber shop. When I walked in, the stylist about shit herself. She tried to hide it while she stammered and stuttered me into an open chair while the orderly at the front desk discreetly radioed that there was a possible code Charlie Brown in progress.

  Charlie Brown is code for a resident in need of an intervention.

  Charlie Brown is almost always me and the intervention usually involves a half dozen orderlies and at least one broken nose.

  Afterward, Patrick is called. Threats are made and he comes trotting in with the family checkbook to save the day. It’s happened so many times he finally decided it would just be cheaper to build me a veteran center of my very own, from the ground up, than keep me here.

  Most days he’d be right.

  But not today.

  Today I’m on my best behavior.

  Because tonight, I have something better to do than square up with a bunch of mouthy dickheads, looking to trade a few busted ribs for a 5-figure payday.

  So, I waltz in and take the chair. Mind my manners. Say please and thank you, even though the fact that the woman cutting my hair about took my ear off about a hundred times.

  She’s nervous.

  It’s not her fault.

  It’s mine.

  My reputation as an abusive asshole proceeds me and I’ve come by it honestly.

  Never mind the fact that I’ve never so much as blinked at a female staff member—any female for that matter—much less raised so much as a finger at one.

  Sure, there are rumors but none of them are true, but it’s not like I do much to dispel them. Matter of fact I encourage them because really, I just want to be left the fuck alone.

  Which is too much to ask for when you have a hair-trigger temper and a rich benefactor who’s willing to pay to make your flare ups go away.

  But like I said—not today.

  When the stylist dusts me off and turns me loose without incident, she looks relieved and a little confused while the orderly eyeballing me from the front of the shop looks more than a little disappointed.

  Shooting him a wink on my way out the door, I can’t help but laugh when he follows me out the door.

  It becomes less amusing when he keeps following me, right into the elevator and moves to stand behind me.

  “Look—” I begrudgingly jam my index finger against the 3rd-floor button on the control panel. I hate taking it, but experience tells me my shadow has a few buddies waiting for us in the stairwell. Usually, I’m more than happy to oblige but I’m running late, so the elevator it is. “As much as I’d love to kick your ass all over this elevator, I’m gonna have to take a rain check,” I tell him, cutting him a quick smirk over my shoulder. “I have a date.”

  Okay—it’s not really a date.

  Tess asked me to be her escort to Cari’s opening because she needed a shield. Someone who wouldn’t be intimidated by Declan’s tendency to menace and brood any time they’re within a country mile of each other. Someone who wouldn’t start shit but wouldn’t take it either. She needed family.

  So, she asked me.

  Because that’s what I am to her.

  I’m family.

  I’m safe.

  Which, considering where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing for the last damn near decade of my life is pretty fucking funny.

  “A date—no shit?” The shitbag in scrubs sneers behind me. “How much you have to pay her? Is it gonna cost you extra to get her to touch that limp Frankendick of yours?”

  Frankendick.

  Wow, Shitbag is pulling out all the stops today. Can’t blame him. Last guy around here who called me Frankendick crawled away with three cracked ribs, a bruised lung, a broken collar bone, and a check from Cap’n for ten grand.

  The elevator gives a slight jerk and lets out a ding, signaling my stop. “A lot more than I paid your mom—she did it for free,” I say, tossing him another wink before the doors slide open in front of me.

  As soon as I say it, his brows slam low over beady eyes narrowed down to slits. “The fuck you just say to me?”

  “Pretty sure you heard me, fuckstick.” His tone instantly stiffens the back of my neck, but I manage to keep my shit together. Hell, I even smile before I step off the elevator.

  For a second, I think he’s going to follow me off, but he stops short when he sees Kaitlyn watching us from the nursing station.

  “Need something, Rich?” she says, bouncing a look between us.

  Yeah. Rich needs to have his head shoved up his own ass.

  “Just returning your resident,” Rich flashes her a wide, plastic grin. “Want to grab a drink after work?”

  Kaitlyn shakes her head. “Not really.”

  Rich’s grin winks out and he opens his mouth just as the elevator doors begin to slide shut between us. “Ask your mom—pretty sure she’s free,” I tell him, flipping him off for good measure.

  “You shouldn’t do that.”

  I turn away from the elevator to find Kaitlyn scowling at me. “Do what?” It’s a dumb question. We both know what I’m doing. I’m poking the bear—only I’m the one locked in a cage and Yogi’s got the keys.

