Take the Fall (Take the Fall, #1)(8)

I never knew my dad, but I knew love. From my grandparents, I learned what a man should do, how a man should treat a woman, and how to take responsibility for my actions. Just like I’m attempting to do now.

Rowan glances away, her jaw working. “Fine. Whatever, Seth. I just thought…yeah, whatever, O’Connor.” Then she walks away, a purpose to her gait, as if she’s dismissing me. As if she never expects to see me again.

But have I ever given her any reason to think otherwise?

“Fuck,” I breathe, running a hand through my closely cropped hair.

“Mr. O’Connor,” a man says, catching my attention.

I turn my head to see an older bald guy wearing a nice suit striding toward me with a manila envelope in his hand. He stops a couple of feet short of me and nods. “Thanks for waiting.”

“Can I help you?” I ask. If it’s a bill collector, I’ll pound his ass into the ground for being so damn rude. Well, I would if I didn’t have an aversion to going to prison again. This guy looks like the type who would not only press charges but sue my ass.

“I’m your grandmother’s attorney, Shaw Kelly,” he says, holding out his hand.

I shake it. “Nice to meet you.”

“This is for you,” he says, passing the envelope to me. I take it. “If you have some time, I’d like to meet with you about the contents.”

“I really don’t have time,” I begin, walking away. “I’ll take a look at this later and call you.” I need to get to Rowan. I need to—

“It won’t take long. An hour at the most,” he says, catching up to me. “I know this is difficult right now, but—”

“Just spit it out, buddy,” I say as we stop beside my truck.

“It’s about your inheritance. Come by my office in the morning, around eight a.m., and I’ll explain everything, then you can be on your way. My card’s in the envelope,” he says.

“My inheritance?” Not even in a million years would I expect my grandmother to leave anything to me.

“It’s quite a lot, but there are options.” Shaw sighs, looking around. “I really don’t want to talk business in a cemetery, so if you don’t mind…tomorrow at eight?”

Well, point to him because he’s classy. I glance over my shoulder, and a burst of sunshine in an otherwise dreary day hits me as Rowan trudges to the black Lincoln Town Car the funeral home provided for today. If I’d gotten here sooner, I could have ridden with her, but judging by her reaction to me, I’m almost 100 percent sure she would have rather shoved a stick up her ass.

She eyes us, disapproval written all over her face, like I’m doing some shady dealings.

“Eight’s good,” I say, forcing my gaze away as I shove the envelope into my coat pocket.

“See you then,” Shaw says.

We shake hands again, and he leaves. I walk around my truck, climbing inside to start the engine. Then I check my phone for a local watering hole to spend a little time in while I figure out the best way to approach Rowan again.

I’m surprised to find out that the most popular bar is one I thought would have gone under long ago. Chucking my phone into the passenger seat, I put my truck in gear and head out.

A few minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of a honky-tonk on the bad side of town. As a kid, I spent good money procuring a fake ID to get in the place. The Double Deuce specialized in cheap beer and expensive women. Of course, I loved it. But I’d loved Rowan more, so I went only a couple of times with her brother and kept my nose clean.

Heading inside, I’m surprised at how different the place looks. It actually seems like a real bar. It’s clean with high-top tables and chairs that aren’t broken. Music paraphernalia from this century decorates the interior instead of that old shit they used to have stapled to the walls. In fact, the place looks damn good: a sort of classic bar meets shiny shit to attract the local crowd out this way and draw in college kids and hipsters, too.

The hostess smiles at me. She’s definitely new. I don’t think the last guy who ran the place—some joker in his fifties who acted like he was eighteen—had a clue who his customers were. “Bar or table?”

“Bar.”

“Help yourself.”

I flash her a smile and amble over to an empty barstool in the corner. It’s not the best seat, but it allows me to view my surroundings without worrying who’s behind me. Yeah, it’s a residual habit from constantly watching my back both in prison and in war. It’s been hard for me to break, but I don’t see the harm in it.

Signaling the bartender, I order a Fat Tire and a dozen hot wings. I glance at the menu again. Whoever bought the place really wanted to change everything; they have a much bigger selection. But it’s still only bar food. It’s not like they turned into a family chain restaurant.

Over the next couple of hours, I drink and eat, then drink some more. My aim isn’t to get drunk, but to kill some time. Plus, it’s going to take a whole hell of a lot more than three beers to get me wasted.

“Say Something” by A Great Big World starts playing over the sound system. My chest gets all tight. That was us—Rowan and me. She waited and waited for me to say something until I drove her to the point of no return.

She gave up on me, like I deserved. Only, like she deserves, I plan on never giving her up again.