Reaching Ryan (The Gilroy Clan Book 7) Page 2

  Backing up a half step I want to kick myself for being so stupid because I’m pretty much trapped and that’s my fault. Give me a quiet, unoccupied corner, free champagne and a padded bench and I let my guard down. There’s no way I’m getting out of this without making a scene.

  Sorry, Cari. I tried. I really, really tried.

  I open my mouth, ready to unleash my inner honey badger, but the voice that comes out isn’t my own. It doesn’t even come from me. It comes from behind Jerkus Erectus.

  “Grace.”

  The asshat with the Rolex immediately drops his arm and turns away from me to look at the man standing a few feet away. As soon as he gets a good look at him, he visibly pales.

  It’s not hard to understand why.

  This guy—whoever he is—is dangerous.

  Not Jerkus Erectus dangerous. Not give-you- pretty-word-and-promises-to-get-what-he-wants dangerous.

  No.

  This guy is dangerous.

  With a capital D.

  He’s just standing there, looking at us, a glass in each hand, and I can see it.

  Kill-you-with-a-paperclip dangerous.

  Snap-your-neck-and-then-go-make-a-sandwich dangerous.

  And hot.

  I mean, seriously holy shit hot.

  Dark hair. Dark eyes. Military cut. Lean, angular jaw. Rough-looking hands, the back of his left covered in scars that crawl up his wrist to disappear into the sleeve of his dress uniform.

  That’s when it hits me.

  He knows my name.

  Seems to know me.

  I take it all in. The scars. The uniform. The steely-eyed I kill for a living glare. Adding it all up, I solve the case.

  This is Henley’s brother.

  Ryan.

  Henley is Tess’s friend.

  Tess is Cari’s friend.

  Cari is my sister.

  That should make this guy safe, right?

  Even though that’s how it’s supposed to go, I don’t buy it.

  There is nothing safe about this guy.

  Not even a little bit.

  Chapter Three

  Ryan

  “Grace.”

  I cut a quick look to the left to find Patrick standing next to me, watching me with a weird mix of mild amusement and less mild concern.

  “What?” Before the word even leaves my mouth, my gaze wanders back to her like it has a mind of its own. A young woman with long, loose blonde hair, wearing an expensive-looking pale blue dress. She’s sitting on a bench in the corner, looking at a painting of a little girl, playing in the water on a summer day while she slowly sips champagne.

  I can’t even see her face, but it doesn’t matter because that not what I can’t stop looking at. What keeps dragging my gaze back to settle on her. It’s how content she looks. I can see it in the set of her shoulders. The way she lifts her champagne flute to her lips slowly, like she’s savoring every swallow. Every second of solitude.

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way.

  Perfectly content.

  At peace.

  I’ve been watching her for a while now, which makes me a total creeper, but I rationalize my behavior by telling myself there’s fuck all else to do in this place unless I want to go pick a fight with Declan or limp around and play wounded warrior for Boston’s Elite.

  “The woman you’re staring at—” His statement draws my attention again. This time he looks mostly amused. “She’s Cari’s little sister. Her name is Grace.”

  He keeps talking. Filling me in—that she’s here, visiting from Ohio with her parents for Cari’s big day. That Cari is trying to talk her into moving here to go to school. That she had a kid when she was nineteen and no one knows who the father is.

  Half listening, I look past him to find Cari and Tess huddled together a few yards away. Seeing Tess causes a twinge of… something to tighten my chest. My feelings for Tess have always been convoluted. Murky. I love her. I’ve always loved her. Always wanted her.

  Why is less clear.

  Sometimes I think it’s real. That my feelings are genuine and other times I think I feel this way because I’ve known her my whole life and I just don’t know any better. Because she belongs to Declan. Because it’s always been a competition between us. Who’s smarter. Who’s faster. Who’s better.

  Funny thing is that I’m the only one competing. I’m running a losing race, all by myself because Tess will never choose me. She loves me but will never want me.

  She wants Declan.

