Ramsay (9 page)

Lydia – Sixteen Years Old

The rain beat against the library window. I tilted my head, leaning my cheek against the cool glass as I snuggled into the plush cushions of the window seat. I ran my finger down the pane, following the trail of a lone raindrop. I loved rainstorms, loved being inside while it beat down on the roof and wind whipped at the trees outside the window.

A small sound caught my attention, and I turned my head to see Brogan standing in the doorway. He looked surprised to have been caught and took a step back. "Sorry," he mumbled.

I stood quickly, running my hand over my hair and giving him a big smile as I tilted my head in the way Ginny did when she talked to men she found attractive. "It's okay," I said, my heart rate increasing slightly the way it always did when Brogan was near. I walked toward him, trying to put a little extra sway in my hips. Brogan's eyes moved quickly down my body, and I felt a little thrill of delight run up and down my spine. "What are you doing here?"

"I was just pickin' up me dad's paycheck," he mumbled, holding out the envelope in his hand as proof. "I should get back. It's really lashing." He nodded his head toward the window indicating the rain and I grinned, and I could feel that it was the dumb, wonky grin that showed too much of my eye teeth.

I straightened my mouth before he looked back at me. "I like it when you talk like that," I said, smiling and tilting my head.

He looked confused for a moment and then ran his hand along the back of his neck as he bent his head forward on a smile. My heart flipped. He was so heart-stoppingly handsome, and he had little to no idea. That was the part I liked best about Brogan. He didn't even seem to understand his appeal.

"Stay a minute," I said. "At least wait until the rain lets up a little bit. It's not like you can work outside tonight."

He hesitated, but when I turned and walked back into the library, shooting him a look over my shoulder, he followed.
Yes.

I went back to the window seat and sat down, and Brogan took a seat next to me. My gaze moved to his fingers running absentmindedly along the silky tassels of the cushion we were sitting on. He was always touching something in that way, as if memorizing its texture. A gentle heat moved through my veins. I wondered what his fingers would feel like doing that to my skin. I wondered if he'd like the texture of . . . me. I bit my lip, and his eyes moved to my mouth, causing a wave of satisfaction to wash over me. But then his eyes shifted away, out the window, and a fleeting expression of sorrow moved across his face. 

"My mam used to say God gave us rainy days to let us know it was okay to take a day off now and then." And even though his eyes remained sad, his lips tipped up in one of his rare, sweet smiles. Butterflies fluttered in my belly.

His mam.
I considered him for a moment thinking that perhaps he and I were more similar than different. Maybe that was another reason I was so drawn to him. I missed my mother, too. So much that sometimes it was still hard to believe she was gone. Sometimes in my secret heart of hearts, I pretended she wasn't. I pictured her right upstairs, sitting in her bedroom brushing her long blonde hair and humming softly to herself. I left her there in my mind and it didn't hurt quite as badly as picturing her in the cold, hard ground.

"You miss her very much," I said softly. He had never spoken of his mother before, even during the times I stood and chatted with him as he worked. He leaned back against the wall behind him and I let out a breath, happy he was relaxing in his seat and that he might stay and visit with me for a little while.

"Every day."

I nodded sadly and waited for him to say something more, but he seemed to gather himself. "Did ya know the Irish have hundreds of different ways to talk about the rain?" he asked, obviously changing the subject. I tilted my head, looking at him quizzically.

"Like what?"

"If ya say it's only spittin', it means it's just drizzlin' a bit. Pissin' is a heavier rain that might keep ya inside. Rainin' stair rods is a soakin' rain that will ruin your shoes. Hoorin' will have your windshield wipers set at top speed. Lashin' will wash ya right down the storm drain and hammerin', well, entire towns have been known to disappear in rain like that."

I was laughing as he spoke, and he looked at me with a warm gleam in his light blue eyes, our gazes meeting, lingering, and then parting.
I love you
, I wanted to say, blinking at my own thought, feeling suddenly insecure and off balance. When I looked back at him, Brogan was watching me, a small, confused frown on his face.

I cleared my throat. "Why so many?" I asked, but my voice sounded breathy.

He shrugged, his smile contemplative. "It rains a lot in Ireland. I guess ya know what's frequent or important in certain places based on the number of words for any specific thing." He paused. "There are also about a hundred ways to describe gettin' drunk." He looked away, his lips thinning and a grim look taking over his expression.

"Do you miss it?" I rushed in to fill the silence, wanting to sway his mood back to playful again. But I also genuinely wanted to know. I wanted to ask him so much about himself. Did he have a lot of friends in Ireland? Did he want to go back someday? How did his mother die? Did she have cancer like mine? I felt a sudden urge to touch him, to let him know I wanted to be his friend. I wanted him to ask about me, to ask me what I felt like inside, and I wanted to tell him, not just because I had no one else to tell—my friends and I didn't discuss things like that—but because I liked him so very much.