  “They’re trying to get you out of here, you know?” she says instead of answering me, the scowl on her face softening. “Your family—just give them some—”

  “Fucking the family whore doesn’t make you one of them.” I cut her off completely because I can’t stand the way she’s looking at me. Like I’m a lame dog. Pathetic and sad. “You didn’t mean anything to him. You know that, right?” As soon as I say it, I regret it. Feel like a
total fucking asshole but I don’t take it back because I’d rather be a fucking asshole than a lame dog and that’s how the way she’s looking at me makes me feel. “You’re not special—you’re just some chick Con used to plug up his holes for a few weeks.”

  She stops looking at me like I’m a lame dog and starts looking at me like she wants to Nurse Ratched me. “Your dress uniform was brought up from the cleaners,” she says, offering me a vague, polite smile. “I hung it on the back of your closet.”

  “Damnit.” Resolve cracking, I swipe a rough hand over my face. “I didn’t—”

  “You better hurry up and get dressed. Tess called—she’s on her way,” she says while giving me a stiff-lipped smile before dismissing me completely.

  Shit.

  Turning away from her, I do the old man shuffle down the hall. I’m halfway to my room before she speaks.

  “Oh, and not that it’s any of your business, but Conner never laid a hand on me,” she calls out. “Because he’s a gentleman.”

  As in, I’m not.

  Hooray for subtext.

  Luckily, the idea of someone thinking of Conner Gilroy—the guy who’s fucked so many women that people use his name as a goddamned sexual verb—as a gentleman is so laughable that I forget the dickhead comment rolling around in my head.

  “Get security to walk you to your car after shift,” I tell her because Rich the Asshole Orderly didn’t look too happy that she turned him down and I know he has a hard time taking no for an answer.

  Shutting the door before she has a chance to tell me to mind my own business, I hobble my way to my bathroom where I begrudgingly toss a couple of oxys down my throat before stepping into the shower. I hate taking them but if I want to walk upright and not feel like every pore and muscle fiber in my body is on fire, I don’t have a choice.

  Twenty minutes later, the opioids and hot water have worked their magic, and I’m staring at myself in the mirror and feeling like a fucking fraud because I don’t recognize the man staring back at me. Because I know what’s under the uniform isn’t really a man at all.

  Because I’m something less now.

  And knowing it makes me want to go find Rich the orderly and ram my fist down his throat just so I can feel something other than this yawning black pit of disgusted self-loathing chewing on my guts. So I can feel like me for just a few minutes.

  Like I said, I thought putting the uniform back on would be different.

  I thought it’d be a relief.

  I thought it’d make me feel better.

  More like myself.

  I was wrong.

  Chapter Two

  Grace

  My big sister, Cari and I have a lot in common. We both have blonde hair and blue eyes. We’re both tall for women, although she’s a bit taller. We’re both allergic to mushrooms, and we’re both jerk magnets.

  Seriously—if it drives a Porsche, uses teeth whitening strips and has even considered a spray tan, neither one of us can spend more than fifteen minutes in a public place without attracting the attention of what I call the Jerkus Erectus.

  I learned my lesson a long time ago. Learned to give a wide berth to every Chet, Trip and Harry that came sniffing around. And when the wide berth doesn’t work, I’m not above going full-blown honey badger to keep them at bay. Cari, on the other hand, has historically had a hard time quitting the species.

  Which is why when she came home last year, all banged up and lower than dirt, I was ready to hop on a bus and find the Jerkus Erectus that did a Savion Glover all over her face and make sure he understands what it means to fuck with a Faraday. When I asked her what happened—what really happened, not the shit she fed our parents—she told me that her ex-boyfriend did it. She emphasized the ex.

  I didn’t believe it but as the weeks stretched into months, and she never so much as whispered his name, I started to hope that she finally learned her lesson too.

  Started to hope that this thing she had for her nice guy roommate Patrick was real. I even started to believe it.

  Then I met him.

  I’ll admit he does seem nice.

  Open and friendly.

  Genuine and kind.

  But he’s obviously loaded and looks way too good in a suit to be any of those things. Not to mention the fact that every once in a while, I get the feeling that there’s something else lurking behind that Boy Scout grin and those lickable dimples. In my experience, whatever it is, it’s dangerous.

  Molly stepped on his perfectly polished dress shoes while we were getting ready to leave tonight. I was sure he was going to freak out. Start yelling about how much they cost so I jumped in, told her to apologize before he blew his stack. When she looked up at him and offered him a half-hearted shrug and a tepid sorry, he just grinned down at her and gently tapped the toe of his shoe against the top of her tennis shoe and said now we’re even with a wink.

  Not gonna lie—even though Patrick Gilroy is raising ever red flag I’ve got, my ovaries exploded a little.

  Where the Faraday girls are concerned, exploding ovaries is the mother of all red flags. Because nothing lights our fuse faster than Jerkus Erectus.

