Ramsay (21 page)

Once Fionn left, I made Lydia a sandwich and carried it up to her room, knocking softly. The room was dim, the bathroom fan was whirring, and she was curled up on the bed, fast asleep. I watched her for a few minutes, despair making me feel sick. I could have lost her today. And I'd only just gotten her back.

Lydia

I came awake slowly, my eyes adjusting to the dim light, my memory temporarily held at bay, though I had the feeling something wasn't quite right. I enjoyed the brief moment I knew I had before recollection would tumble in, making me aware of exactly what the
something
was. As I turned over, the minor ache in my side brought the happenings of earlier that day rushing back. I let out a small sigh, sitting up slowly so as not to pull my stitches.

"How do ya feel?" I startled slightly, noticing the outline of Brogan sitting in the chair by the window.

"This is the second time I've woken up to you sitting in the dark in my room, uninvited," I said. "It's kind of creepy. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

He stood and came over to me, sitting on the edge of the bed. "No, Lydia. I don't want to do a thing to hurt ya. Not ever again." He sighed, tossing something on my bedside table.

I looked over, seeing what was a dark yellow folder, dirty and tattered, notes written all over it in what appeared to be Gaelic. I looked back at him. "What's that?"

"It's nothin' now. What it was, though, was the thing that kept me goin' when I had nothin' else."

I sat up higher, propping myself on the pillows behind my back, bringing my legs up so I was sitting Indian style, and reached over and clicked on the small reading lamp on my bedside table. It illuminated the room with a soft glow, allowing me to see Brogan gazing at me with those soft blue eyes, his expression grim.

"What do you mean?"

He ran a hand through his short, dark hair. "When we left your estate that day . . ." he paused as if just the very mention of
that day
still brought a deep ache with it, "we traveled to the Bronx. We had actually started out there before my dad applied for the job with your family. We'd heard there was a big Irish population, knew a few folks who knew folks. Anyway, that's where we returned. We found a small fleabag apartment to rent, and my dad, he," he inhaled and let it out slowly, "he pawned my mam's wedding ring just to come up with the security deposit and first month's rent."

"Brogan," I whispered.

He shook his head as if I shouldn't stop him now. "In the beginnin' I did anythin' I could to earn some money—just to feed us. I got in with some other guys—Russian lads—in similar positions who knew how to make some quick cash. We, ya know, scalped tickets, acted as lookouts, delivered messages, stuff like that. I knew I was workin' for mobsters, but I didn't care. It was feedin' my family when I had no other way to." His expression was defensive for a hint of a moment, but it slipped quickly into shame before he averted his gaze.

"Of course," I said. "I admire you for doing whatever you had to do to survive. It was very brave."

He paused for a brief moment as his eyes met mine. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly before he looked away again, continuing. "My dad, he looked for work and claimed he couldn't find any, but it's hard to find work when you're drunk nine hours a day."

Even in profile, I could see that another look of despair crossed his face and a lump formed in my throat.
Oh Brogan, if I had known . . . I would have done anything to help you.
Guilt surged through me once again at my own teenage naïveté. I hadn't even considered Brogan's family was experiencing that type of poverty, had no real knowledge of struggle, desperation. And I was so ashamed of my own ignorance.

"I met Fionn who was in a desperate situation, too, and we became friends." He gave me the first glimmer of a smile. "Of course, it doesn't take long for Fionn to grow on ya. But it was more than that. I trusted him when it was hard to trust anyone. And it made it so it wasn't so lonely, ya know? The scrapin' and scroungin', with Fionn it almost became . . . fun—he made a game of it. His own survival tactic, I suppose, but it helped me, too. Helped . . . balance me, I guess. And he's never let me down. Not once. Even when I deserved it. Even when I asked him to do things that went against his own morals. Which makes me a shite friend."

I leaned forward and placed my hand on top of his where they sat in his lap. I was still uncertain about
us
, but I cared about him and couldn't ignore his pain. "You'd do anything for him, too. I can see that and I know he does as well."

He took a deep breath. "Yeah. I would. Anythin'." He paused before continuing. "Anyway, we did any job we were asked to do. Through different jobs, they found I was good with numbers and started givin' me tasks that were more administrative in nature. Eventually, I was helpin' to do their books, accountin', stuff like that. Some of the guys I worked with were real arseholes. I saw them do things to others that turned my stomach, and I did nothin'. Not a feckin' thing, though it went against everythin' in me." He paused, the expression on his face so bleak my breath caught.

"If you had, they might have fired you, or worse. You needed that money. It was smart to keep quiet. Look where it got you in the end." I lifted my chin, asserting my point, defending him . . . to himself.

"Lydia . . ." he said quietly but didn't look at me. Again the small head shake as if he couldn't accept my statement. "I started keepin' some records, names, took things with me I shouldn't have, told myself I'd get them back for the way they preyed on others who were helpless for no other reason than because they could.
Someday
when I had the power, I told myself."

"And it helped," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "It helped knowin' that though I couldn't do anythin'
then
, I could and would do somethin'
later
. I put the files in that folder, and I took it out and looked at it whenever I didn't think I could do it anymore. But . . . the job, it paid better than any of the more menial jobs, and I was also grateful because Eileen was gettin' some of the treatments she needed. I’d been savin' up for her surgery—the plates she needed in her legs to straighten them permanently. I got us out of the slum we were livin' in, moved us to a nicer place in the Bronx—the building I work from now. His lips tipped up slightly, and he took a deep breath. "And it meant I could quit the thing I hated the most."

