Page 14 of Conor
I glance down at the pistol in my hand and disengage the magazine, and Ivy loses it, thrashing against the bed because she doesn’t fucking get it. She doesn’t get that she’s ruined me. That she’s probably going to get me killed.
I eject the cartridge and set the round on the nightstand, a physical reminder of what should have been. Ivy wheezes and peers up at me with the first sign of hope I’ve seen in her all day when I stuff the Glock back into my jeans.
“Like I said, there’s only one way to fix this, but ye’re not going to like it any better than I do.”
“What is it?” she whispers.
“If ye fancy your life all that much, then ye’re gonna have to marry me.”
“Ican’t marry you,” I blurt, horrified.
Conor shoots me a withering glare and gestures to his gun. “Fine, have it your way then. Your kid can grow up without a mum.”
My teeth grind together under the weight of his threat. “You don’t have to be such an asshole. There has to be another way.”
Conor paces the length of the room, his spine rigid. “What, do ye think ye’re too good for me, is that it? Like I fecking want to marry you? A skinny ass crack addict.”
“I’m not a fucking addict!” I shout. “I’m just hungry!”
For a split second, shame colors his eyes, and he looks away to hide it. “There isn’t another way, Ivy. It’s this or nothing. And even this is liable to earn me a bullet in the head if I’m lucky. I’m sticking me neck out for ye here, can ye not see that?”
My shoulders cave inward, and I feel so fucking empty. What he’s saying is probably true, but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept. They don’t have any good reason to keep me around. In the end, my life means nothing to them. What Conor’s offering me is the only solution in which I’ll stay alive, but I’m supposed to get out of this city, and that plan doesn’t include marrying into the mafia. If I had any tears left to cry, I would. But tears aren’t going to get me anywhere.
I was foolish to believe they wouldn’t find out about me. All I’ve managed to do was jump from the frying pan straight into the fire. And I hate Conor for even suggesting this stupid idea. For coming in here so casually and telling me in no uncertain terms that my life is over one way or the other. I can live in a prison of his making, or I can die. Those are my choices.
I’ll never accept that this is going to be my life. But right now, I need to think short term. I learned from Muerto that sometimes just buying myself another day on this earth is all that matters. It isn’t even about me anymore. It’s about Archer and doing whatever I can to ensure that I’m in his life. He is the only deciding factor at stake.
“Okay.” It physically hurts to speak, but I force the words out. “If we do this, can you guarantee that Archer will be safe? That you will never let any harm come to him?”
Conor meets my eyes, and even though he can be a prick, there’s a softness to him when it comes to my son. “Ye have my word. I will look out for the kid. On my life, no harm will ever come to him.”
All the air deflates from my lungs and I slump forward as I utter the last thing I ever thought I’d say. “Then I guess we should probably get married.”
Conor unties me from the bed, and then he tells me not to get any bright ideas about trying to run before he stumbles back down the hall to the living room. I opt to stay in his bedroom while he sobers up, keeping as much distance between us as possible.
Conor’s room is bare, but tidy. There aren’t a lot of personal effects in here, which I discover when I peek into the closet and a couple of his drawers. There’s a bed, clothes, and some ammo. But in the nightstand, I find one photo. It’s of Conor and another boy, taken when he was much younger. I can only assume it must be his brother, since the resemblance is so striking. They both have the same vivid green eyes and the same mischievous smile. A smile I’ve never seen in person. I don’t know if the man is even capable of such a thing anymore.
It leaves me with more questions than answers about him. Why doesn’t he have any photos of the rest of his family? What happened to his brother? And why is he so hell bent that I must be a drug addict?
I put the photo away and use the next hour to scribble my thoughts into my journal. It’s a small, pocket sized notebook I can carry in my coat, and for the last year, it’s been my only real outlet.
When Muerto stole my life, everything I had was left behind. All my memories. All the personal things that make a house a home. I don’t even know what happened to them, but they’re just… gone. Every day, I’m left to consider what would have happened to my son if I hadn’t taken him to Lacey’s in time. It isn’t something I like to think about because when I think about it, I get angry, and now it feels like history is repeating itself all over again.
It might not be logical, but all those hateful thoughts spill over into my journal, attaching themselves to Conor’s name. I hate him for doing this to me. I hate him and his asshole mafia for fucking up my life and taking away my control. The only weapon I have left is my pen, and I use it to my fullest advantage, scribbling every acidic thought I have until I feel better.
And it does make me feel better. Conor’s trying to paint himself as the hero in this situation. Telling me he’s putting his life on the line, sticking his neck out for me. But he has other choices, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. He could have sent me away. He could have let me go. If I can hide from the Locos, surely, I could hide from his mafia too.
At least for a little while.
It does me no good to dwell on it. Right now, I don’t know how I’m going to get myself out of this mess, but I will get out of it. It’s the only belief I can grab onto. The bigger picture is all that matters and in the interim, I will take everything in baby steps. Today, I will be grateful that I’m alive. That Archer is safe. And tomorrow, if I have to marry Conor to survive another week on this earth, then that’s what I will do. The road to my freedom is paved with patience.
Freaking out and spewing hate at Conor isn’t going to help this situation. I need to play nice and break down his barriers. I need to figure out how this situation is going to work so that I can manipulate it in my favor, and I need to start now.
So, after spending three hours alone in the bedroom, I finally work up the courage to walk down the hall. Conor’s house is the typical bachelor pad. From my small exploration I conclude there are two bedrooms and a bathroom and nothing homey about the place. Everything he owns is for function only, and there isn’t a single decorative piece in sight.
I find the man himself on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee and what looks like a wicked hangover. It’s not even five o’clock yet. I sit down on a chair opposite him and he glares at me like he wishes I would just drop dead. It’s obvious he isn’t happy about this either, so what I really want to ask is why he’s doing it at all. He must be getting something out of it, but what that might be I can’t imagine.
The tension between us is awkward, and after five minutes of not speaking, I can’t handle it anymore. “Do you want some lunch? It might help with the hangover.”