  As soon as we get to the gallery, I wander away from my parents. Snag a champagne flute from the tray of a passing waiter and find a quiet place to sit because like any mother, single or otherwise, I crave solitude. Need to take it where and when I can. Store it up like a squirrel hordes nuts for the winter, so when my patience is wearing thin because Moll suddenly doesn’t like the crunchy peanut butter I bought her even though she begged for it at the store or because my mom doesn’t approve of my second job, (surprise, you really can’t raise a kid on part-time, minimum wage work) I can break one of them out, my little solitude chestnuts, and crack it open. Use the fleeting moment of sanity if gives me to not completely lose my shit.

  I’m rarely alone. If I’m not working at the post office or pulling a cocktail shift at the Slide Inn, Bennet, Ohio’s decidedly more skeezy answer to Gilroy’s, I’m with Molly.

  Even now, sitting here in a dress that, even though Cari had the sale’s woman cut the tags off before she gave it to me to try on, I know cost more money than I’ve made in my entire life, while I drink moderately expensive champagne, she’s literally right in front of me. Cari painted her last summer, running through the sprinklers in the backyard, in streaks of bold, bright color. So beautiful, I can’t help but catch my breath.

  That’s the crazy thing about being a mom. As insane as Molly makes me, as hard as life is with her arms wrapped around my neck, I’d never want to live any other way. I’d die for her. Kill for her. Do anything I had to, to make things okay for her. I knew it, the moment the nurse placed her in my arms.

  Molly is my reason.

  The only reason I need.

  Checking the title card mounted on the wall, next to the canvas, I’m relieved to see the red sticker stuck to it because, while Cari told me it would be on display for her opening, she promised it wouldn’t be sold.

  Summertime with Molly Mae.

  “Cute kid.”

  Sigh.

  Alone time was sweet while it lasted.

  Plastering a polite smile across my face I look up and into the face of my first Jerkus Erectus for the evening. First because they always travel in packs. Where he came from there is always more. And to them, no isn’t just a foreign word. It’s a word they’ve never heard before. Not in any language.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, taking in the slick hair and blindingly white teeth. The expensive watch. The even more expensive suit. He’s standing next to the bench I’m sitting on, one of his hands dug into his pocket while the other holds a cut-crystal rocks glass. “She’s my daughter.” Usually telling them I have a kid gets them to move along with a nervous smile and a have a good night. Some of the braver ones risk a few minutes of small talk before hitting the eject button and scurrying away to warn their buddies.

  Don’t bother—she has a kid.

  Like
Molly is a disease.

  Like being a mom makes me less of a woman somehow.

  Not that I’m complaining. When it comes to Jerkus Erectus, I don’t care if he looks at me and sees a braying donkey.

  But sometimes, it bothers me.

  Like when the guy seems nice.

  Like someone I’d like to talk to.

  Someone I’d say yes to if he asked me out for coffee.

  Which is definitely not this guy.

  “Yeah?” He laughs into his glass before he takes a sip of something clear, poured over ice.

  “What are you, one of those MTV Teen Moms?” He lowers his glass and gives me the once over, his pale brown gaze raking over me from head to toe. “Did you get knocked up on Prom night?”

  Be nice. This is Cari’s big night. You don’t want to ruin it for her by dick punching a senator’s son.

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” Giving him another forced smile, I stand, aiming myself toward the narrow space between him and the wall. “Enjoy your evening,” I tell him, attempting to shoulder my way past him.

  He doesn’t let me.

  “Whoa.” The hand in his pocket comes out in a flash, his arm stretched across my exit, to press its palm against the wall next to me. “Where you goin’?” This close, I can smell the vodka fumes rolling off him. Fantastic. Jerkus Erectus is even more fun when he’s drunk. “I thought we were having a moment.”

  A moment?

  A fucking moment?

  Christ, the force is strong with this one.

  Wanting to ask him if he’s drunk or just stupid, I struggle to keep the question to myself. “What’s your name?” I ask instead, looking up at him.

  “Ashton Parker Gates—” He smiles down at me, a wide, slick smile, straight out of a toothpaste commercial. “The third. My friends call me Trip.”

  “Of course they do.” I soften the veiled insult with another smile. “Well, Trip,” I say, managing to make Trip sound a lot like shitface. “This moment has come to an end, so—”

  “Doesn’t have to.” He grins again. “When a woman looks like you, kids aren’t necessarily a deal breaker,” he tells me, searching my face for the look of relief I’m supposed to feel because I’m still in the game, despite the fact that my mom status makes me defective. When all he sees is palpable disdain, his grin loses some of its shine. “Come on, Teen Mom—let me buy you a drink. Maybe take you someplace quiet so we can talk.”