  And Tess isn’t one to change her mind.

  The fucked-up, confusing part of it all is that knowing that is a relief. Knowing she’ll never want me, can’t want me, makes being around her easy. Makes telling her the truth easy too.

  Like sometimes I wished I’d died that day.

  Like sometimes I think about killing myself.

  That I’m just a shadow of the man I used to be.

  That I’m not even a man.

  Not anymore.

  Not really.

  I watch Cari reach into her purse and pull something out. Hand it to Tess with a whisper. Tess shoots Declan, who’s been brooding in a corner and staring at her for the past hour, a quick nervous glance before she hightails it through the crowd and down the hall while Cari comes toward us.

  Thirty seconds after she disappears, Declan follows her.

  That something inside me twinges again, slow and dull. I’m supposed to follow them. I’m supposed to want to follow them. Stake my claim. Plant my flag. State my intentions, like a good alpha male. But even though I know what’s happening between them, I just can’t seem to muster the give a fuck to move.

  Like I said—my feelings for Tess are goddamned confusing.

  “What are you two over here gossiping about?” Cari says, leaning into Patrick for a quick kiss.

  “Your sister,” I tell her, my tone blunt and unapologetic, right before I drain my glass. It’s club soda. I wish it was scotch but with painkillers on board, I’m dull enough as it is. If I added booze to the mix, I’d be a useless mess.

  Yeah? Who do you have to stay sharp for? You aren’t an operator anymore. No one’s calling you to save the day. You’re a useless cripple with a broke dick and one nut. Slop it up, Ranger—because no one gives a shit but you.

  When I say it, Cari gives me a few moments of stunned silence. Long enough for me to lift my glass and rattle the ice cubes in its bottom. “Looks like I’m empty.” I flash Patrick a grin in the face of his tight-jawed glare. I can tell him to get fucked all day long if I want to, but being rude to his girlfriend is something else entirely. Because I want to keep being an asshole to her, I force myself to take a step back. “Excuse me,” I tell them both before pushing myself away from them and through the crowd. On my way to the bar, I’m waylaid by about a dozen people wanting to shake my hand, giving me the generic thank you for your service spiel to which I offer my equally pat answer—thank you for your appreciation—before I push my way past them.

  With every intention of ordering three fingers of single malt when I finally get to the bar—because why the fuck not—a fast, bright flash snags my peripheral and I feel my entire body go tight and razor sharp in an instant. My heart taking off at a sudden, fast gallop while my brain kicks and fights its way from under the heavy opioid blanket, trying to make sense of what I saw. What I’m feeling.

  Scope flash.

  Sniper.

  Like the rest of me, my vision responds to the sudden adrenaline dump, pulling everything into sharp and sudden focus, my gaze quickly moving and assessing, trying to pinpoint the threat, as my arms move to my sides and my left leg drops back just a bit, widening my stance and center of gravity, while my left hand grazes against my hip, looking for the heft and shape of a weapon that should be there but isn’t.

  It isn’t there because I’m not a soldier anymore. Because I got blown the fuck up and now I’m a fucking crippled-up headcase who has about as much business carrying a sidearm as
I do juggling chainsaws.

  Blindfolded.

  Thank you for your service, Ranger.

  I keep looking, anyway. Clearing the room. Searching for a threat I no longer have the equipment or skill set to deal with because it’s not just a habit, it’s who I am. What I am.

  Because I’m a—

  There.

  Not a sniper.

  Just some trust fund kid flashing his Rolex, trying to hypnotize his next vic—

  Grace.

  She’s not sitting on her bench anymore. She’s not sipping champagne. She doesn’t look content. She doesn’t look hypnotized either.

  She looks pissed.

  Maybe a little scared because Mr. Rolex has her hemmed into a corner and doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to let her go.

  “What can I get you, sir?”

  My gaze jogs to the right to focus on the smiling bartender standing a few feet in front of me and everything snaps out of focus. Goes soft and dull, from one breath to the next.

