Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1)(45)

That thought made her edgy. It wasn’t like the pair of them exchanged last names or anything, and she doubted she was the only Reagan in the state. So that begged the question, how had he found her? He didn’t sound surprised as he called to her. In fact, his entire demeanor spoke as though he had tracked her down.

Would you believe me if I told you I came for you?

At first, no. But now? She was strongly considering it.

Before, she might have been happy by that possibility.

Now, the only thing she wanted to know was who the hell he was…



* * *



The next morning, after a hot shower, painstakingly straightening her hair again—she rarely left it in its natural state nowadays—and getting dressed, Reagan headed for her parent’s place. Thankfully, the rain had let up, but storm clouds still lingered in the sky as though ready to open up at any time.

Her parents’ building was not much better than hers, but the familiarity of it made it special. Along the sidewalk, when the city had been redoing the concrete there, Jimmy had snuck down when her parents weren’t around and stuck his hands on it, forever embedding his child-sized prints in the sidewalk. To this day, the sight of them still made her smile.

Opening the front gate, she headed up the breezeway, punching in the code to let herself into the building, then up to the apartment. Despite having moved out, she still had a key, her mother wanting her to keep it in case of emergencies. Thankfully, it had been a while since there was one.

Even as she stuck the key in the lock, giving it a slight jiggle and twist before disengaging and unlocked the door and pushed it open, she knocked on the heavy wood, announcing her presence.

“Ma?”

“In the kitchen!”

She closed the door behind her, locking it once more as she went in search of her mother, looking around the space as she went. Not much had changed, just the slight shift of the furniture, more pictures adorning the fireplace mantel, but there was one thing that was drastically different.

Her father wasn’t perched in the lounger with a bottle of whiskey clutched in his fist.

Reagan didn’t know whether to be thrilled or nervous about this.

When she rounded the corner, she finally caught sight of her mother, Isabelle, standing at the stove with an apron around her waist and a wooden spoon in her hand as she mixed what smelled like stew in the giant pot.

Isabelle was five-five, a few inches shorter than Reagan’s five-eight—Isabelle had always said she got Conor’s height even if he was six feet—and was just as round in her hips as she was in her middle. Her unruly muddy-brown hair was swept up into a bun, curling strands escaping it to frame her face. She had laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, ones she had always had since Reagan could remember.

If there was one thing to be said, she was her mother’s daughter.

“Hey Ma, how are you?” Reagan greeted warmly, wrapping her arms around her mother and giving a squeeze. Moments like these, when it was just the pair of them, Reagan missed her terribly, wondering why she didn’t come around more often.

“All’s well. How’s my favorite girl? And the pub?”

“I’m fine, and the pub is too.”

Even if the world was coming down around her, Reagan would never tell her mother anything else. She already had to deal with a drunk for a husband, she didn’t need to worry about the stress Reagan was under too.

“I’m glad. Your brother should be here soon.”

Reagan nodded. Jimmy never missed Sunday brunch, even the one time when he was hung over to the point that he threw up as soon as he cleared the entryway.

After she said the words, Isabelle’s eyes skirted past Reagan towards one of the framed pictures. Reagan didn’t have to look to know which one had her attention. It was the one she always looked to when she made reference to Jimmy.

No, Jimmy never missed brunch, and back when her other brothers were still around, they would never miss brunch either.

But that was before Conor made it clear that they weren’t welcome anymore.

Reagan had seen them maybe twice in the last seven years.

There wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t think about her brothers, and when she came home, sitting around the dining table with Jimmy, Conor, and Isabelle, she felt their absence more than ever. They all did.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Reagan asked changing the subject.

“Almost finished here, love.”

And even if she weren’t, she would still do it all herself. That was who Isabelle O’Callahan was. She was a wife and a mother, and her main priority in life was caring for her family. Reagan admired her for it, even if she couldn’t understand the sentiment completely.

She loved her mother and her brothers unconditionally. Her father…well she had learned to tolerate him. But she couldn’t imagine giving up everything for someone like her father—and she knew that was a shitty way to feel. He might have been different, back when they had still lived in Ireland, but now, she was only plagued with the bad memories.

“Why don’t you go and relax—wait for your brother to get here.” Isabelle’s voice pulled Reagan from her thoughts.

Seeing no other choice, she did as asked, pulling her phone from her pocket as she went. There were a couple of texts from Liam, but she didn’t bother to read them—a couple more hours of ignoring him couldn’t hurt. Instead, she scrolled through her contacts until she reached Shannon’s name.