Page 110 of Dust to Dust

His shoulders drooped in defeat. “You’re very lucky.”

“I understand men outside your family having those feelings, but it’s hard to believe you can’t talk to your brothers.”

He turned around. “It would be like a nail in my coffin. They already realize I don’t have the heart for some of the harsher aspects of the business. I can’t bear to become even less of a man—less of a Kavanaugh—in their eyes.

“What about a therapist or a psychologist?”

He shook his head. “Not in our world.”

“Tony Soprano did,” I protested.

Kellan’s eyes widened before a laugh burst from his lips. “That’s a TV show, not real life.”

“And you're Irish, not Italian,” I remarked.

He smiled. “Right.”

“But I’m a stranger. How can you possibly trust me?”

His green eyes took on an intense look. “Because like calls to like.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“If anyone here can understand traumatic events, it’s you, Isla.”

An icy awareness prickled over me. “The accident?” At his nod, I demanded, “Did Quinn tell you?”

“No. I came across it in your file.”

“What file?” I demanded.

“The one we run on all the dancers.” At what must’ve been my continued confusion, Kellan said, “Considering who we are, our background checks are very intense. We have to ensure none of the dancers have ties to our enemies.”

I fought to breathe. “What did mine say?”

The empathy in Kellan’s eyes sent my stomach churning. “Does it matter?” he questioned softly.

I bolted up from my seat. “Of course it does!”

He exhaled raggedly. “You’re the sole survivor from the car accident that took your parents’ lives.”

The walls began to close in as a swirling storm of anger and hurt rushed through me. Shaking my head, I jabbed a finger at him, “You have no right to use my trauma against me.”

A horror-stricken look came over Kellan’s face. “I swear that’s not my intention.” When I continued glaring at him, Kellan said, “I’m sorry, Isla. I just thought that besides being different from the other dancers, you were someone who might be able to understand and sympathize with my pain.”

At the sincerity of his words and tone, I flopped back down on the couch. “Although I don’t like it, I guess I understand.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are your objections?”

“Besides the glaring fact that I’m not medically qualified to counsel anyone?”

“I’m not asking you to prescribe me happy pills to deal with my shit. I just need you to listen.”

“Maybe you should try to talk with someone who isn’t burdened with their own baggage?”

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