I tilted my head questioningly, a cold shiver moving through my body. Brogan ran his tongue over his front tooth, once and then again, his expression vulnerable and pained. I waited, completely still. "Earlier on when I was still doin' low-level jobs, one of the other guys let me in on a service a few of them were performin'. It was a sort of side business and a lot of the guys seemed perfectly happy to be picked for the job. I knew the mob dabbled in prostitution, but I didn't consider that they hired out male prostitutes as well." He grimaced as he said the word, and my heart squeezed, my stomach knotting. "One of the women—mostly married women whose husbands were much older—would place an order, and we'd be sent out."
"Brogan . . ."
He shook his head. "I know. I didn't want to do it. Just the idea of it was . . . distasteful to me on so many levels. Fionn tried to talk me out of it. But Fionn was only takin' care of himself, he didn't have others dependin' on him. And I thought if I could just earn enough money to get Eileen her surgery, and if I could just earn enough money to start makin' some investments, I would stop, no real harm done."
"Only . . ." I whispered.
His eyes met mine, and he gave me the smallest hint of a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. Talking about this was hurting him, and part of me wanted to tell him he didn't have to continue, but the other half wanted desperately to understand his past, to understand him.
"Yes, only." The smile slipped from his face. "I pretended they were you," he said, his voice gravelly all of a sudden. "Only sometimes—mostly maybe—that made it worse instead of better."
My breath caught. "Brogan," I breathed.
He shook his head. "And they weren't you. You were right, I hated the way they smelled, the way they'd grab at me, the way they'd rake their fingernails over my skin. They liked all sorts of . . ." he trailed off. "Anyway, I hated it. I hated them, and I hated you more, too, because being with those women made me long for you twice as hard and you'd betrayed me—or so I thought at the time. Still wantin' you like I did didn't make sense. My mind couldn't justify it, though I still felt it desperately, and I hated you even more for it."
My eyes filled with tears, but I didn’t reach for him this time. I could see he was struggling, and it seemed he needed space to get through the telling of this part of his story.
"I started keepin' records on them, too. In my folder." He let out a small, brittle laugh. "My feckin', ridiculous folder. But some days, I'd look through it, and I'd imagine what I'd do to them when I was the one with the power, and it was the only thing holdin' me up. The idea of revenge took hold and became the thing that strengthened me when there was nothin' else." He paused for a moment. "You were in there, too, you and Stuart."
Yes, of course. Of course we were. And in some small, possibly twisted way, I was glad because it meant we had helped him survive when he had little else.
"But then I got the job doin' some of the mob's accountin' and I was able to quit. Eventually, I moved up to launderin' money. That's when I did make enough money to make some investments and I doubled some of it by gamblin'. I paid for Eileen's surgery. My dad, he . . . drank himself to death." Pain for him made my stomach clench and he paused for a moment as if he was experiencing the same thing. He looked back down at his hands. "But he watched her walk without her braces right before he died." My heart squeezed, but Brogan's expression didn't change.
"My own wealth started growin' in leaps and bounds. And once I started amassin' wealth, power, I used it to run the women and their husbands out of New York in one way or another—bribes, job transfers, things of that nature. I couldn’t run into any of them, didn't ever want to be reminded of how low I'd once been, didn't even want those women in the same zip code, and I finally had the power to make that happen." He shrugged and glanced at the folder. "I keep it now to remind me where I once was and how far I've come."
Oh Brogan. He carried so much pain, so much bitterness, but I had to wonder if the person he was having the hardest time forgiving was himself. I had to wonder if the real reason he kept that folder was to remind himself why he shouldn't be let off the hook for his own choices. We were both quiet for a minute.
"Courtney was one of those women," I finally said softly.
"Yes. I'd seen her a few times. It was a little better with her than with some of the others. Her husband was twenty-five years older than her and not a nice man from what I knew, although I think she genuinely loved him. I think, mostly, she was lookin' for someone who was gentle with her, someone to pay her attention."
My fingers twisted in my lap, and I was ashamed of the jealousy that overcame me in a moment when Brogan was revealing his pain to me. This was not about me. This was about him. This was about the ways in which he'd survived.
"One night, her husband came home unexpectedly from a business trip and walked in on us." Oh God. "It was ugly. Courtney begged and pleaded with her husband to let me leave, to just let me go. And he did." He paused, looking down at his hands. "I could have refused to leave. I could have begged for him not to hurt her, too. I could have. But I had vowed never to beg anyone again. I had vowed never to give anyone that kind of power over me, and so I didn't beg. I didn't even stay. I walked away. I just . . . left her there. And he beat her to within an inch of her life. She was in the hospital for months. I had no idea she was in that kind of danger when I left, but I should have, I . . ."