I tilted my head questioningly, a cold shiver moving through my body. Brogan ran his tongue over his front tooth, once and then again, his expression vulnerable and pained. I waited, completely still. "Earlier on when I was still doin' low-level jobs, one of the other guys let me in on a service a few of them were performin'. It was a sort of side business and a lot of the guys seemed perfectly happy to be picked for the job. I knew the mob dabbled in prostitution, but I didn't consider that they hired out male prostitutes as well." He grimaced as he said the word, and my heart squeezed, my stomach knotting. "One of the women—mostly married women whose husbands were much older—would place an order, and we'd be sent out."

"Brogan . . ."

He shook his head. "I know. I didn't want to do it. Just the idea of it was . . . distasteful to me on so many levels. Fionn tried to talk me out of it. But Fionn was only takin' care of himself, he didn't have others dependin' on him. And I thought if I could just earn enough money to get Eileen her surgery, and if I could just earn enough money to start makin' some investments, I would stop, no real harm done."

"Only . . ." I whispered.

His eyes met mine, and he gave me the smallest hint of a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. Talking about this was hurting him, and part of me wanted to tell him he didn't have to continue, but the other half wanted desperately to understand his past, to understand
him
.

"Yes, only." The smile slipped from his face. "I pretended they were you," he said, his voice gravelly all of a sudden. "Only sometimes—mostly maybe—that made it worse instead of better."

My breath caught. "Brogan," I breathed.

He shook his head. "And they weren't you. You were right, I hated the way they smelled, the way they'd grab at me, the way they'd rake their fingernails over my skin. They liked all sorts of . . ." he trailed off. "Anyway, I hated it. I hated them, and I hated you more, too, because being with those women made me long for you twice as hard and you'd betrayed me—or so I thought at the time. Still wantin' you like I did didn't make sense. My mind couldn't justify it, though I still felt it desperately, and I hated you even more for it."

My eyes filled with tears, but I didn’t reach for him this time. I could see he was struggling, and it seemed he needed space to get through the telling of this part of his story.

"I started keepin' records on them, too. In my folder." He let out a small, brittle laugh. "My
feckin'
, ridiculous folder. But some days, I'd look through it, and I'd imagine what I'd do to them when I was the one with the power, and it was the only thing holdin' me up. The idea of revenge took hold and became the thing that strengthened me when there was nothin' else." He paused for a moment. "You were in there, too, you and Stuart."

Yes, of course. Of course we were.
And in some small, possibly twisted way, I was glad because it meant we had helped him survive when he had little else.

"But then I got the job doin' some of the mob's accountin' and I was able to quit. Eventually, I moved up to launderin' money. That's when I did make enough money to make some investments and I doubled some of it by gamblin'. I paid for Eileen's surgery. My dad, he . . . drank himself to death." Pain for him made my stomach clench and he paused for a moment as if he was experiencing the same thing. He looked back down at his hands. "But he watched her walk without her braces right before he died." My heart squeezed, but Brogan's expression didn't change.

"My own wealth started growin' in leaps and bounds. And once I started amassin' wealth, power, I used it to run the women and their husbands out of New York in one way or another—bribes, job transfers, things of that nature. I
couldn’t
run into any of them, didn't
ever
want to be reminded of how low I'd once been, didn't even want those women in the same
zip code
, and I finally had the power to make that happen." He shrugged and glanced at the folder. "I keep it now to remind me where I once was and how far I've come."

Oh Brogan.
He carried so much pain, so much bitterness, but I had to wonder if the person he was having the hardest time forgiving was himself. I had to wonder if the real reason he kept that folder was to remind
himself
why he shouldn't be let off the hook for his own choices. We were both quiet for a minute.

"Courtney was one of those women," I finally said softly.

"Yes. I'd seen her a few times. It was a little better with her than with some of the others. Her husband was twenty-five years older than her and not a nice man from what I knew, although I think she genuinely loved him. I think, mostly, she was lookin' for someone who was gentle with her, someone to pay her attention."

My fingers twisted in my lap, and I was ashamed of the jealousy that overcame me in a moment when Brogan was revealing his pain to me. This was not about me. This was about him. This was about the ways in which he'd survived.

"One night, her husband came home unexpectedly from a business trip and walked in on us."
Oh God.
"It was ugly. Courtney begged and pleaded with her husband to let me leave, to just let me go. And he did." He paused, looking down at his hands. "I could have refused to leave. I could have begged for him not to hurt her, too. I could have. But I had vowed never to beg anyone again. I had vowed never to give anyone that kind of power over me, and so I didn't beg. I didn't even stay. I walked away. I just . . . left her there. And he beat her to within an inch of her life. She was in the hospital for months. I had no idea she was in that kind of danger when I left, but I should have, I . . ."

I sucked in a breath and leaned toward him, putting my fingers under his chin and turning his face toward me. Our eyes met, his filled with pain and self-disgust. "Brogan, you can't believe you're responsible for that. Even if you did beg, even if you tried to stay, he would have thrown you out. He would have hurt her anyway. Then, or maybe later. You were not responsible for him being a sick, violent man or for him hurting her the way he did."

His smile was sad. "Maybe. I'll never know and it's another thing I have to live with." He looked down again and I studied him for several moments, recalling what Courtney had said when she burst into his house.

"He went to prison for what he did to her and now he's getting out?"

"Yes."

"And what does she expect you to do? You made your choices, but, Brogan, she made hers, too. She bears responsibility for what happened to her as well. Probably most of all."

He shook his head. "She wants me to protect her, keep her safe."

"You feel responsible for her? That's madness. You can't spend your entire life paying for something that wasn't your fault."

He shrugged. "It didn't seem like such a terrible price to pay before—"

"Before what?"

"Before you came back into my life. Before it became obvious she’d put a wedge between us. And I don't want that. I just want you, and I wish I had gone about this differently. I have so many regrets."