Page 7 of River
During the car ride, Bran said it sucked Pat started feeling bad and had to leave early. He’d paid an Uber driver some ungodly amount to take him all the way to Muskogee.
A real shame, that.
River closed her eyes, leaning her head against the soft leather headrest. She’d started the evening determined to let the idea of a relationship with Patrick go, only to find herself in an absolute state of euphoria, to the utter dejection of its finale. She sat up when someone took her hand. Rowan. She was looking at her in question. River could only shake her head no, mouthingI’m fine. Rowan wasn’t convinced but dropped it.
She was fine.
She wasn’t dying inside.
She didn’t want to cry.
3
His mustache itched. Ignoring the irritating facial hair, bushy eyebrows included, Samuel Delton continued to mingle amongst the glitz and glitter of the Oklahoma Historical Society’s gala elite. Cheese motherfuckers. Getting hired by the OHS as a professional photographer for the event was a breeze.
He smiled at just how well-acquainted he was with cameras. The only difference was the people he was taking pictures of tonight knew he was doing it. Admittedly, not as much fun.
For this occasion, he was a paunchy middle-aged man with no interest in scaping his hairy body. He’d had to go above the usual costuming since the O’Faolains had surely been made aware of his identity after the Tulsa detectives discovered he’d been behind some tampered pictures that were sent to James O’Connor and Bran O’Faolain... of their girlfriends. They also discovered some of his cameras and followed them to his home— Sam sure missed the lady’s gym locker room feed.
So, the wrong people would know his identityandwhat he looked like. Sam had been very careful coming back to Oklahoma for that very reason. He knew the detectives were still hot to find him. They wouldn’t.
It galled Sam each time he was forced to remember what Hugh O’Faolain had done to Sam’s father, Thomas Delton, and the reason he found himself in costume tonight. His dad had been a loyal accountant to that fucking family for years, and they dared accuse him of stealing! His father didn’t take anything from those bastards that he wasn’t owed. He only professed his guilt so the great Hugh Almighty didn’t prosecute and ruin the Delton name. His father wouldn’t allow that kind of shame to fall on his son or his wife— of course, that thankless bitch left her husband and son soon after, anyway.
Unfortunately, Thomas Delton had basically been blackballed in Oklahoma. He could never hope to work for any prestigious companies again. The stress forced his father to resort to prescription pills to cope with the brutal betrayal. He died shamed and depressed. The coroner tried to rule it a suicide, but Sam knew better. It was an accident. His father would never leave his son alone. Thomas Delton’s death could only be laid at the feet of one man. Hugh O’Faolain. Ruining the alpha oil wolf, his whole family and their best friends, the O’Connors, were simply cherries atop his revenge float.
So, shocker, Sam was way ahead of the detectives’ efforts. He’d left his RV at a park in Arkansas, a beautiful state, and drove his tiny, nondescript car to Guthrie. He had a new life, a new purpose, a new identity, and time. Time being the most precious thing. It was time to expand his @SammySoGood— King of Twisted Love Stories business, and, even more importantly, time to plan new ways to destroy the O’Faolains.
So, what had he learned tonight? First, Bran was shelved for the moment. Sam could tell he was a total Stage 5 wife clinger. There wouldn’t be much opportunity for a while. Second, old man Hugh watched the youngest Byrne with an intensity rarely seen without some sort of sexual interest attached. Sam wasn’t concerned. Yet. He had plans for Rowan Byrne.
Third, and the best bit, was that Playboy Patrick was smitten with the middle sister. Keep it in the family much? Patrick was fighting the attraction, but his tented pants didn’t go unnoticed through Sam’s camera lens. Sam also didn’t miss the two slipping away together.
When River emerged from the back and ordered a double shot of whiskey, Sam was giddy. Something went amiss behind closed doors. Patrick never showed his face in the ballroom again. He wanted River but was fighting it. Once a playboy, always a playboy. Sam would have to watch the youngest O’Faolain boy.
Whatever pictures he took would have to be sold to gossip blogs instead of sent directly. Public was better than private for Sam’s plan to work anyway. He would spend a few more days in Tulsa before heading back to Arkansas. He had to think of the perfect travel disguise for his trip to Ireland after all.
4
It was Christmas morning. Two days after Patrick had bailed on River at the gala. Two days after he’d hurt her feelings. Again. He needed to talk to his brother or father, but each time he started to, the thought of admitting what he’d been doing— leading on the sister of Bran’s wife— he hated himself enough, but to see a look of disappointment on the faces of the two men he loved most in the world would crush him.
How had things become... this?
He absently flipped bacon before putting hashbrowns in a huge cast iron pan. When Patrick turned to grab the bowl of waffle batter, he let out a started yelp. Hugh the Harbinger of Doom was leaning against the center island, big arms crossed over his chest. Staring.
“Jesus, Dad. Are you trying to make sure I burn myself on a pan?” Patrick went back to the bacon, turned the waffle iron on, wiped the already clean counter down, and pulled the bacon to put it in the warming drawer. And still, the bastard didn’t say anything.
Pat really, really didn’t want to make eye contact. His dad could still make him squirm like a naughty five-year-old.
Without turning around, Patrick asked, “Is the table set for breakfast?”
Forty-five seconds later. “Mom and Bébhinn are seeing to it.”
“I’ll keep working on the food. Let me know when everyone is ready.” In other words, dismissed.
“Patrick.”
Fuck. Patrick felt his shoulders stiffen but soldiered on.Ignore him, Pat.
One minute and fifty seconds later. “Patrick. Turn around. Now.”
