32
MARGARET
MY HEART IS still lodged somewhere between the back of my tongue and the top of my collarbone. It’s been there since the second I saw Liam in my room, in my domain, sitting there like he had every right to be sitting on my plush yellow comforter.
My mind couldn’t fully comprehend what was happening, but I didn’t know how else to act, so I kept my gun trained on him until I could make myself understand what was occurring, until I could decide if I could trust him. As much as I love—loved—him, I’ve seen what he’s done. I’ve seen what the FBI has made him do, and him showing up out of the blue raises some red flags for me.
He leads us down the sidewalk, cars passing us in a rush to get home, and we’re not far from my old apartment now. The area is familiar, and a memory hits me: the last time I walked down this road with him.
Liam tries to get us into a conversation, tries to ask questions and get some sort of answers, but I can’t give them. I don’t know what he wants me to say, but falling into the trap of our easy banter is something I can’t let myself do.
It’s been two years since I last saw his face, and as sad as it is, I felt my heart tick a beat with just a glance. I know deep down I’m not over him. I thought I’d never be over him, but I didn’t actually think he’d ever come back to me, and I was resolved to think that way, accepting that I was on my own from here on out.
I put every ounce of anger, aggression, and any shadow of depressing thoughts into my career. It’s why I was only considered a rookie for six months or so before I started to get respect. When I wasn’t in our patrol car, scouring the streets for assholes to lock up, I was reading the handbook, absorbing details and codes and making sure I knew the big book backward and forward.
Yes, I thought of Liam in my dark moments, sipping a beer and looking over the city from my balcony at my new apartment, wondering where in the world he was and why he didn’t bother coming back for me. I thought of him shot in the head, or in a ditch, or locked up in prison for going against the FBI.
I had not a clue where he went, because after Vegas, I didn’t hear from him. Letters that barely gave me anything, not even his name, didn’t count. It’s also been months since his last one, and anything could have happened between then and now. I wasn’t feeling inclined to ask the director where he was because I didn’t think he’d answer me anyway, and also I didn’t want it to look like I cared.
I didn’t hear from Mike or Jen, and I didn’t get a call from Ford or Gemma, though I wasn’t surprised about that last one. That was just who Gemma was. No matter if I thought we could be friends, that wasn’t her MO, and even though I’d had Ford’s number, that was just a last-ditch attempt. I didn’t really need him; I just wanted to know what had happened. Had they all just picked up where they left off and continued with their lives as normal after Vegas, or were they just as out of the loop as I was? I doubted it seriously.
So, Liam’s fruitless attempts at conversation are not reciprocated, and I know he is worried that I’m not going to engage with him. I can see it on his face, and that gives me pause because Liam never lets anyone in, never lets anyone see what he is really thinking or worrying about. I see it, though.
He is terrified. It makes me scrunch my eyebrows together when I see how stressed he is about it, but I don’t comment on it—I can’t. Letting him think I care or am worried is the quickest way for me to lose my heart—and my head—all over again.
We turn another corner and are surrounded by people going to and from restaurants. This is a heavily populated area for dinner and drinks after work, and it’s packed, as is usual at this time of night. I stare down at my spiked, heeled, black leather boots over tight skinny jeans. My leather jacket hugs my curves in all the right places, and I am glad I spent the money on it, because Liam about choked on his tongue when he saw me out of uniform.
The uniform is unflattering. I know that—everyone knows that—but I do like that it gives me authority over other people. They may make lewd comments toward a female cop, but they are usually not stupid enough to act on anything that would get them into trouble with me.
Liam slows to a stop and I look up, swallowing my surprise when I read the sign. I should have known this was where we were going, but I was too lost in thought to pay attention.
O’Callahan’s Pub…the location of our first date.
I walk in after he holds the door for me, and I make my way to the bar. There are plenty of tables open, but for some reason being at the bar gives me some sort of comfort, like a safety net for dates. This isn’t a date.
“Hey, Margaret,” the bartender says. His name is Jimmy, and nearly every time I come in after a shift to get a drink with fellow officers, he is working. At first, I resisted coming here, but then the thought that I was going to have to get over it eventually pushed me to frequent the bar often, which is why he has a pint of Guinness in front of me before I even sit down.
Liam raises a surprised eyebrow at me and comments, “That’s not your drink.”
I shrug my shoulders but don’t answer, taking a fortifying swallow. When he orders the same thing, I try not to blush and wonder if he knows I started drinking it because it was what he drank on our first date.
It was stupid to do that, but I couldn’t help myself.
“You guys eating?” Jimmy asks, directing the question at me.
“No,” I say at the same time Liam says, “Yes.”
We look at each other, and Jimmy says he’ll give us a minute. We sit silently and sip our beers; the bar is loud, and Dropkick Murphy’s “Hang ’Em High” plays in the background of the chatter that comes at us from all sides, people grateful to be off work and enjoying time out with friends.
I have finally had a bit of that with some of the other officers recently, and it’s a nice change to go from every friend being married or having babies to being around people who have the same goals and ambitions as you.
“Are you gonna look at me at all?” The question comes out hoarse, and I look over to Liam’s worried gaze.
“What do you want to talk about?” I ask, grabbing a cocktail napkin and bending and folding it between my fingers, my eyes trained on it because I know if I hold his stare too long, I’ll give in to whatever it is he wants from me.
I feel him looking at me, and after a sigh and a rub of his head—an old habit of his—he asks, “How about how you’re doing?”
I nod. “I’m great,” I say, not giving him much. A part of me wants to gush about how amazing I am, wants to say that despite him breaking every promise he made, I did something with my life and actually enjoy living it again.