Page 3 of Puck (The Lost Boys MC)
But as they flocked to my distraction, I eased around the circular desk and made my way down the hallway toward Lori’s room.
“Please tell me that my girl’s around the corner.”
I peeked my head into her room. “Morning, Lori.”
She smiled brightly at me. “I was hoping you’d be the one coming around today. You weren’t here yesterday.”
I sighed. “I know, I know, and I’m sorry for that.”
She stood to her feet from her bed. “Are you all right? They said you weren’t feeling well.”
I walked up to her. “Can you keep a secret?”
She grinned. “You had a man over and you didn’t want to leave. How close am I?”
I winked at her. “Let’s get you your medication. Tell me how you slept last night.”
She giggled like a little schoolgirl as she followed me out of her bedroom. She poked and prodded for all sorts of details, but I wasn’t the kind of girl to kiss and tell. Instead, I listened to Lori rattle on about her nightmares and how her panic attacks were coming back, so I adjusted the dosages of her medicines, signed off on all of the paperwork, then took her to breakfast in the cafeteria.
Her medicine—also known as her strict vitamin regimen—always went down better if we mixed it up with something.
“There you go,” I said as I slid the pudding in front of her. “I also put some graham cracker topping all over it.”
She smiled. “You’re way too good to me, you know that?”
I waved my hand at her. “No need to be so dramatic. I’m just trying to help.”
I liked Lori. In fact, I’d probably go so far as to say that I loved her. She understood me in a way no one else did, and I swear it felt like she read my mind sometimes. We had a lot in common, from the kind of life we both wanted to live to the kinds of men we had dated in the past. Both of us had been burned—her more so than me—but talking with someone who understood the kind of manipulation and narcissism we had both endured helped.
And I’d like to think it helped her, too.
After my volunteer hours, I headed back to my aunt’s place. While I had moved out about a month ago, I still had a few more things I needed to pick up before I was fully moved out. I’d lived with her ever since I could remember, and while I hated it as a child, I had grown to call her place home over the years. My aunt helped me feel less abandoned by my own family. She helped me to understand that the only reason I was sent to the states from Ireland in the first place was so that I could have a better chance at a better life.
I still didn’t quite understand that since my father was loaded to the brim, but I’d learned to stop asking questions.
Sort of.
“Brigid, is that you?”
I heard my aunt’s voice and I smiled. “Hey! It’s me!”
She shuffled out of the kitchen. “I have your father on the phone. Wanna talk to him?”
I held my hand out. “Of course. When did he call?”
She shrugged as she passed off her phone to me. “Thirty minutes ago? He’s been yakking my ear off ever since I picked it up.”
To this day, her Irish accent made me smile. It reminded me of home. Of the accent I had lost after growing up in the States. I held the phone to my ear as I walked into the living room, scooping up a sweater of mine that I had left behind.
And as I shoved it into my purse, my father’s thick accent soared through the phone.
“Hey, Daddy,” I sing-songed.
He chuckled. “Ah, a leanbh. Your laughter is music to my ears.”
“There it is,” I whispered.
“What?”
I clicked my tongue. “Nothing. Just finally found a hair clip I’ve been looking for.”
“You’ve always been so disorganized. Are you sure it’s smart to move out of your Aunt Claire’s house?”
I rolled my eyes. “Ever the protective one.”
“Bah, every time I talk to you, you cover your accent more. Why, a leanbh? Why do you lose your accent?”
“Maybe because my father shipped me off when I was a child and won’t let me come home?”
“Are you done with your degree?”
I sighed. “Almost.”
“Then, you’re almost home.”
I flopped into a chair next to the fireplace. “So, what’s the news? Why were you calling Auntie Claire?”
I heard his grin through the phone. “I’m coming to the U.S. to meet with some new business associates.”
I nodded slowly. “Ah.”
The “family business.”
Or, in other words, more shit to do with the Irish mafia.
I knew exactly what my father did with his life. I knew from a very young age what he was involved in and exactly how important he was in the underground world. The only reason why I didn’t fight him on it every time we talked was because he used a great deal of his blood money to fund a wonderful program that helped the downtrodden without any questions asked.
