The Good Chase (25 page)

“I know, I know.”

She was being as gentle as possible, her sympathetic eyes briefly closing, but it still bothered him for some reason.

“At least you can afford to replace all the things you need. And you've got insurance?”

He just looked at her. “That's not the point, replacing them.”

“I know. I know it's not. But at least you can, is what I'm saying.”

Ah, okay. He got it. He could replace all that pricey stuff because he was Bespoke Byrne, and she had a pretty good idea about how much money he had to have stowed away for land he'd now never get.

“Right.” His head bobbed in a nod, but it felt like it was moving through sludge. And that was literally all he could say, because he couldn't be certain about his tone, should any other words come out.

“Maybe”—she stepped closer—“maybe this could actually turn out to be a good thing for you.”

His head snapped up. “
How
?”

She winced but didn't back down.
That
was the tone he'd been trying to avoid, but he was wire-strung and he couldn't possibly believe that what she'd said was true. Or that she meant it. His dream had just been stolen out from underneath him, his parents basically had to start over, his brother had destroyed Byrne's apartment and everything he owned . . . and this was supposed to be a
good
thing?

“Just hear me out, okay?” She licked her lips and edged even closer, hands up and fingers splayed. “Do you want something to eat or drink?”

“No, I don't want anything. I'd like to know what you meant.”

Biting the inside of her lip, he could see her gathering up the strings of her control and holding on tight. But he couldn't seem to stop himself. He felt really,
really
on edge, and a stiff wind was coming up fast on his back.

“I'm not attacking you, Byrne. Let's just get that straight right now. What I'm trying to do is make you feel better. That's why you came over here, wasn't it? So you could be with me and tell me what's up and let me try to help?” She didn't let him answer, which was probably a good thing, because what was on the tip of his tongue was to say that he didn't want to talk anymore.

“What I meant,” she said, “and I'm thinking out loud so bear with me, was that all that stuff you had in that apartment—that incredible furniture and all those clothes and, yes, even that toy train—was somehow connected to your past. You bought all that expensive stuff because you could. Because you felt some kind of pressure to. Because it was the opposite of how you'd been raised and what you'd had growing up, and you wanted to make a point. But maybe you've grown past that.”

“Grown past it?”

“It was Bespoke Byrne, all the way, even though I don't like to use that name anymore. But think about how you are with me. You're Rugby Byrne. You're my Byrne. That amazing guy who has absolutely nothing to do with all that stuff in your apartment. You are not connected to it. It doesn't define you, but you seem to think it does.”

“
That
does.” He thrust a finger at the engine.
Shut up, Byrne.

“No. It doesn't.” She slowly shook her head. “You're using it to cling to your shame, that embarrassment you told me about. Those emotions you said you escaped when you left South Carolina. You said you've used the things in your apartment, like the train, to remind you of your past in a good way, but maybe they're really an anchor. Maybe that train was holding you back instead of pushing you forward.”

“That's dumb. Every day I look at the pieces of that train and I'm reminded of what I'm doing and who I'm doing it for.”

Jesus, Byrne. Just shut the fuck up. She's trying to help.

Yet he couldn't get himself to listen. Or obey.

“All right. I get that,” she said. “But don't call me dumb.”

Weariness seeped into him at the same time this disagreement—fight?—was making him all hopped up. Far too many emotions chased one another through his brain. He sighed. “You're not dumb. Not at all. I'm sorry. I just don't agree with you.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms. Stared him down. “But—”

So she wasn't going to drop this. He lifted frustrated eyes to her ceiling.

“—I think perhaps that this had to happen,” she continued, “for you to finally be able to let go.”

His chin came back down so fast he got dizzy. “Let go of what?”

She opened her arms. “Everything. All that stuff you told me about your past. All the things you hate. All the things that frustrated you and ate at you for years and years. All the shame. All that bad shit was in the atoms of your furniture and the apartment's incredible view and every piece of clothing in your closet. You convinced yourself that the things you bought were good things, that they healed you on some level, that they proved you'd risen above where you'd started, but they really didn't.
I
know there's no reason at all for you to be ashamed of what you've lived through, but sooner or later you need to realize that, too. And maybe this is that time.”

“My parents and sister won't let me do what I want for them, to make their lives better. My brother broke into my apartment and spit in my face. I'm fucking angry and I want him gone from my family. I came to you for comfort. That's it. You're reading far too much into this and it's starting to piss me off.”

