Claiming Serenity(63)

When Mullens cleared his throat and his features only tightened, Layla’s gaze moved from Donovan and that quiver in her chin moved faster. “I’m waiting. Answer my damn question.”

She stopped moving, seemed able to only look down at the floor and the pub became silent, except for the sound of a match playing on the television above the bar and Quinn’s drunken drawl of “Hey, love, do you like to party?” as he flirted with the bartender.

“Daddy… Donovan…”

Donovan held his breath, his insides feeling like they might burn him up. And he was conflicted, torn between wanting to thunder out of the pub, leave Cavanagh altogether, scared out of his fucking head, and that urgent, desperate desire to hold Layla, to stop her body from shaking.

“Layla, the truth! Now!”

She flinched at her father’s shout, but didn’t speak. Donovan guessed the look she gave him was supposed to be an apology, but no words came from her, she made the briefest nod toward Donovan and he could only stare, dumbfounded at the tears running down her face before that loud, angry growl left Mullens throat and he gripped Donovan’s collar. He felt the coach’s hot breath on his face, heard the threats he made and the loud scream of “My car. Right now!” but Donovan could only watch Layla, taking in the splotches of red on her face and the apology that wrinkled her forehead.





The Christmas lights were white and blinked in and out, casting flickering shadows across the dark wood floors. On the surface, the room, the others surrounding it, were lit up in festive, calm decorations, welcoming as though the entire house waited for the next three days to zip by. It promised laughter and love and the sense of warmth from a family that would fill the home, like they had every year before this one, with the sweet sentiment and peace only a happy home at Christmas could.

Layla could smell her mother’s homemade chocolate fudge cookies still warming on the marble countertops in the kitchen and she thought, if she closed her eyes, focused, she could still hear her mother’s sweet, out of tune hum of “O Holy Night.” But her focus was fractured, ripped from her consciousness by the sound of crying and the low groans of disappointment.

“I thought I raised you to be smart, son.”

“I didn’t know… Layla… she…”

“They’re both so irresponsible. Really. What will everyone say?”

“Caroline, really… that’s what you’re worried about?”

“No, Meara, please, don’t cry again.”

Merry Christmas. Ho! Ho! Shit… not a good choice of words.

She could only stare at them, all of them. Her parents, Donovan’s, people who were once friends. Two families that had spent years together during the holidays, on vacations. Friendships that had been destroyed by betrayal and now, likely further splintered by Layla’s forgetfulness. Three days of skipping pills when she was stressed about her classes, about what happened after the spring, about Mollie or any of her other friends finding out she’d been sneaking into Donovan’s bed every night. Three. Damn. Days. And her whole life, Donovan’s, was changed forever.

Two hours of these disappointed, desperate conversations and none of them were any closer to knowing what to do. Donovan had taken her father’s shouting like a champ but he’d barely looked at her since her father pointed to the sofa and made them both stay put like they were naughty children.

If it hadn’t been for Declan, Layla wasn’t sure if her father wouldn’t have beaten Donovan senseless. “Coach, please.” Her father had tried pushing Declan off of him, but the Irishman stood firm. “Maybe it’s not my place to say it, but you throttling one of your squad mates may not be best solution to this shite.”

Declan made her father see reason. He’d calmed him, he’d even patted Layla’s back, assuring a worried Layla that this wouldn’t be the worst day of her life. “It’ll be right again, Layla, love. Don’t you fret. It’ll be grand soon, just you wait.”

He’d understood, she knew. How often had Layla heard Declan speak about his mother like she was a saint and not a woman who’d taken another woman’s husband to her bed? Declan had been the result of that recklessness. She knew he sympathized with her.

Layla wished he was here now. She wished Mollie was. She’d expected her best friend to tell her what a careless dumbass she’d been, but that wasn’t Mollie’s way. Layla’s best friend had even disregarded whatever it was she’d wanted to talk to her about that night, telling her to “deal with this shit and we’ll talk later.” And then, before she and Declan took off, likely to fill in Autumn and Sayo on the train wreck the night had been, Mollie stopped Layla before she slipped into her father’s car.