An Indecent Proposal (The O'Malleys #3) - Katee Robert Page 0,1
She was beautiful in the way good models were—a little too sharp for strictly traditional good looks, but all the more striking because of it. The mass of dark hair and the anger in near-black eyes took her over the edge into devastating.
She looked like the kind of mistake he would have jumped at a year ago. He had jumped at her six months ago when they’d first met, and it had gone in the same direction their current interaction was headed. She’d taken an instant dislike to him, and nothing he could say seemed to convince her that he wasn’t this monster she seemed to label him as.
So much had happened between then and now, so much that weighed him down and threatened to drag him under for good. He hadn’t even been out by himself since he was shot—the same night he’d last seen Olivia. He rubbed his shoulder, half-sure he could feel the scar beneath the fabric of his shirt.
What would it be like to be that carefree and crazy version of himself, just for one more night?
“Do. You. Want. Another. Drink?”
Maybe I could let it all go—the stress and the guilt and the sick feeling I can’t quite escape—just for a little while. He leaned onto the bar. “You want to get out of here after your shift?”
Her mouth tightened. “I don’t know why I bother. Never mind.”
“Wait.” He took a deep breath and let go of the wild impulse that had driven him to offer. He wasn’t that guy anymore, and trying to reclaim it was like spitting on Devlin’s grave. Cillian sighed. “I’ll have an apple juice.”
She blinked. “Apple juice.”
“Yes, please.”
He thought he’d sounded perfectly polite, but she frowned harder. “You come in here a couple times a week—or at least you used to from what Benji says—and you’ve been sitting here, nursing an apple juice?”
“Yeah.” He hadn’t touched alcohol since the night his youngest brother was killed in a drive-by shooting. He was the reason they’d been on that street to begin with, walking home in an effort to sober him up a little. If they’d just called a cab, Devlin would still be alive and … Cillian exhaled harshly. It was pointless to wish for things to be different, but the truth was that he was at least partially responsible for his brother’s death, indirectly or not. He could barely stand the thought of drinking again and potentially putting someone else he loved in danger.
Olivia seemed to realize she was staring and shook herself. She bent over and grabbed the apple juice, shooting a look at him like she’d never seen him before. “Why don’t you drink? Alcoholic?” It was almost amusing watching the horror appear on her face. “Shit, sorry, it’s none of my business.”
Maybe not, but a perverse part of him liked that she wanted to know more about him, even if it was morbid curiosity. “It never brought me anything but trouble.” There are plenty of other ways to get into trouble.
“It doesn’t stop most people from doing it.” She finished pouring his juice and slid it across the bar.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re something of a pessimist?” The edges of her lips quirked, and Cillian cocked his head to the side. “Holy fuck. That was almost a smile. I think you might not hate me as much as I thought.”
Instantly, her amusement was gone. Olivia stepped back, as if the two-foot bar between them wasn’t nearly enough space. “Are you opening a tab or paying now?”
He hadn’t set out tonight planning on coming here, but it was the first time he’d left the house without the muscle his father and brother usually insisted on, and he hadn’t wanted to waste the opportunity. He nodded. “Benji knows me. Have him put it on my running tab.”
She hesitated like she wanted to argue, but then turned and stalked to the giant owner of the bar. Benji had been operating on O’Malley territory before it was O’Malley territory, and Cillian always got the feeling that he’d still be here twenty years from now, regardless of the power struggles that ran through Boston like fault lines. As expected, the big man nodded, and Olivia walked back to him, her permanent frown firmly in place. “Who the hell are you?”
“Cillian O’Malley at your service.” He held out a hand, waiting for a full five seconds for her to take it before he lowered it. “Usually a handshake takes two people.”