“Good,” she said with a firm nod.

He recoiled. “
Good
?”

“Yes, good. I think this is the world's way of telling you that you need to start over. Erase your goals—because you've reached them, or you've done all you can—and start over with new intentions. Or adjust your old ones into something you actually can do, and not focus on all that you haven't. Because I've got to say, Byrne, you are completely shackled to that train, and everything it means.”

“Wait a minute. That train means my family. Who I would do anything for. Who I
want
to do everything for. You realize that, right?”

“Yes, of course.” She rubbed her forehead, like she should be the one in pain right now.

“And you want me to just leave them behind? To forget all that's happened and ‘start over'?”

“That's not what I said
at all
. I never said to forget. All I'm doing is suggesting that you use this as an opportunity to reevaluate. Take a step back and figure out a new life going forward—one that makes you feel good in every way—as opposed to trying to drive in the tracks that train already gouged out for you. I think that this horrible, awful, nasty event could actually allow you to be who you were meant to be. What I meant was that you aren't like so many people who get handed this kind of setback and have no way of climbing out of the hole. You have the means to rebuild your apartment and your life at the same time.”

“‘The means.' Right. You keep talking about being able to ‘afford' things. I don't know who you want me to be, Shea. Poor Byrne or Rich Byrne.”

“I don't want you to
be
anyone. No one but yourself. I don't think you're either of those guys, not deep down. Not anymore. I'm just saying that even though the world seems really dire right now, that you do have the means to help yourself. You're not helpless. And that you could manage to skew this into something good. But maybe I should've just kept my mouth shut.”

“Maybe,” he muttered.

Good God, Byrne. You're an ass. She's not Alex.

She drew a sharp inhale, stared at him for a long moment, and then dropped her chin. “I see,” she whispered.

As she looked down at the train still sitting in the middle of the floor, he almost lunged for it.

That inconsequential thing that really did feel like an anchor now.

When she tilted her face back up to him, her pale hair hid one eye. The other carried a great deal of confidence, frustration, and severe intelligence.

Deep down, he knew she was only trying to help. He
knew
this. He unclenched his hands from where they'd unconsciously dug into his upper arms. “Listen, you don't deserve any of my anger. It's because I'm wired, and you just happen to be the one standing right here, not Alex. I kind of hate myself right now, for saying what I have.” He inhaled. Exhaled. “I think I'll stay in that hotel tonight. Try to clear out my head.”

That one visible blue eye softened. “Byrne, you don't have to—”

“I know. But I probably should.”

And then he turned and left.

19

I
t was extraordinarily rare when Shea rued the day she'd grown a backbone and learned how to voice what she felt and wanted, to express her beliefs. And today was not one of those days.

The look on Byrne's face as he'd backed out of her apartment—the pain over his situation, the regret over his impassioned, reactionary words to her, the helplessness and the anger—played over and over in her mind. She wanted nothing more than to clear them all, to smooth the lines from his face.

She wanted nothing more than for the two of them to pick up where they'd left off before he'd been called away to South Carolina. She longed to be with him, to lie tangled in his sheets again, the light from his closet falling across his bed as they talked about nothing and everything. She wanted to rewind.

He'd come to her place yesterday looking for a shoulder and an escape, but she'd felt in her heart that he needed something more to pick himself up. He was a man with such grand plans that to just roll over and play dead was completely unlike him. For him to move forward, he needed to see the larger picture. He needed to see that this wasn't an end, not after he'd worked so hard.

She couldn't take back anything she'd said to him, and she didn't want to. He'd been unnervingly emotional, and yes, maybe her timing had sucked, now that she looked back on the whole exchange. But it didn't make what she felt in her heart any less truthful, any less powerful.

The words he'd said to her, his visceral reactions, had been fed by his terrible situation and exacerbated by his confusion and anger, and she understood that none of it had truly been focused on her. But she'd happened to be the one in his presence, and she hadn't conformed to what he'd expected. It had been easiest to use her as a conduit for everything he was feeling. As a scapegoat.

Yes she was a little uncomfortable with that, but she was also willing to forgive since she understood the circumstances. And . . . she was dying to see him. Dying to talk to him. To know how he was. If she could do anything for him.

Her couches were the complete opposite of Byrne's firm, leather-covered pieces of furniture. She'd picked them out for the very reason that they were huge and soft and that you could burrow between the massive pillows and get lost when you wanted to. Like this morning. But it seemed that she couldn't burrow deep enough, because she could still see Byrne's suitcase propped up next to the front door, the toy engine sitting on top.

