The Untouchables (35 page)

“I said NO! And that was a motherfucking order,” she snapped. “We aren’t running, we aren’t leaving him, and we are going to make that bitch pay!”

I kneeled beside her, not caring that the rapidly cooling wetness underneath me was blood. It seemed to be flowing out of him like a never-ending river. Neither of us spoke. I was grateful it wasn’t her. When I watched her fall, when I thought she’d been hit, it was the worst moment in my sorry excuse of a life.

“Are you okay?” I whispered, and she glared at me as if I had asked her the dumbest question ever to leave a man’s lips. I looked at her stomach. Her stomach spattered with stains of blood. It wasn’t hers, but she had still fallen.

“He’s fine. Monte caught me before I went down,” was all she said before she tore her gaze from mine and back to the man I barely knew but owed everything to.

“The cops are here,” Monte said, holstering his weapon and finally facing us. In his eyes a storm was brewing harsher than anything even Mother Nature could produce.

“What do you want us to do?” he asked, finally looking at me.

I glanced over my shoulder as four cars with stunning red and blue lights pulled up. The occupants didn’t even wait for their vehicles to come to a complete halt before jumping out. I knew these were just the tip of the iceberg, the first of many public servants who I could only imagine were chomping at the bit to get some sort of recognition or in with the Callahans. Whether to try to use it for personal gain or thinking this would be their shot at law enforcement glory, only God knew.

“Give the police a statement,” I said. “Then go drink on my dime. We grieve for our loss, and then we find this bitch and burn her alive.”

It was all I said before the yelling began as they came to
save
us.

“Sir, Ma’am, come with us! We’re clearing the area! Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention?”

All I wanted was a date, not the fucking flood gates of hell to open.

THIRTY

“What strange creatures brothers are!”

—
Jane Austen

NEAL

“Another,” I hissed, throwing back my shot. The bartender simply raised his eyebrow at me, shaking his head, yet he continued to pour.

What was he going to tell me? To go home—scratch that—to go back to my hotel room? With as much as I was tipping him, he’d better keep his opinions to himself.

“Well lookie here, if it isn’t
the
Neal Callahan. Maybe this is my lucky night.”

Fuck man.
I sighed before turning to look at Archer White, the lead presidential reporter for fucking
TIME
magazine, a.k.a. a fucking pain in my ass.

“What do you want, Archer?” I sneered.

“One Pepsi.”

“Pepsi? You pussy.” I laughed.

He pulled out his cellphone, ready to start recording. “Can I quote you on that?”

“What the fuck is your problem? I’m not running for motherfucking office! Who gives a shit about what I say?”

“The people of the United States are losing democracy. Your father-in-law is running without any real opponent. He’s basically won and that’s without answering any real questions: women’s rights, gay rights, global warming, war, economic relations, education…”

“I get it! Now go ask Senator Colemen, ‘cuz I still don’t understand why you’re pestering me.”

“You’re his son-in-law, you’ve been on his campaign trail for months. You bought your wife a brand new diamond necklace the same day you went to a soup kitchen. You’re a fucking prince, and your whole family feeds on greed. Have you ever worked a day in your life? All this money you people just suck down your fat throats—”

Snatching his neck, I pulled him up onto his feet. “Now that we’re both standing, say that to my face you fucking—”

“NEAL!” Mina, my least favorite political strategist and leash holder, grabbed my arm, doing her best to pull me back. “Neal, we need to go now. No more drinks.”

I let him go, but the asshole couldn’t seem to shut his dirty fucking month!

“Do you have an addiction, Mr. Callahan?” he asked, rubbing his neck as he held his phone up.

Snatching it from his hand, Mina left a bill on the table. “Journalists used to be respected. They didn’t stalk citizens, wait for them to drop then poke at them. You can quote me on that. Good night, Mr. White.”

I felt like a child the way she dragged me from the bar. Her tiny olive toned hand wouldn’t let go of my shirt until we crossed the ivory floors into the damned elevator. Of course my
master
suite would be on the 67th floor.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” she hissed at me, her dark eyes burning with rage. “You could have killed him.”

