A voice behind me rustles, “Breaking and entering is illegal in Ireland.”
I jump, turning around. Mal is leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, his hands shoved in the front pockets of his acid-washed jeans, one Blundstone boot crossed in front of the other. His beauty arrests me for exactly five seconds before I school my face.
“Nice crib.”
He pushes off the doorframe, descending the two steps to his backyard and ambling toward me. “Trashed it especially for you.”
“And I suppose Kathleen was eager to help. Anything to make me feel unwelcome.”
Mal flashes me a breezy smile, tying a red bandana on his forehead like he’s getting ready for something. He reminds me of old Mal again—adventurous and boyish, impossible to resist.
“Where is she, anyway?” I look around.
I want to get the initial slap-in-the-face reaction of seeing them together out of the way so I can breathe regularly again.
“Dublin.”
“When is she going to grace us with her presence?”
He whistles, then lets out a gruff chuckle. Of course, Kathleen has conveniently removed herself from the situation. I don’t know why she’s hiding. She’s just the type to parade her gorgeous husband like it’s a dog show. Obviously, Mal is not going to answer my question.
I gesture toward the nothingness.
“Where’s the cattle?”
“Sold it.”
“Father Doherty? Is he doing okay?”
He squats down, patting away a patch of mud on the front of his boot. “He’s alive.”
“How about your mother?”
He stops messing with his boots, looks up, and blinks at me like I stopped speaking English. “I’m not a steak, Aurora,” he snarls.
“You need to open the studio. I want to take some photos of it before Richards arrives.”
“There’s no studio,” he says, watching my reaction intently.
Then what the hell is that room? Of course, I don’t ask.
“Then how are you going to record the songs?”
“We’re not. We’re just going to write them.”
“Ryner lied,” I mumble.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. I wouldn’t trust that man to give me the time in a room full of clocks.
Mal shrugs.
“You should really clean this place. Richards won’t live in this condition in a million years and counting. He’s used to pretty, nice things.”
“That makes two of you, Princess.”
I want to ask him what the hell he means by that, but I’m not supposed to care. I haven’t done anything wrong. I respected our contract, pined for him for years, and tried to move on. What did he expect? For me to sit around and wait for fate to take control while he wedded my sister?
He shakes his head on a dark chuckle, seeming to take my silence as admittance. He turns around and stalks back inside, leaving me to stand here.
It is crazy how eight years ago, I could feel his pulse against my palm for days and weeks after we parted ways.
Right now, I’d like to rip his heart out of his chest, just to see if it beats anymore.
If it’s still there.
And if it’s black, like my mother warned me.
Mal
On my way back into the house, Aurora’s shiny boyfriend stands up from the sofa and stretches his hand toward me, flashing me his slimy banker smile.
I saunter past him to my room and slam the door. I fling myself onto the dirty bed, staring at the ceiling, ignoring the buzzing of my phone.
Maybe it’s one of my regular bells.
Maybe it’s my agent.
Maybe it’s Richards.
Maybe it’s Ryner.
Don’t know, don’t care.
Aurora. Aurora. Aurora. What am I going to do with you, Aurora?
Not fuck you. Not right now. You’re not ready for it yet, and besides, there’s the whole boyfriend thing to tackle. He’s leaving in a day. I know, because I’ve read the email Ryner’s barely literate assistant sent me, though, of course, I didn’t answer it.
Perhaps I should start by educating you as to how badly you’ve ruined things for me?
No. Too early for that.
Explain how I tried to protect you all those years ago by keeping the truth from you and what you did in return is kill my soul, then feed it to the wolves? Hmm. There’s still time for that, too.
The house looks like a kip. It’s not always like this, but I wanted her to feel bad. I’m trying to dig into her soul with a spoon and see if she still has a conscience.
I close my eyes, letting another phone call go to voicemail.
“Love?”
I hear the English version of American Psycho calling to Aurora behind the door.