******
The inside of the lighthouse was surreal, like something Escher would have concocted, all weird angles and bizarre staircases that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did. I had no idea why he’d forewarned me not to tidy. There were stacks of books all over the place, and clothes, yes, but the clothes were folded into piles, and the books were all lined up neatly. There were no plates or mugs laying around. Not even in the small kitchen he led me to, grumbling under his breath. He took two tumblers from one of the cupboards, and then rummaged around in another cupboard until he found a half full bottle of Dalwhinnie.
“Ice?” he asked over his shoulder.
“I don’t know. Sure? I’ve never had whiskey before.”
“You’ve never—” He couldn’t believe it, that much was clear. “You have never had whiskey? That might just be the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said. I suppose women in SoCal drink Sauvignon Blanc or Pimms or some shit. Mojitos. Cosmopolitans.”
“Sometimes. I don’t really drink at all.”
“Oh, lord save us.” Turning around, he handed me a tumbler, three fingers of dark amber liquid sloshing around inside it. “I’d hold your nose and throw it back if I were you. You’re not gonna like it.”
I accepted the glass. “How do you know?”
“Because I’m a fairly observant human being. Now drink.”
I drank. It was foul, awful, evil stuff that burned all the way down my throat and settled in my stomach, a small fire spitting there that wouldn’t go out. I’d only had one mouthful. I had at least four or five more to go before I reached the bottom of the glass. I wanted to cough and splutter and pull a face, but then again I didn’t want to prove him right.
I managed to hide my disgust, though god knows how. Sully watched me manfully taking gulps of the raw liquor, his expression blank until I tipped the glass up and finally drained it. He gave a small nod, lifting his own glass to me. “Wow.” He knocked his back in one, wincing a little as he swallowed.
“Wow?”
“Yeah. I’m impressed. That was three shots right there. And you didn’t puke.”
“Three shots? Sully, I have to drive back across the island. What the hell?”
He pouted, pouring out more whiskey into the glasses. “I thought you were gonna stick around and ‘take care of me’,” he said, throwing air quotes onto his last words.
“I am. But I still have to go home and take care of Connor and Amie. Remember? Your niece and nephew?”
“I don’t want to talk about them. Or Ronan,” he said, holding up his index finger. “If you need a ride later, I can get Jared down the hill to drive you. In the meantime…” He handed me back my glass, which contained a much smaller amount of whiskey in it this time. “Drink up.”
I took the tiniest sip of the whiskey, scowling.
“Atta girl.” He smiled, but it was a grim, uncomfortable smile that betrayed how much pain he was in. His hand was still pressed against his diaphragm like it was the only thing holding his insides in place.
“You can’t take pain meds if you’ve been drinking,” I said quietly.
“I don’t plan on it. I told you. I’m not taking that shit.”
“Why not? You’re obviously suffering.”
“Because, little miss know-it-all, I saw enough guys in the military get hurt. They were prescribed morphine and oxy, and I watched them all turn into addicts right before my eyes. It’s not worth it. I’d rather take a few shots of the good stuff and grit my teeth if it’s all the same to you, thanks very much.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
He stood there, staring me down, not really breathing, not saying anything, and once again I wanted to leave. I looked away; I wasn’t the sort of person to be cowed by anybody. Not even Ronan Fletcher had managed it. But there was something about his brother that Ronan didn’t have. Some intense, deep, penetrating quality that made me feel uncomfortable in my own skin.
“I’m going to go sit down now, before I fall down. Please feel free to snoop around and do whatever the hell you like in my absence.” Sully left the kitchen and went back through to the living room, his back ramrod straight, his shoulders rigid, and I considered picking up one of the sharp knives from the butcher’s block on his counter and seeing how good my aim was.
Instead, I took full advantage of his invitation and began rifling through his cupboards, looking for ingredients so I could cook him something to eat. Surprisingly, there was plenty to choose from. I’d expected a refrigerator full of condiments and a stale, half eaten sandwich; bare shelves, and dust balls in his pantry. But rather his refrigerator was full of vegetables and fruit, along with packs of meat and blocks of cheese, and his cupboards were overflowing with baking products, dried goods, and tins of soup. Staples, nothing fancy, but better than nothing, that was for sure.