“No, I
should
have killed him. He didn’t have any right to speak to me like that. I’m a fucking Callahan!”

“So what?”

“So what? Being a Callahan…”

“Being a Callahan doesn’t mean shit here! It’s about being a Colemen, being President. I get it, you’re used to breaking the fingers of people who even look at you funny. But, like I said when you first joined the trail, you have to take the mud thrown at you, and you have to take it humbly. The big picture, remember? We’re on the home stretch. Just keep doing everything you’ve been doing up until tonight.”

“Yeah, you mean keep being a bitch. Thanks for reminding me, Mina. I’ll just go iron my money suit now.” I stepped onto my floor.

“That’s all I ask.” She shook her head as the door closed and all I could do was flip her off.

I wanted to flip the damn world off. Moving from the suite’s living room, covered in pastel colors and generic paintings of flowers, I found myself at the mini bar.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Olivia whispered, stepping out of the living room in her red silk robe.

“I’m not supposed to think, remember? I’m just the funny, supporting husband with the big wallet,” I told her, popping open the champagne that was recently delivered.

“Why is this so hard for you? I don’t get it. For weeks you’ve been brooding like a kicked dog!”

Of course she didn’t get it; she never got it! “Because, I
am
a fucking kicked dog! My family exiled me to this damn position because I didn’t know my place.”

“Exile? You’re in a fucking master suite in a five-star hotel! For once you’re out on your own and you can’t even handle that! You’re a grown man, Neal. Act like one.”

“Shut the fuck up! For the love of God, Olivia, shut up! It’s my mistake to think you would get it, but you just can’t. Family is everything! You have no brothers, no sisters and your parents hate each other. Of course you have no idea. You’ve never trusted anyone, you depend solely on yourself and it’s why you’re dying inside. You’re dying for validation and love from people who really don’t give a shit about you, who don’t know you. But you prefer it like that.”

“You’re drunk, I’m going to bed before you damage our relationship any further.”

“You do that.” Was all I could say before falling onto the couch. Rolling around, I tried to make myself comfortable, but of course, the great five-star hotel couldn’t get a couch that fit all fucking sizes. I found myself staring at the chandelier above, unsure whether or not I should go to her. I didn’t have to wait long before a pillow landed on my face.

“Fuck you for making me too angry to sleep,” she snapped before punching my arm.

“Aye! Stop it.”

She didn’t and I grabbed her hands, pulling her over the couch and forcing us both onto the ground.

“Olivia, Jesus, control yourself!” I yelled, pinning her arms across her chest.

“Get off of me, you son of a bitch! I’m dying for validation? How about you? You’re dying for your little brother to love you, your father to respect you, for some meaning to your life. Well guess what? If you didn’t give up your title as Ceann Na Conairte you would’ve had all of that and more.”

I wanted to strangle her, but someone had to fucking knock on the door. Our eyes met before we both got up, fixed our clothes and rushed to the door. She gripped my arm, pulling me to her side before opening the door.

“Hi,” she said so fake I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

The butler smiled back before handing her a letter. “From the Senator. Mrs. Callahan, Mr. Callahan.”

“Thank you, and good night,” Olivia said, closing the door before opening the letter.

“Your father does know we were only a floor beneath him, right?” And I was the spoiled rich kid?

“He’s inviting everyone for breakfast before we head back to Chicago. Apparently we’re done. Maybe now you can learn to smile again,” she said before throwing the card at my face.

Grabbing it to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, I wanted to do a little happy dance. I was finally going the fuck home.

DECLAN

I held it right next to the side of her face, waiting for her to look away from her copy of
Pride & Prejudice
. She was so immersed in the words of Ms. Austen that she didn’t even look. It made me want to laugh. Instead, with one finger, I pulled the book down.

“Declan! Mr. Darcy was just about—” She froze when she saw the joint in front of her face.

“As you were saying?”

She smiled, taking the joint from my hand. “You spoil me.”