  I’ve been standing here, silent and rigid, for only a few seconds. Even though it feels like hours have passed, I know they haven’t.

  “Club soda with a twist,” I tell him, digging into my pocket for my wallet to feed the tip jar. “Make it two.”

  Chapter Four

  Grace

  “Ryan.”

  When I say his name, Henley’s brother smiles. Not a real smile. More like a twitch at the corners of his mouth, fast and tight, before he diverts his attention back to the Jerkus Erectus between us. “Is there a reason you’ve got her trapped in a corner?”

  “Sorry, man.” Jerkus Erectus drops his arm and turns away from me to face Ryan. “She didn’t tell me she had a boyfriend.”

  “She shouldn’t have to,” Ryan says, giving him a bland smile. “She told you no—that should be sufficient, even for a rapey, little motherfucker like you.”

  Jerkus Erectus shoots me a quick murderous look, like it’s my fault he’s about to be force-fed his own Rolex, before looking back at Ryan. Because he’s smarter than he looks, Jerkus holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Look—”

  “Walk away, kid—before I stop feeling generous.”

  Jerkus drops his hands, an audible sigh of relief pushing out of his mouth before he can stop it. He moves away from me, giving Ryan a wide birth as he scurries away to disappear behind the line of party-goers.

  And just like that, we’re alone.

  He’s here with Tess. I saw them walk in together. Saw the way he had his hand press against the small of her back. He likes her—that much is obvious. I expect him to walk away and leave me alone to go find her now that crisis has been averted but he doesn’t. Instead he comes toward me and offers me one of the drinks in his hand. “Fighting evil is thirsty work,” he says, the tight press of his mouth relaxing into something between a smirk and a smile when I hesitate. “It’s club soda.” The smile deepens when I reach for the glass he’s not offering me. “That’s club soda too—just club soda. I’m willing to take a drink to prove it if you don’t mind cooties.”

  His offer heats my cheeks. I’m being rude. He doesn’t even know me and he swooped in and chased off an aggressive asshole for me and here I am, practically accusing him of trying to roofie me.

  Quit being a paranoid asshole, Grace, and say thank you.

  “I had it handled.”

  Now he doesn’t just smile.

  He laughs out loud.

  “Of that I have no doubt.” I want to hear condescension in his tone. I expect to feel like he’s patting me on my head and telling me what a cute little kitten I am, but I don’t. He seems and sounds genuine. Still, I can’t let it go.

  “Then why the rescue mission?” I ask, sounding like Molly when she’s missed a nap.

  His laughter dies off and his smile winks out. “Because I was bored.” Relinquishing the glass in his hand, he moves around me to take a seat on the bench behind me. He doesn’t invite me to join him. Doesn’t try to reel me in with inane questions or mindless small talk. He just sits there like he doesn’t care where I go or what I do.

  Which is why I sit down next to him.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Patrick told me about ten minutes ago.” He cuts me another look, this one tinged with annoyance. “Don’t worry, haven’t you heard—I’m all sorts of fucked upstairs.” He taps his index finger against his temple. “There’s a 99.9% chance I won’t remember it come tomorrow morning—might not even remember you.”

  I remember the story now. There was an explosion. The blast caused some sort of brain damage. I feel an embarrassed flush break out across my chest to creep up my neck. “Why would he do that?” I don’t like the way I sound. Angry. Defensive. Like I think he’s lying. “Tell you my name.”

  “He caught me staring at you and felt the need to tell me your entire life story.” He gives me an apathetic shrug, totally unaffected by my accusatory tone. “They get excited when I show interest in just about anything these days.”

  My entire life story.

  That’s doubtful, considering no one knows my story. Not all of it, anyway. There are things about me and my life no one knows. Things no one will ever know. “You were staring at me?”

  He takes a drink from his glass and shrugs again. “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I said—I was bored.”

