Page 79 of False Heir

Disappointment settled in my stomach like a lead weight as I turned away from the bar. Kieran wasn’t here either. I stepped back out into the chilly night, the city sprawled before me—a labyrinth where my brother could be anywhere or nowhere at all.

I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans, the Boston winter biting through the fabric. There was one more place Kieran might be – The Irish Rover, our usual haunt away from our Dad.

It was only a couple of blocks away from The Crooked Thorn, so the walk didn’t take me very long. The bell above The Irish Rover’s door jingled softly as I stepped inside, a stark contrast to the din of The Crooked Thorn. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness, a reprieve from the harsh street lights. The usual suspects were scattered around, nursing drinks like they were lifelines.

My capos weren’t here, so they were probably working.

And there, at the far end of the bar, slouched like a marionette with cut strings, was Kieran. A flood of relief washed over me. He was here, he was alive, and he didn’t look hurt.

He did look incredibly drunk, though.

“Kieran,” I called out softly, approaching him. He didn’t move, so I reached out and touched his shoulder, feeling the tense muscles beneath his black shirt.

He stirred, lifting his head slowly. His eyes, usually sharp and guarded, were clouded and unfocused. “Tristan?” he slurred, squinting at me.

“Come on, let’s get you home.” I kept my voice steady, trying to cut through the haze of alcohol surrounding him.

“What’re you doing here?” Kieran tried to straighten up, wincing as if the effort pained him.

“Looking for you,” I said simply. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

“Didn’t have much choice,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to the half-empty glass in front of him.

“Let’s talk about it at home, okay?” I slid his drink away, ignoring his weak protest. As I helped him off the stool, his body leaned heavily against mine. I wrapped an arm around his waist, steadying him.

“Always looking out for me, huh?” Kieran’s words were edged with something like gratitude, or maybe it was just the whiskey talking.

“Someone has to,” I said, half-joking, half-serious. We moved slowly toward the exit, Kieran shuffling beside me, using my strength as his crutch.

“Thanks, lad,” he mumbled, his head resting against my shoulder as we left the bar behind us. The cold night air hit us, sobering, but maybe not for him.

I hailed a cab, the sharp whistle slicing through the night. It pulled up to the curb with a low purr, and I helped Kieran into the back seat. He slumped against the window, the reflection of city lights dancing across his features. As the cab wove through Boston’s streets, I took a moment to study him.

“Kieran,” I spoke softly, hoping to pierce the silence that hung between us like thick fog. No response came; he was lost in his own world, one that seemed filled with shadows I couldn’t see.

The cab ride was quiet, save for the occasional muffled sounds of the city at night. Kieran remained still, his breaths deep and uneven. Every so often, his head would nod forward before jerking back up, as if he were fighting to stay awake.

“Hey,” I tried again, reaching over to give his arm a gentle shake. “Kieran.”

He stirred slightly, murmuring something incomprehensible. Concern twisted inside me, a tight coil that refused to unwind.

“Tristan?” His voice was faint, almost swallowed by the sounds of the cab’s engine and the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers.

“Yeah, it’s me.” I leaned closer, trying to catch any further words he might offer.

“Sorry,” he breathed out, and the single word was laden with a weight that seemed to crush the air from the car.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” I assured him, though my heart felt heavy. We both knew there was more going on here than a simple apology would cover.

“Always you...” he trailed off, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Always me,” I echoed. “Nothing has changed.”

He looked at me for a second. “Right,” he said. “Nothing.”

“Home soon,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. But it didn’t matter. I’d carry the burden tonight so he could rest. That’s what brothers did; that’s what I did. Always.

The cab rolled to a stop outside Kieran’s building, and I quickly paid the fare, my fingers brushing against the cold, damp leather of the wallet as I counted out the bills. The driver gave me a nod, his eyes flickering with something like understanding, or maybe it was just the late hour weighing on him.

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