“Someone has to.” I laughed, sitting up on the bed and lighting it for her. Her hands shook slightly as she reached up to grab it. Taking a long drag, she laughed through a cough.

“Slow down or you’re going to finish my entire stash.”

“Ooooh boo-hoo. I’m legally allowed to smoke.” She relaxed into the pillows behind her.

“Not in Ireland.”

“Stop, you’re killing my buzz.”

Taking the book from her lap, I flipped to the page she was on. “Were you gushing about Mr. Darcy again?”

“Jealous?”

“Please, Darcy can’t hold a candle to me. Look at this smile, these eyes.” I posed for her. She stared at me through the smoky haze before laughing outright. “There goes my ego.”

“You have a great head of hair too,” she whispered, leaving the joint on the side table to run her hands through my hair. “I’m glad you didn’t cut it for me.”

The smile on my face fell when I met her eyes. Collapsing against the pillows, I reached up to the blue scarf that she donned on her head.

“You know I would have, right? I would have shaved off my eyebrows too.”

Even though she grinned, I was serious. The last couple of weeks had been hard. Her mood swings, her pain, losing her hair. I wanted to do anything to help carry that burden. All I could do was just be here…I prayed that was enough for now.

“I’m sorry I was such a bitch yesterday,” she whispered, curling up against me.

Wrapping my arms around her, I tried not to think about it. “You weren’t.”

“I was. I don’t know what came over me. Just because I have cancer doesn’t mean I get to throw my food at you. It hurt to eat and I wanted you to hurt—I don’t know why—but I’m sorry. I love you.”

Biting my bottom lip, I blinked a few times before brushing it off. “You’re fine, baby. Those carrots were overdone anyway. Now can you explain to me why you insist on rereading this again?”

“It’s a classic.”

“There are many other classics.”

“Listen Callahan,
Pride & Prejudice
is a timeless romantic classic that makes my toes curl. So no hating.”

Pouting, I lifted the book with my free hand. “And I thought I was the only one that made your toes curl.”

“Nope, you and Jane, but for different reason.” I loved how she felt when she laughed against me. “Now read.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Flipping to my favorite part in the novel, I read: “There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.”

Before I could blink, she was up and running toward the bathroom. I had learned the hard way that she hated when I followed her into the bathroom. We had screamed at each other way too much over it, so I forced myself to simply let it go. I waited on the bed, my feet restless against the floor, just wanting to leap forward if she needed me. It was a long ten minutes. But then she finally stumbled out.

“Do you need help?” I asked. Rising, she shook her head, and reached for the end of the bed. Hugging the bedpost, she took a deep breath but it didn’t help. Her legs gave out from under her, but before she could fall, I caught her.

“Damn it,” she whispered.

“You got farther this time. Baby steps, remember? You just got off the chemo,” I whispered, hugging her to me as I sat back on the bed.

“I just want to be better already.”

“You will. Just don’t push yourself too much.” I knew she wouldn’t listen, but I would be here. Each and every time I would be right here reading whatever repetitive classic she needed me to. And if it meant having her by my side just a minute longer, I’d do it forever.

THIRTY-ONE

“Nothing thicker than a knife’s blade separates happiness from melancholy.”

—
Virginia Woolf

MELODY

“Mrs. Callahan, are you sure you don’t need a doctor?” Scooter, the know-it-all cop, asked me as I rested against our Range Rover.

The whole opera house had been cleared just a few moments ago, but none of the guests had left. The only thing more tragic than an opera was our real lives. With dogs, the pigs were there with their flashing lights, silver badges and yellow tape; all of them taking pictures of Antonio’s body as he lay there, cold and lifeless. He wasn’t supposed to die. My men died when I fucking said they died…at least if the world worked as it should.

“Mrs. Callahan?”

“We’re fine, officer,” Liam said. “I think it’s time I took my wife home.” He came to stand beside me.

“Mr. Callahan, if you have anything to add to this investigation—”

“Like I said before, we were leaving the opera when our bodyguard was shot,” Liam hissed, opening the car door for me.