My hand lifted to reach toward his when there was suddenly the clicking of heels on the marble floor growing louder in the hallway.

Brogan jerked to a standing position just as Ginny turned the corner. She stopped in the doorway, cocking one slim hip, looking back and forth between Brogan and me. "Why hello, Brogan. How nice of you to come visit us up at the house."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Sometimes the things Ginny said came out sounding so bitchy.

Brogan gave me one last glance and turned toward the door. He nodded at Ginny as he passed her. "Nice to see ya, Mrs. De Havilland."

She turned her head and looked back at him moving down the hall toward our front door before looking back to me. She clicked her tongue. "You've really got to stop
cavorting
with the help. I see you bothering him relentlessly while he's working. Honestly, Lydia, you may as well just pick up a rake and help him out if you're going to be hanging off him so much."

I stood up and crossed my arms. "Cavorting?" I asked. "We were only talking. And I don't bother him." I pouted. "He likes talking to me, too."

"It really can't come to any good." She walked across the library to the liquor cabinet and poured herself a glass of wine. She held the bottle up in my direction, and I shook my head no. I'd shared several glasses with her before and had to drag myself out of bed for school the next morning feeling like death warmed over. Despite our somewhat close age, I'd wanted Ginny to be a mother figure, but Ginny wanted to be my . . . friend. I was beginning to wonder if she'd be of any real use in either role. But she was all I had.

I made a scoffing sound in my throat. "Myles says I'm the prettiest girl in Greenwich," I bragged, frowning immediately at my attempt to impress her.
Should I even bother?

Ginny gave me a smirk. "Now
Myles
is the boy you should be focusing on. A thoroughbred who comes from old money." She winked and I rolled my eyes again.
Were we talking about boys or horses?
"Now if you want advice about how to catch that one, use your Irish boy toy to make him jealous. Have him catch you kissing Brogan. Force him to claim you before he even has a chance to think about it."

I raised my eyebrows. "Does that really work?"

"As long as he has even the remotest attraction to you, it works every time. Men. They're all such predictable creatures." She took a long swallow of red wine. "You just have to know how to wind them up and then watch them dance."

I turned away from her, considering the plan. The thing was, I had no need to make Myles jealous. Myles was mine for the taking. He was fun to flirt with, fun to have following me around, I supposed. But he wasn't the boy who set my heart on fire. I wondered if I had the nerve to go through with a plan like Ginny's. A powerful thrill shot down my spine. I wanted it to work. I wanted to make him jealous. I wanted to force his hand, to make him claim me. But the
him
I was referring to was not Myles. It was Brogan I wanted. Brogan Ramsay.

Brogan

Christ, I was so fucking upset I was still shaking. Upset at myself. I had meant to shock her, to unbalance her the way she'd been unbalancing me since the day she'd walked into my office. Instead, I'd merely succeeded in exposing myself and telling her things I hadn't meant to tell her.

"Goddammit," I swore under my breath as I got out of my car and slammed the door behind me, clicking the key fob. I'd left Lydia's room and Greenwich, heading for the Bronx. I needed to put space between us. I just needed to reclaim my emotions and I needed to do it in a place where I held all the power. Despite owning one of the prime pieces of real estate in Greenwich, the location still had this way of making me feel like the gardener's son.
Less.

I pushed the door of The Black Dragon Tavern open, the pungent smells of stale beer, grease, and dirty mop water assaulting my senses. I didn't usually come here at night—preferring to sit on the open patio—but it was one in the morning and if I wanted to be around other people, which I did, inside at the bar was my only choice.

"Brogan Ramsay," I heard from a corner and turned to nod at a couple of the regulars. "What's three thousand ninety-nine divided by seven hundred thirty?" Aidan McGonegal called out, holding up his phone, his finger poised on what I knew to be the calculator.

"Four point two four five two zero five," I answered easily. The corner erupted in hoots and hollers, one guy pretending to fall out of his chair. I smiled, turning to the bartender and ordering a whisky.

"Bang on," Aidan yelled, his calculator just a couple seconds behind. More hoots and applause sounded from behind me and I chuckled.

"The lad is wicked good with numbers," I heard someone else say. Yeah, this was a good call, what I needed. I took a sip of the whisky and massaged the back of my neck.

"Brogan Ramsay," I heard to my right.

I looked up and saw an old man, a glass of amber liquid sitting on the bar in front of him. I nodded, frowning slightly. "Do I know ya?" I asked.

He smiled. "Father Donoghue. We haven't had the pleasure. I know ya by name, and I know your friend, Fionn."
A priest? I'd never known Fionn to keep company with holy men.

