Page 86 of Ruin

The glimmer of holiday lights that hung above reflected off Byron’s name tag, displaying a name I had not heard him use before. I chuckled. “Wow. Re-naming yourself? How very Madonna of you.”

Byron’s brows stitched together as his head tilted to the right, struggling to understand my joke. Finally, he followed my eyesight until his boisterous laughter filled the air around us.

“Oh, this! Yeah…. It’s been a hundred years. It’s okay to have an Irish name again. Back to my roots!”

I laughed, lifting the beer to my lips as hops and citrus danced across my tongue. “You know, I really am a wine man.” I shrugged as my tongue cleaned the bitter taste from my bottom lip.

Byron leaned back, his eyebrows raising as he spoke. “Well, sometimes you gotta try something new. Makes you appreciate your favorites when you go back to them.”

Without thought, I rolled my eyes at his asinine justification. “Oh, did you come up with that bullshit yourself?”

He laughed, his voice filling the space as he went on and on about his nearly one hundred years of life and all the wisdom he had gained—but all I could hear was her.

Breathing.

Laughing.

My eyes scanned the bar, watching her move through the crowd with a tray of drinks. I rested my fist under my nose, my eyes narrowing.

I could feel Byron examining my expression. He took a sip of his beer and set the heavy glass down, a thud vibrating through the wooden table as he spoke. “I’ve seen that look before.”

I took a deep breath, silence filling the air as I remained locked onto her, physically unable to look away.

Byron’s head swung to the right as he searched the room, attempting to locate the object of my apparent infatuation. He looked at me again, before finally locking his eyes on her—and then he spoke, softly—almost begging. “No. No, Arik.”

He snapped his fingers directly in front of my face, pulling my glare back to him as his head shook. “Please…she’s too young. She’s in college. She thinks she’s in love with this fucking entitled prick.” He paused, his voice lowering. “Her dad is sick…”

My eyes narrowed as I processed his words, my hands balling into fists in my lap. “And? You know what this is. Do you think any of that matters? Stops anything?”

Byron rested his elbows on the table, his thick beard settling atop his steepled fingers. “If you take her now, she will end up resenting you. She won’t have an education, or a career, or a family. She will wonder what her life would have been like…”

He paused as his eyes searched mine for understanding. “You have to trust me on this one.”

Who the fuck does he think he is? Telling me—me—what to do?

I struggled to process his words as they fought the monster in my mind that knew she was mine—instinct and inevitability versus rationale and reality. “You do realize what you are asking of me, correct?”

Byron’s eyes looked down at the table as his eyebrows raised. “Yes. I do know.”

“The feeling of being torn apart slowly, day after day, for as long as we are separated.”

My jaw clenched as I imagined the pain rippling through my body. I was a mere twenty feet from her and already felt the burning deep in my core. My head cocked to the side as a sense of loss shot through my core and began to feast upon me.

“You remember that little problem you had in Boston in the sixties?” I questioned.

Byron lifted his glass to his lips, muttering as he took a sip, “For fucks sake, don’t remind me.”

A smile crept upon my face as my eyes locked in on her once more. She was back behind the bar, pulling a pint for a young man, her eyes sparkling as she laughed. “You owe me one, Byron,” I whispered, my voice low and sinister as his face hardened.

He looked past me, the snowfall behind the window catching his eyes. He turned his head over his shoulder slowly, looking back at her as she placed clear, lime-wedged cocktails upon a table full of rowdy women in athleisure. He sighed.

“Listen…I’ll take care of her, keep an eye on her.”

I tilted my head, my fingers brushing my lips, my voice dripping with a threat. “One day, I will collect.” My eyes locked on Byron’s as he froze. “And you will facilitate.”

Byron nodded, silence hanging between us as I folded the orange envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of my black wool trench coat.

“Then we are in agreement,” I said, pressing my hands against the table as I stood. My outstretched hand rose before me as I waited for Byron to reciprocate.