Page 167 of Dirty Eoin

And I take it back.

I try to swallow the painful lump that’s just appeared in my throat.

I was wrong. I’d rather stare in Malky McGrath’s glazed bulging eyes for the rest of my days than look at Eoin O’Connell right now. At the sight of him lying there with wires going in and tubes coming out like some sort of fucked-up spaghetti junction.

Aside from the machine making his lungs work, he’s motionless.

He’s bandaged from the chest down, and his head is also swathed. It’s not the ocean of white gauze that’s the emotional deal-breaker. It’s the sea of purple bruises covering that perfect GQ model-like face of his and making him unrecognizable.

It’s not him.

It doesn’t look like him, so it can’t be him.

My brain is clutching at flimsy straws. Eoin O’Connell can’t fucking be here. This is a sick joke. He’s in a container on the docks, killing deserved people. Or in his office with his perfect Italian leather-clad feet on his desk, looking all pomp and pristine as he dishes out orders to his yes-people.

I hear the sob. It’s loud. It’s ugly. It’s painful.

And I know it came from me.

I don’t want him to be in here. I don’t want him dependent on machines to keep him alive.

I want him to be awake. I need to tell him.

I turn and walk. It’s too much. It’s too private. I don’t want to share my pain. My grief for a man who’s not even dead.

When I get outside, I gulp in air, but I still can’t breathe. Resting my hands on my thighs, I bend over, and when it finally fills my lungs, I use it to cry my frustrations to the world.

Because he can’t.

He can’t die without hearing me tell him that he’s loved.

CHAPTERFIFTY-FOUR

JAINE

New York Presbyterian Hospital

“Excuse me, Miss.”

I turn to stare at the man behind the desk. He’s around mid-twenties with an unruly mop of the reddest hair I’ve ever seen. Hair that he’s tried but failed miserably to tame with some hair product or another. My gaze then drops to a face that’s covered in a plethora of complementary freckles, a beaming smile, all topped off with round black glasses framing happy blue eyes, and a pair of regimented scrubs.

My gaze drifts back to his hair. I imagine people stare at its brightness a lot as he immediately points to his head.

“It’s ginger. I inherited it from my Scottish mom, along with these.” He points at his freckles.

I nod silently.

“Mind if I ask where you were going?”

I’ve already had to provide ID to two armed guards to check off against the O’Connell’s strict list of approved visitors to get on this private wing. It’s understandable. The future Irish king was shot by an as yet unknown entity and is currently in a medically induced coma. He must be protected at all costs. I naively thought that once I had gotten past those goons, and as it was out of hours, I’d be able to access Eoin’s room pretty much unnoticed.

I was wrong.

I walk back to the desk. I suddenly wish I’d taken more care over my appearance as I realize I must look like a tramp, wearing the most worn tank top and combats combo I own.

He's never going to believe who I am. What if he calls the family to seek clarification. Then everyone will know where I am.

“I’m here to see Eoin.”

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