"Ah. Well, nice to meet ya, Father. Any friend of Fionn is a friend of mine. What church do ya work at?"

He shook his head. "Oh, no, I don't reside in a parish any longer. There was a wee," he raised the pitch of his voice and held his thumb and index finger together, "bit of a scandal some years back. These days, I hold confession from this bar stool right here. The title and a few job duties kind of stuck, shur ya know like." He chuckled, looking none too upset about whatever scandal had occurred that had evidently resulted in his ex-communication. I shrugged. Who was I to judge? I was a fallen man, too.

"I don't usually see ya around these parts this late at night," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "Now Fionn, that's a different matter. That boy's always on the tear, and always with some new floozy on his arm. Ya know when I say floozy, I mean no disrespect. God loves all his children, even the ones who dabble in dubious ethical behavior."

I smiled what felt like a weary smile. "I don't usually have the need to imbibe at all, truth be told, Father."

"Ah, so what's chased ya here at such an ungodly hour, son? Money or a woman? Since I've heard ya have more money than the Almighty himself, me guess is a woman."

I sighed, leaning my chin on my hand. The truth was, it felt good to confide in someone about my own dubious ethical behavior. Maybe confession really did cleanse the soul. "Lydia De Havilland."

"A woman, aye. She doesn't want ya, I gather? Well, why not? You're a fine-lookin' sod."

I shook my head. "It's not about that." I turned to him. "Seven years ago she did somethin' that resulted in my family bein' thrown out on the street."

"Ah. I see. She betrayed ya."

I nodded. "Aye. And because of it, I promised I'd never beg again, never be brought to my knees."

He appeared to consider that for a moment before shaking his head. "Ya can't avoid it. Life brings us all to our knees at one point or another." He smiled suddenly. "I find when it does, ya are in a bloody convenient position to start prayin'." He chuckled and patted me on my back a couple times. I mustered a quick smile. "Also, son, if ya find yourself in love with a woman, on your knees is a rather beguilin' place to be."

I chuckled, suddenly having a pretty good idea about the topic of the
wee scandal
. But the statement simultaneously amused me and brought a strange ache. Never again would I touch Lydia in
that
way.
Even though her skin had felt like velvet beneath my hand earlier.
No. Never again would I touch Lydia.

"The thing is, Father, now the tables are turned, and
she's
the one who needs savin'." I stopped, looking around the bar, seeing only Lydia's beautiful face in my mind's eye.
Malevolent,
beautiful face I reminded myself. Blue-green eyes filled with evil. All right, perhaps I was being a
wee
dramatic. Filled with
deception
. That was more accurate.

"Sounds like that would be a good place to find yourself. Tables turned on the woman who brought ya low once upon a time and Bob's your uncle! Well done.
Sláinte!
"
Cheers.
He held up his drink.

I looked back to Father Donoghue's craggy face, staring momentarily into his sharp blue eyes that didn't appear inebriated at all, despite that he was sitting in a bar late at night with a drink in his hand. He turned in his seat and began to bring the glass to his lips.

I frowned. "Only—"

He turned back toward me, lowering the glass. "Aye, yeah,
only
."

I couldn't help smiling. "Is there always an only, Father?"

He smiled back, a hundred tiny creases appearing at the corners of his squinting eyes. "Aye, when it comes to a woman, there's always an only, son." He smiled again as if this made him happy for some reason. "I will surmise that in your case, the
only
is that ya would not hate her so much
now
if ya didn't love her so much
then
. And there is such a thin veil between love and hate, me boy. As wispy as the mist on an Irish mornin'."

I let out a breath, raising my glass to my lips and taking a drink, letting the alcohol burn slowly down my throat. He was right, perhaps. I had loved her then with a fierce boyish infatuation. But I had loved a girl who hadn't really existed, and I needed to remind myself of that. I had loved an idea, an image, a beautiful face and a sexy body. And yet . . . if that was true, why did she
still
make me feel this out-of-control need, this confusion and hunger and lust?

There is such a thin veil between love and hate.

Okay, so the feelings I'd had for Lydia had been more than simple lust. It hadn't been
just
her beauty that intrigued me. She'd affected not only my body but my heart. And
that
was why I needed to exorcise her from the part she still claimed. I needed to break her like she'd broken me and finally be rid of her. The love I had felt for her was false, based on lies. And if the love was false, the hate was false, too. I would ruin her, humiliate her, and then there'd be nothing left except peace. She had never really known me.

That must have been very difficult for you.

I set my glass down on the bar just a tad too roughly, causing the remaining liquid to slosh out. I threw some cash on top of my tab and raised a hand to the bartender, standing and nodding to Father Donoghue. "Thank ya for the listenin' ear, Father. It helped."

He nodded, a small, knowing smile on his lips. "Ya be well, Brogan. Ya know where I am if ya need me."

