Page 17 of Desired

He lifts a brow. “But you didn’t. Clearly.”

I shake my head, defeated. “No. No, I didn’t, da.”

He places a hand on my shoulder. “Is she worth it, Declan?”

“She is to me, but I don’t know how much you know about her, da. I’m not sure if she even wants me, or if I want her.”

“But you’ve had relations with her.” He levels with me.

I bob my head up and down. I hate it when he gets personal. But it’s better to rip it off like a band aid than to let him stew while I dance around the answers.

He takes steps away from me, hooking his hands together behind his back, in a gesture that I always take as contemplative. “I know about her, Declan. But she’s no threat to us.”

“Her da is in jail for murder and he’s after her money. How is she not a threat.” I ask, deadpan.

He chuckles. “Ah, Declan. Everyone is a threat, son. It’s just how much of one is the question.”

“She’s a giant red flag, da. I know it. Hell, evensheknows it. She insists that she doesn’t want to mess up my life by getting involved with me.”

“And you?”

I scoff, surprised that he would even ask. “What do you think? I just finished telling you that she’s a red flag.”

“But despite your brother’s manipulation, you still went to see her tonight, didn’t you.” He comments. And I thank God that Malcolm at least kept his mouth shut about me and her fooling around this afternoon.

“I did.”

“Then, she must be worth it to you, Declan.” He points out.

“What does it matter, da? She doesn’t want to fuck things up, and I don’t want to, either. I just...fucked her. That’s it.” I lie through my teeth, tasting the bile float up my throat for addressing her like a whore in front of da.

He chuckles mirthlessly, turning towards me. “Was that painful, Declan?”

“What the hell are you talking about.” My voice is guttural.

“Lying.”

I look at him. I look away.

“Declan, you must leave the past.”

“That isn’t what this is fucking about, so can we just leave it alone?” I say through gritted teeth.

“Oh, Declan.” He chuckles again, making my jaw muscles work. “You haven’t shown an interest in a woman besides a casual fuck in ages, lad. If that’s all that she means to you, you would have ditched her like day old bread, son. You wouldn’t have touched her with a ten-foot pole. Now, I know you better than that, Declan. Maverick said that your eyes nearly fell out of your head when you first saw her. Is that true?”

“What the fuck does it matter, huh!” I shout, losing my temper. “She’ll never give her heart to me! She’s already told me as much! This...this is a waste of time, da! I don’t want to talk about this shit anymore!” I growl, storming out of the room, downstairs to the basement, where I have exercise equipment. My fingers curve around the bar of my fifty-pound weights, and I lift them towards me in a curl, forgetting about the fact that I’m still in my work clothes.

I do a set, until I’m sweating, and I remove my shirt, leaving just my pants on. I’m lying on the bench, doing chest presses, when I hear da’s footsteps come down the stairs. “You're still here.” I ask him rhetorically, not bothering to hide the snark in my tone. My brothers never talk to da like this, but I’m not afraid to. I’m the eldest son and da and I have a different relationship than he has with most. We’re on a level playing field most of the time. Da takes my vernacular as a nod to his youthful spirit, or to my mature attitude, I’ve never figured out which.

He sits on the other bench. I have a double set, since my brothers or sometimes my friends come over and work out with me. Also, the spare set is shit. Da lies down and does a set, just like me, in his work clothes. That’s one way, among many, that we are so much alike. We don’t give a shit. If the time calls for bench pressing, it doesn’t matter if we’re dressed in our Sunday best. If a meeting has to happen in the middle of a round of golf or while we’re on a fucking fishing boat, we do it. It doesn’t matter if it isn’t fitting. Da would join me doing just about anything if it means connecting with me. It’s his hidden way of reaching out.

After we’re both winded, he lifts, as beads of sweat dripping down his brow. “You said that she said as much. That she didn’t want to fuck your life up, or hers for that matter.”

I look at him, knowing full well that he’s had more time to think it over now, and what he’s got to say has more clout than it did a half an hour ago. “Aye.” I respond, wondering where he’s going with this.

“But she also told you her whole story, didn’t she.”

My voice is low, my tone calm. “Aye.”

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