Ramsay(38)
Brogan turned and his face was ashen, full of regret and . . . fear? "Courtney, Lydia." He extended his head toward me, not offering either of us more of an explanation about the roles we played in his life. What should he say? "Courtney, this is Lydia, the woman whose life I set out to ruin and ultimately gave three mind-bending orgasms to last evening." A hysterical laugh rose in my throat, and I coughed to disguise the small sound that managed to escape. Maybe I was still more buzzed than I thought.
Courtney narrowed her eyes, and I saw that though she was beautiful, she was perhaps a few years older than Brogan and me. Her gaze moved to Fionn, and back to me, presumably coming to the false conclusion that I was with Fionn. "Fionn," she said, her voice cold.
Fionn's laughing demeanor was gone as he nodded back at Courtney.
Courtney turned back to Brogan, her face crumpling. "Take me upstairs, Brogan, please, darling." Darling? Brogan put his hand on the small of her back and led her toward the stairs, not glancing back once. What the hell? Jealousy and disbelief assaulted me. He was taking her upstairs to his bedroom to hold her? After what we'd done last night? I looked at Fionn and his lips were thinned, his eyes sympathetic. He let out what sounded like an annoyed breath and shook his head, placing his hands on his hips.
"Who is she?" I asked in a loud whisper. Upstairs, I heard the door to Brogan's bedroom close and felt vomit move up my throat. Had that just really happened? Should I be as hurt as I felt? He hadn't made any promises to me and yet . . .
"He'll have to tell ya that. I'm bloody sorry." He shook his head. "I do think it's time ya and I got bolloxed and moved on to the epitaph portion of our Irish slang lesson."
I blinked at him, feeling sick and confused and angry. I needed to get out of here. "I'm leaving."
Fionn nodded. "I can't let ya do that, Lydia. It's not safe for ya to be goin' anywhere, especially not before Brogan's had a chance to fix the mess with your brother."
I glanced up the stairs. Surely after Brogan calmed that hysterical woman down, he'd be back to explain things to me? Or was this another part of his revenge? My stomach twisted. Had he planned this like his other dates had been planned, at least in part, to upset me? No, no, we were past that. Right? Plus, the look on his face had been one of discomfort and remorse. Or maybe that was all an act. Had last night been an act, too? Oh God, these thoughts were causing my head to ache.
I held my glass toward Fionn. "Fill me up, Fionn. All the way to the bloody top."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lydia
I felt myself being lifted and let out a garbled resistance. "Quiet, Lydia, you're drunk. I'm putting you to bed," came Brogan's voice.
"I'm plastered," I amended, cracking one eye opened. "And you're a tool. A quare tool. And a wanker."
"I know I am," he agreed as the room spun. I groaned. "Goddamn Fionn," he muttered.
"I love Fionn," I said. I thought I felt Brogan's body tense, but I was too drunk to care. I did love Fionn. Fionn and his wine. I loved Fionn's wine. "And Fionn loves me," I asserted.
"Fionn loves everyone." Not Courtney. And seriously, if Fionn didn't like someone, they must be a bitch. A scanger.
"And you're a tool," I said, trying to organize what I was saying out loud and what I was saying in my own head. "And a wanker. Fionn helped write me off the map." I hiccupped. "You know what that means, wanker?"
"Yes, Lydia, I do."
He paused at the top of the stairs as if trying to decide which room to turn toward. "Don't you dare take me in your room, you tool," I slurred. "You still smell like her." He did, and it was making me sick. It was a strong, spicy perfume that made my head spin more than it already was. I could only imagine what it was doing to Brogan. And yet, he'd been the one letting her rub all over him. That same smell was probably all over his sheets, too. And who cared? Who cared about Brogan? He was a tool. And a wanker. A feckin' manky prick.
