Page 31 of Myla: The Hawthornes

“Him awake,” Sean lied.

I snickered.

“Sorry,” she apologized as I sat up and scrubbed my hands over my face. “I was trying to let you sleep.”

“Is E still here?” I glanced toward her bedroom, keeping my voice down.

I shouldn’t have bothered. Saoirse shook her head.

“She left about twenty minutes ago.”

“Why didn’t she wake me?”

I pushed to my feet with a groan.

“She wanted you to get some sleep,” Saoirse replied sympathetically.

“She shouldn’t be drivin’ by herself.”

“She’s fine,” Saoirse said, glancing at Sean. “Ronan already texted that she was there, and he was headed back to his apartment to shower.”

“He couldn’t have showered when he went home last night?”

Saoirse just threw her hands up in a how-the-hell-would-I-know gesture.

“Speakin’ of showerin’,” I muttered, sniffing my pits. It wasn’t bad—yet—but I wouldn’t make it another day. “I need one. You wanna help me get some stuff out of my bags?” I asked Sean.

“Yeah!”

I always kept a spare shirt, boxers, deodorant, and toothbrush in my saddlebags. I’d learned the hard way that things didn’t always go as planned, and it was good to have something to change into. I let Sean pull things out of the bag and was seriously relieved that he was still young enough to not have any idea what the strip of condoms were when he reached the bottom.

“Nah, don’t need those, bud,” I said quickly, clearing my throat. “Drop ’em back in.”

“Okay,” he said happily, tossing them back in the bag.

Sean ran back to bug Saoirse while she cleaned up the kitchen, and I headed for the shower. Aoife and Richie lived in the same house that we’d grown up in. They’d updated differentthings over the years, like the shitty shower tile and the cracked sink—but the mirror above the sink was still the wavy-edged one we’d had when I was a kid.

It was always a trip to look at myself in it, remembering when I was so short I could only see the top of my head. After my shower, I stared at my face, using a towel to dry my beard.

Glancing down, I checked my phone. No notifications. Nothing new from the hospital or Aisling.

I clenched my jaw and dropped the towel. My eyes caught on the tattoo on my breastbone. The Kelly family crest. Aisling had done it freehand. I wondered if anyone had thought to call her work.

Fifteen minutes later, I was pulling into the tattoo shop. They were still open for a few hours, and the receptionist and another tattoo artist that I was sure I’d met before were in front laughing about something.

“How can I help you?” the receptionist called out as I opened the glass front door.

“Hey, I’m looking for Aisling.”

“Her brother, right?” the tattoo artist asked, pointing at me. “We’ve met, I think.”

“Yeah, man, you look familiar.”

“Tate,” he said, pointing to himself. “Ash isn’t here. She’s off today.”

I nodded, letting the door swing closed behind me.

Something in my expression must’ve made them realize that it wasn’t a social call, because both of them grew serious and the receptionist stood up.

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