Brogan turned as the pounding on his door began and opened it. A brunette woman—I thought it was the woman from the first garden party I'd seen him at in Greenwich—rushed into his apartment and threw herself at him.
"What's happened, Courtney?" he asked.
She sucked in a huge sob, gathering herself and standing straight. "He got parole."
"Parole?" Brogan sounded confused. "They said—"
"I know what they said!" she yelled. "They changed their minds. I don't know! All I know is he's getting out next month. Oh Brogan, I need you. Hold me. I just . . ." she sobbed again. "I need you to hold me." She threw herself into his arms again and he let her, wrapping his arms around her. My stomach dropped. Not knowing what to do, I stood on shaky legs, my buzz suddenly gone, and took my dish to the counter.
My movement must have registered with her—Courtney—because she straightened up, pulling away from Brogan and looking around him to me. "Who's she?" she demanded. I blinked, flushing under her disdainful scrutiny.
Brogan turned and his face was ashen, full of regret and . . . fear? "Courtney, Lydia." He extended his head toward me, not offering either of us more of an explanation about the roles we played in his life. What should he say? "Courtney, this is Lydia, the woman whose life I set out to ruin and ultimately gave three mind-bending orgasms to last evening." A hysterical laugh rose in my throat, and I coughed to disguise the small sound that managed to escape. Maybe I was still more buzzed than I thought.
Courtney narrowed her eyes, and I saw that though she was beautiful, she was perhaps a few years older than Brogan and me. Her gaze moved to Fionn, and back to me, presumably coming to the false conclusion that I was with Fionn. "Fionn," she said, her voice cold.
Fionn's laughing demeanor was gone as he nodded back at Courtney.
Courtney turned back to Brogan, her face crumpling. "Take me upstairs, Brogan, please, darling." Darling? Brogan put his hand on the small of her back and led her toward the stairs, not glancing back once. What the hell? Jealousy and disbelief assaulted me. He was taking her upstairs to his bedroom to hold her? After what we'd done last night? I looked at Fionn and his lips were thinned, his eyes sympathetic. He let out what sounded like an annoyed breath and shook his head, placing his hands on his hips.
"Who is she?" I asked in a loud whisper. Upstairs, I heard the door to Brogan's bedroom close and felt vomit move up my throat. Had that just really happened? Should I be as hurt as I felt? He hadn't made any promises to me and yet . . .
"He'll have to tell ya that. I'm bloody sorry." He shook his head. "I do think it's time ya and I got bolloxed and moved on to the epitaph portion of our Irish slang lesson."
I blinked at him, feeling sick and confused and angry. I needed to get out of here. "I'm leaving."
Fionn nodded. "I can't let ya do that, Lydia. It's not safe for ya to be goin' anywhere, especially not before Brogan's had a chance to fix the mess with your brother."
I glanced up the stairs. Surely after Brogan calmed that hysterical woman down, he'd be back to explain things to me? Or was this another part of his revenge? My stomach twisted. Had he planned this like his other dates had been planned, at least in part, to upset me? No, no, we were past that. Right? Plus, the look on his face had been one of discomfort and remorse. Or maybe that was all an act. Had last night been an act, too? Oh God, these thoughts were causing my head to ache.
I held my glass toward Fionn. "Fill me up, Fionn. All the way to the bloody top."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lydia
I felt myself being lifted and let out a garbled resistance. "Quiet, Lydia, you're drunk. I'm putting you to bed," came Brogan's voice.
"I'm plastered," I amended, cracking one eye opened. "And you're a tool. A quare tool. And a wanker."
"I know I am," he agreed as the room spun. I groaned. "Goddamn Fionn," he muttered.
"I love Fionn," I said. I thought I felt Brogan's body tense, but I was too drunk to care. I did love Fionn. Fionn and his wine. I loved Fionn's wine. "And Fionn loves me," I asserted.
"Fionn loves everyone." Not Courtney. And seriously, if Fionn didn't like someone, they must be a bitch. A scanger.
"And you're a tool," I said, trying to organize what I was saying out loud and what I was saying in my own head. "And a wanker. Fionn helped write me off the map." I hiccupped. "You know what that means, wanker?"
"Yes, Lydia, I do."
He paused at the top of the stairs as if trying to decide which room to turn toward. "Don't you dare take me in your room, you tool," I slurred. "You still smell like her." He did, and it was making me sick. It was a strong, spicy perfume that made my head spin more than it already was. I could only imagine what it was doing to Brogan. And yet, he'd been the one letting her rub all over him. That same smell was probably all over his sheets, too. And who cared? Who cared about Brogan? He was a tool. And a wanker. A feckin' manky prick.
"I know I do," he said, letting out a tired sigh, as he turned toward my room. He placed me gently on the bed, and I opened my eyes, staring up at him. His face was in shadow and set in a grimace as if he was currently feeling tortured. But that's what he had done to me earlier. And it'd hurt so much I'd drunk two bottles of wine. And yet it still hurt, only in a fuzzy, bleary way that was better than the sharp pain that had sliced through me watching him walk up the stairs to his bedroom with that woman.