"I know I do," he said, letting out a tired sigh, as he turned toward my room. He placed me gently on the bed, and I opened my eyes, staring up at him. His face was in shadow and set in a grimace as if he was currently feeling tortured. But that's what he had done to me earlier. And it'd hurt so much I'd drunk two bottles of wine. And yet it still hurt, only in a fuzzy, bleary way that was better than the sharp pain that had sliced through me watching him walk up the stairs to his bedroom with that woman.
"You hate me," I said. "You want to hurt me and hurt me and hurt me."
He shook his head. "No, God, Lydia, no. But I have, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Finally the apology I'd been waiting for, and it only brought more hazy hurt. I turned away from him, onto my side and let my eyes fall closed. My head was spinning and I was so tired. I just needed to sleep.
A minute later I heard the quiet click of my door being shut, and a second after that I drifted back into a dreamless sleep.
**********
I woke up feeling like hell. Groaning, I opened my heavy lids and looked around, trying to get my bearings. Memories of the night before came flooding back, and I groaned again, louder this time. I sat up, massaging my temples and squinting against the small amount of muted sunlight showing through the closed blinds.
Stumbling to the bathroom I brushed my teeth thoroughly and dared a glance in the mirror. I looked scary: mascara smeared on my cheeks, my eyes red, and my face puffy. My hair was sticking out in every direction.
That's when I noticed the note on the counter along with a bottle of water and two Tylenol. I picked up the note.
Lydia,
These will make you feel better. I'll be home early so we can talk. Please give me a chance to explain.
Brogan (the tool . . . wanker, etc.)
How dare he joke with me? I crumpled it up and hurled it toward the small garbage can next to the sink but missed and stood staring at it bleakly where it landed on the floor. Why that depressed me so much, I wasn't sure. Maybe I just couldn't handle one more failure right now, even a very small, insignificant one. I left the stupid note on the floor and threw back both Tylenol tablets and drank the water.
After a long, hot shower, blowing my hair dry, and putting on some makeup, I felt and looked a little better. I threw on a pair of jean shorts and a loose, blue and white striped V-neck T-shirt and went downstairs. The apartment was empty. I stood at the island and drank a glass of tomato juice-not my favorite but all Brogan had as far as juice in his refrigerator-and forced myself to eat a piece of dry toast.
Fresh anger gripped me when I noticed the unwashed wine glasses next to the sink. I was not staying in Brogan's apartment today waiting for him like some faithful, mistreated puppy dog. Perhaps he hadn't made any promises to me, but I deserved more care than what had happened last night. He didn't even have enough respect to stay home this morning and offer me an explanation as soon as I'd woken up. Instead, I was supposed to spend the day bored out of my mind, waiting for him to grace me with his presence and his sorry explanation? No way.
We're even now, I'd said. Only perhaps in his mind, we weren't. Not yet. Perhaps I was a fool for thinking so.
You can try to dish out more, but I'll fight you from here on out if you do. Just so you're aware. A fool, maybe, but that's what I'd told him and that's what I'd meant.
I threw my clothes back in my bag, grabbed my purse, and let myself out the door of his apartment into the small, private lobby.
I pushed the down button for the elevator and waited impatiently for it to arrive. Once it did, I jumped in and stood in the corner against the wall as it made its way down. Lost in my own head as I stepped out, I nearly missed the burly looking man in a black suit standing by the outside doorway. Surely not. Through the glass, I could see that he was smoking and chatting with a woman who had been walking past with her dog. They were laughing as the dog yapped and the woman tossed her hair, flirting. Stepping back inside the elevator and pushing the close door button, I bit at my thumbnail. I didn't know if the man was someone hired by Brogan or not, but I wasn't going to risk it. Not like he could detain me-I wasn't a prisoner. But I didn't want to deal with being held up. Since Brogan lived in a building without a doorman, I hadn't considered that I wouldn't be able to simply walk out the front door without being noticed. I rode to the garage level and stepped off cautiously, hoping that if Brogan had put security on the building, it had been for those arriving, not those leaving. I remembered that you needed a security code to get in this elevator.