"I do. Thank you. Sl
á
n, Father."

"Sl
á
n, me boy."

I left the bar, pausing outside the door, taking a deep breath of the night air, smelling gasoline, the garbage can halfway down the block, and the spices and fried food smells from a food truck parked a little way down the street. I felt better, more in control than I'd been when I'd entered the bar.

A boy walking alone with his hands in his pockets caught my eye, and I watched him for a minute. He eyed the food truck, and I recognized the look on his face: desperation, hunger.

I began walking toward him as he moved surreptitiously through the small crowd of people talking and laughing as they waited for their food. His hand snaked up and grabbed an order as it was set on the counter and a number called out. He made to duck through the people closest to the counter when a burly guy, probably having just left a bar after a night of drinking, clamped his hand down on the kid's arm. "What the fuck? That's my number, you little thief."

Walking up to both of them, I laughed. "Whoa, sorry, that's what I always order. My friend thought it was mine." I looked at the kid. "I haven't had a chance to order yet, pal." I clapped the big dude on his back, taking the food from the boy and handing it back, giving him a small shove. He looked confused but moved along. "What'll you have?" I asked.

The kid glowered at me, attempting to break loose of the grip I had on his arm. He smelled like unwashed hair and dirty laundry. I could smell him even over the stench of the grease and food code violations wafting off the truck. I ordered the largest burrito they sold, and we stood waiting with the rest of the crowd. I could tell he wanted to run, but the allure of food was too great.

When the order came up, I paid and handed the food to him. He unwrapped it greedily and began stuffing it in his mouth. He followed me as I made my way to the sidewalk and sat down on a bench a little way down the block. "Sit down," I commanded. He hesitated, shooting me a nervous glance but finally relented, sitting at the furthest end of the bench from where I was sitting.

"Stealing food from drunks at two in the morning is the best way to get yourself beaten to a pulp or taken down to juvy."

"I was just hungry," he grumbled around the food.

"Yeah. I can see that. How old are you?"

He paused before answering, his mouth still full. "Eighteen."

"Finish chewing and then tell me how old you really are."

He chewed the oversized bite in his mouth, his eyes moving away from me before he said, "Fourteen."

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my thighs and lacing my fingers in front of me. "Who's supposed to be feeding you at home that's fallen down on the job?"

He regarded me for several moments, another bite of food in his mouth before he again swallowed and answered, "My ma." He glanced up the street and then said, "She got herself hooked on heroin again. Took off last week with a boyfriend, and I haven't seen her since. She'll come back at some point, but there's no food in the house and—"

"What's your name?"

He shook his head. "I'm not going to foster care. No way. Got put in there for a couple months when I was twelve, and I'll never go back. Never." He shook his head again to make his point.

"You're old enough to work. How'd you like a job?"

He stopped chewing as he balled up the burrito wrapper, setting it in the paper tray and putting it next to him on the bench. "Nah, mister, I don't do that kind of stuff."

Oh you would if you became desperate enough. I should know.
I shook my head, pushing aside the sudden feeling of self-disgust as best as I could. "It's a clerical job mostly. You'd be running errands for my business after school. It's not the most exciting job, but it pays well enough, and you'd be able to feed yourself."

His eyes narrowed, and I could see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to figure out the rub. I took a business card out of my wallet and handed it to him. "My office is nearby. You go to that address on the card tomorrow and ask for Fionn Molloy. He'll set you up with the forms you need to fill out. You don't feel right about it, you can leave. You only stay employed if you don't bunk off school."

He nodded, a light of hope brightening his expression. A lump formed in my throat and I quickly swallowed it down.

"Are you from here?" I asked.

"Yup. Born and raised."

"I've never seen you around."

"My ma just moved us to a basement apartment up the street a couple months ago."

I nodded, standing. "Don't lose that card."

"I won't. Hey," he stood up, too, "thanks, mister."

I nodded over my shoulder as I headed for my car. Pulling out my phone, I texted Fionn.

Me: Sorry looking kid is going to come by tomorrow with one of my cards. Set him up with a job.

I got in my car and headed toward my apartment in the city. A minute later my phone beeped.

Fionn: Jaysus. You plannin on adoptin the whole of NYC?

I chuckled, throwing my phone down on the seat. It rang a second later. Figuring it was Fionn, I picked it up, but before answering I glanced at the screen.
Courtney.
I sighed and threw my phone back on the seat. I didn't have the energy for Courtney's neediness right now. And if she was calling in the middle of the night, she was especially needy. I felt a momentary twinge of guilt but squashed it down. "Not tonight, Courtney," I murmured into the silence of my car. I was needy myself, and I knew seeing her now would only end somewhere I'd regret. And for now, I had enough regret to last a bloody lifetime.