For when he came back.

The message she'd left him late last night had been short and sweet: “Please call me. I need to know you're okay.”
I think I love you.

Picking up her phone yet again that morning, she saw that he'd neither texted nor called.

Sitting there waiting would just about kill her, so she jumped off the couch and hit the shower. She'd go to the Amber early and drown herself in work. The trip to Kentucky for a VIP bourbon tour and a meeting with the distillers needed to get off the ground, there were some inventory issues to address, and she still had to approve the tasting list and check bottle availability for the upcoming Scottish Society ball.

Showered and fed, she marched to the 1 train, rehashing the whole scene with Byrne for the umpteenth time. Wondering how she could've put things differently to make him see that this could be a spectacular new beginning, not a disastrous end. Wondering what he might say to her, once he had time to sleep on it.

Coming out of the subway at Franklin Street, she was still mooning about it. Then she turned onto West Broadway, and the sight of the Amber sign, a short block away, slapped clarity and focus into her mind. Until she noticed a man standing on the sidewalk outside the Amber. Normally it wouldn't have made her stop, except that he was alone, holding a big, professional-looking camera. And he was taking pictures of her bar.

Her first thought? That something had gotten leaked about her impending meeting with Right Hemisphere. But who would do that when nothing had been signed or even formally discussed?

The photographer finished clicking at the old brick exterior and slung his camera over his shoulder, then pulled out his phone. As he talked, he took out a little notebook and set it up against the Amber's door, writing and nodding at the same time.

It became very clear that he was waiting, quite possibly for her. She couldn't say exactly why that made her uneasy. Maybe because she was usually notified about interviews or photo ops, not surprised or ambushed like this.

Just then her phone rang, and before the reporter could look up and notice the sound or her, she ducked back around the corner out of sight. Leaning against the fire station, she saw it was Willa calling. Shea exhaled in relief. She'd tried to call Willa last night after Byrne left, but the crazy woman had been out, of course.

“Hey, girl,” Shea said to Willa. “It's a bit early for you to be up, isn't it? It's only nine thirty.”

The pause on the other end was completely un-Willa-like. Even for a hungover Willa. She let out a strange sound that might have been a laugh. “Yeah. It is. Are you okay?”

“Sorry I didn't leave a message last night, but things were just so weird and I knew you were out having fun. God, I don't even know where to begin. Byrne came back yesterday and I think we got in this fight but I'm still not sure, and he left all mad. Things were so great before he left for South Carolina and now . . . now I have no idea what's happened and it's driving me crazy.”

Normally Willa would've jumped in by now. Normally she would've made a joke or ripped on the entire male species or even asked Shea for all the details. But Willa still said nothing, and a chill skated down Shea's spine.

“Wait,” Shea said. “What exactly are you asking me?”

Willa gasped. “Oh, honey. You haven't heard? You haven't seen?”

Shea pushed away from the wall. “Seen what?”

“Oh, shit.” She let out a long breath. “Maybe it's better you found out from me.”

“Found out
what
?”

Another deep breath. “Sweetie, it's that shitty society gossip website. The one with all the anonymous, passive-aggressive jabs at the rich people. The one that follows Marco's crowd to restaurants and the beach and takes really ugly photos and posts them online.”

Shea knew exactly which site that was. It had covered her own wedding with disgusting vigor, speculating about the people in attendance and making up all these petty things she may or may not have said about the whole event. It had chosen the most unflattering photo of her in her wedding dress, taken when she'd sneezed or something, and put up a caption of something along the lines of, “Billionaire bride hates the fifty-thousand-dollar flowers!” It was a despicable, gross publication . . . that apparently a lot of people looked at. Whether for purposes of schadenfreude or just for a laugh, Shea never understood.

She rubbed her temple. “What did Marco do now?”

Another pregnant pause. “Maybe something really bad this time.”

Shea suddenly started to feel sick. “Tell me.”

“Um, remember that trip to Santorini he took you on? With that other couple? The heiress or tycoon or something like that?”

It had been another real estate developer from Monte Carlo, and it had been six nonstop days of drinking and parties and a continuous loop of obnoxiously wealthy people she didn't know and would never see again. “Yeah, I remember.”

“God, I hate telling you this. There are pictures. Of you. Up on that site. Right now.”

“Pictures.”

