Page 110 of Taming Tesla

FIFTY-SIX

Patrick

The meeting with the investors is just a formality. Idon’t really need them for the project I’m undertaking but if I can get some fat cats to pony up a few million bucks each to fund my community center then great. If not, I’ll do it myself.

The fact that I’m obviously indifferent to them and their money seems to have peaked their interest. They’re wandering around the building I appropriated for the project, cell phones stuck to their ears. With the numbers they’re throwing around, I can imagine half of Boston’s accountants are having hot flashes right now.

It’s been a year since my uncle gave me control of the family money and it still chafes. Besides renovations to the apartment, buying Cari’s paintings has been my biggest purchase so far, and that was completely different. It was my money I bought them with—well, the money Con squeezed out of Jackson Howard as retribution for the hell his daughter and James put us through.

It’d worked out perfectly. I was going to give the money to charity anyway.

Other than my slight Tom Ford addiction, I’ve managed to keep a lid on my spending. It helps that I still don’t see the money as mine—well, not entirely mine. Con and Declan are taking their share, as soon as they can stand in the same room for longer than fifteen minutes without killing each other.

I know. I’m an optimist.

The fat cats wander back into the main space and whaddya know, they want to invest. I pretend to be excited, shaking hands and setting appointments to meet with their money people. I don’t hear any of it. I don’t really care either.

All I can think about is Cari. The way she looked when I left this morning. Like I’d just punched her in the gut. Like she saw it coming from a mile away. Like I turned out to be exactly who she thought I was, all along.

It makes me feel like shit. I hurt her and that was never my intention. I said I’d wait for her and I did. I waited and I hoped and I kept on loving her. But I meant what I said—despite my behavior to the contrary, I can’t force Cari into a relationship. No matter how much I want to.

So, I’m giving the paintings back. Hiring another bartender to take over my shifts so I can make a clean break from her and take some time to get my head on straight. I’ll concentrate on Boston Batters and growing the literacy program at the library, along with the other projects I’ve sworn to see through. I’ll focus on getting my life back. Moving on. Moving forward.

And I’ll be completely fucking miserable.

Shaking hands and making half-hearted promises to call, I slide into the driver’s seat of my Audi and head for my next stop. I’m not in my car more than five minutes before the phone rings.

Hoping it’s Jane, telling me that the inspections were pushed back, I hit a button on my steering wheel. “This is Patrick,” I say.

“Mr. Gilroy?”

I stifle a sigh. It is my assistant. “Yes, Jane?” I’ve asked her a thousand times to call me Patrick. Every time she says, Yes, Mr. Gilroy. “Is everything okay?” I’m having sudden visions of Con showing up and throwing Declan down the stairs.

“Yes…” the word lilts at the end, like she’s asking me a question. “No.” She sighs. “The Sojourn Center called about Mr. O’Connell again. He’s—”

Oh, shit.

“Call Declan,” I tell her, even though I know her well enough to know that that’s the first thing she did. Declan deals with Ryan, not me. And sure as fuck not Conner.

“I did, sir,” she says, confirming what I already know. “He’s not answering his phone and the director of the center said if someone doesn’t call her back within the next ten minutes, they’re calling the police.”

The police? What the fuck did Ryan do this time?

“Call them back—tell them I’m on my way, then re-schedule the one o’clock inspection and call Bill and see if we can get the three o’clock moved to one,” I say, giving the Audi’s rear view a quick check before sliding across three lanes of traffic.

“And, Jane…” I take the next exit and backtrack to Fenway.

“Yes, sir?” she says, her tone polite and professional. I imagine her sitting at her desk, the picture of efficiency, eagerly poised to do my bidding.

I shift into fourth and rip through the intersection on a yellow. “If you call me Mr. Gilroy, one more time, you’re fired.”

---