  I look at him, letting myself take in the little things about him. Up close, I can see gold and mahogany flecks in his deep brown eyes. There’s a scar on his neck, long and thin, that reaches up from the collar of his shirt and disappears around the curve of his neck and into his hairline. His hair isn’t brown. It’s red. Dark red in the glint of the gallery’s overhead lights. “Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare at people?” When I say it, I can’t decide who I’m talking to—to him or to myself.

  “My mother?” He laughs again, a soft, low chuckle that sounds real. Like he finds my question genuinely amusing. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “She deemed me untrainable a long time ago.” He lifts his glass to his mouth. Still laughing, he drains it. “She deemed me a lot of things.”

  I can tell from his tone that whatever those things are, they aren’t good, but I ask anyway. “Like what?”

  “How do you know my name, Cari’s little sister?” he says, throwing up a big, fat stop sign instead of answering my question. “You shouldn’t. Not unless we’ve met before.” He frowns at me, a look of frustration creeping across his face. “Have we met before?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I went dress shopping with the girls yesterday,” I tell him, the words tumbling out of my mouth, fast and loud. “Tess mentioned that Henley’s older brother was going to be her date tonight and then later on, Henley said you were in the Army and that you’d been—” I stop short, the word getting stuck in my mouth.

  “Wounded.”

  He looks right at me when he says it and for some reason, the word sounds like a dare. Like he’s challenging me somehow.

  I nod, feeling like I just got my knuckles rapped with a ruler. “Anyway, that’s how I know your name—where is she?” I ask, shooting a quick glance around the crowded gallery.

  “Where is who?” The corner of his mouth twitches again. “My sister or my date?”

  “Yes.”

  That earns me another laugh. “Conner had proposal plans this evening so, my guess is he and Hen aren’t going to show.” He takes a sip of club soda. “And Tess is somewhere with Declan, doing… something.”

  “But she came here with you,” I say, angry for him, even though it’s absolutely none of my business.

  “Tess is a friend.” He says it a little too quickly. His tone is a little too hard. It makes me wonder which one of us he’s trying to convince. “Just a friend.”

  “But you want to be more.” That much is obvious. What’s less obvious, is why I care. Why it bothers me. Why thinking about them together makes me feel small and petty.

  H
e sighs and shakes his head, gaze trained on the painting of Molly in front of us. “Tess and Declan are inevitable.” He looks at me, his mouth softening into a smile that seems vaguely sad somehow. “And everyone knows it but them.”

  “Henley doesn’t like him,” I say because I don’t know what else to say. “Declan—we ran into him while we were shopping. I can tell.”

  “Not a lot of people do.” He cocks his head and offers me a sardonic chuckle. “Patrick seems to be the only person who can tolerate him—and your sister. She seems to like him fine.”

  “Do you like him?” I want to stuff my fist in my mouth to stop myself from peppering him with stupid questions that are none of my business, but I can’t seem to stop.

  “My feelings for Declan are even more convoluted than my feelings for Tess,” he tells me in that blunt, direct tone of his. “I don’t like him—I’ve never liked him—but I owe him.”

  Because I sense it’s a subject he doesn’t want to talk about, I change it. “She’s wrong, you know,” I tell him in a matter-of-fact tone that draws his gaze to my face. “Your mother. I mean—you were in the military, right?” I gesture at him, waving my hand at his uniform. “They were able to train you just fine—so, maybe she’s the problem, not you.”

  His jaw goes tight. His shoulders stiffen and I’m instantly sorry I said it. Before I can apologize, he looks down at my glass before aiming a pointed look at my face. “You gonna drink that?”

  No.

  No, I’m not.

  Even though it’s the truth, I don’t say it because saying it would encourage him to ask me why and my answer would offend him. Possibly make him angry and I’m not sure I can handle this guy when he’s angry.

  When I don’t answer him, he gives a soft exasperated sigh and reaches out to take the glass from my hand and I let him. His movement pulls my gaze to his hand. Up close, the scars that cover the back of it are even worse than I thought but as bad as they are, I have a feeling they’re nothing compared to the scars I can’t see. When I look up, I find him watching me again.