Her mouth dried up as some specific events of that trip came back to her. It was shortly after their wedding, and at the peak of her complicity, of her doing whatever Marco told her to.

“It looks like you're on the bow of this massive yacht, and one of the photos is of you kissing a guy who isn't Marco. The caption is speculating you cheated on your husband, who was somewhere else on the boat. And that it was the beginning of the end to your marriage.”

Shea knew exactly which picture that was. “But that's not true! It was all a game. Marco was sitting right there the whole time. He even took the picture. We were all laughing and the kiss wasn't even any more than a peck!”

“That's not the worst of it,” Willa added. “There's another of you draped across the front of the yacht. Topless.”

Fuck
. Shea went dizzy and had to fall back into the wall. Marco had taken that photo, too. They'd been alone for that one, but it had been between them. A private moment.

“And they're online?” Shea squeaked out.

“Yeah. I mean, they pixelated your tits on the official page, but . . .”

Shea got it. It was the Internet. If there were pixels on one site, there were actual nipples somewhere on another.

What the hell was going on? How did this happen? Her hands started to shake.

She and Marco had taken a million pictures on that trip, most of them typical vacation shots. Nothing salacious. But those photos had been picked out of the whole lot and deliberately sent out.

Goddamn vindictive, jealous bastard.

“I . . . I have to go,” she told Willa.

“No wait, Shea. Stay on the line. I'll come to you or you can come here.”

“Sorry. I can't . . .” Couldn't what? Talk? Think? React? Understand? “I'll call you later. I need to figure some stuff out.”

“Don't go online, Shea. Whatever you do, don't go—”

“Bye, babe.”

Shea ended the phone call. And then found the website.

There she was. Twenty-four and half-naked, the sparkling Mediterranean stretching behind her. Tiny blue bikini bottoms, suntan-lined chest thrust out, showing off for the camera. For Marco. Her new husband, whom she'd once thought was her fairy-tale prince.

And there she was again, playing drunk truth or dare with the Monte Carlo couple. Marco had dared her to kiss the other man. She did it—without tongue, no more than a half second long—and then all four of them had collapsed into laughter and poured more Cristal.

Why would he even have these pictures still? Why would he
do
this?

Of course. Running into her twice recently—once with her new boyfriend—only reminded him that he'd lost her. And it wasn't even her as a person that mattered. It was that he'd lost
at all
. She'd proven to the world she didn't need him, and he didn't like it. In his crazy mind, he felt like he still had to get even somehow.

The posting of the photos had been time-stamped at the crack of dawn that morning. Just below them, in obnoxious, half-bolded, half-italicized type, was a declaration that the photos were sent from an anonymous source, followed by speculation that Shea herself had done it to give her and the Amber a boost. As though this were all part of a horrific marketing plan.

That, above all, made her fighting mad. Made her want to pound brick and then pound Marco's face. She had not spent the last four years fighting to be acknowledged as being at the top of her industry, only to have everything canceled out by one man's fucking ego.

Marco did this. Marco would have to fix it.

She wheeled away from the Amber and the photo hound who was waiting to ask her nosy questions and take hideous reaction shots. Where would Marco be right now? Did she even still have his contact info in her phone? She scrolled through her address book as she barreled down the sidewalk without looking where she was going. Crap. No number for Marco. She could call his office—

The phone rang in her hand. The photo that popped up on-screen was of a bushy-bearded bagpiper, Byrne's name in white type across his forehead.

Shea gaped at the image, debating whether or not to answer. Of all the times for him to call back. Then she realized she kind of needed to hear his voice to calm her down so she could plan her attack. There was a good chance he didn't know what had happened that morning. The Byrne she knew wouldn't go anywhere near those kinds of websites.

“Hi,” she said, but she was a terrible actress, and her voice sounded as flat and unenthusiastic and hurt as she felt.

“Shea.” He let out a deep, aggrieved sigh. “I saw . . . I saw the photos. I'm so sorry.”

She stopped dead in her tracks. “You saw them? How? I just found out five seconds ago.”

He cleared his throat. “Do you even need to ask? Dan.”

Shea filled the following pause with deep breathing worthy of a yoga instructor.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. “How can I help you? Do you want me to come over?”

That stopped her. What could
he
do for
her
? After he hadn't allowed her to try to help him just last night? It was all so confusing, another layer she didn't know if she could handle just then.

“I'm not at home,” she said. “You don't need to . . . I'm fine. I'm just trying to figure out what to do.”