Chapter Text
Declan doesn't recognize the Boston number, but he picks up anyway; he's got about thirty different feelers out to different contacts that he's waiting to hear from. "This is Lynch."
"Declan? It's Adam." A fraction of a pause, just long enough for Declan to wonder what Adam he knows. There's got to be one, statistically speaking, but he can't think of it. "I got your number from the club."
Declan frowns. He's generally on a last name basis with the other members, and there's no reason for the club to be giving out his number to any of them.
But when it doubt, hide the fact that you're in doubt. No way is Declan going to admit he doesn't remember Adam. He leans back in his chair and kicks his feet up on his desk. "Violating my privacy? That's very modern, for the club."
"I know I shouldn't have." Adam's voice is very serious. That's fine, Declan doesn't need anyone to appreciate his humor, he's used to that. "Jesus, I could get fired, but -- I had to talk to you."
Wait one goddamn minute. This isn't a member, this is an employee, calling from his personal phone, for -- some reason that means a lot to him. What could someone he doesn't know need from him? Connections, maybe, influence; Adam's looking to break into something better than working at the club, and he's willing to do something gutsy and inappropriate to get it.
Which isn't the worst tactic in the world, considering some of the people Declan works with. He might as well keep him on the line while he figures out whether to help him, ignore him, or get him fired.
"All right," he says. "So talk."
"Let me rephrase. I was hoping that you would have something to say to me."
Adam is rocketing straight toward fired.
"Give me a hint," Declan says. "I'm not a mind reader."
"Right, you only got yourself kicked out of the club yesterday, what could you possibly have to say?"
Declan's feet fall off the desk with a thump.
He flails for one split second -- is there some other Declan? at some other club? -- but his instincts take over. Never let them know they've caught you off guard.
"What did you hear?" He's happy with that. It sounds pretty casual.
"Besides the fact that you knocked Whelk on his ass in front of half the governing board? Not much. No one knows what happened because you just came out of nowhere."
That clarifies nothing. Declan doesn't know any Whelk. And he's made a point of meeting as many club members as he could; thatis the point, that and having decent lodging when he's in DC, and theoretically to have lodging in Boston if he could visit his brother without fear of a scene --
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Declan plays it cool: "What were you looking for, a blow-by-blow account?" and at the same time he's drawing up the website for the Boston chapter. Yup, there on the governing board is Barrington Whelk. God, what a name. Declan could almost admit that Ronan has a point in hating the club and everything it stands for, except Declan isn't going to concede anything to a dead man.
Adam doesn't respond right away. When he does, he drops the sarcasm. "I guess I was hoping for an explanation."
He wants an explanation for why Ronan is the way he is? Good luck with that.
"I don't know, that sounds like something I'd do." Declan pulls up an email to the membership chair -- of his chapter -- and then reconsiders. Is it worse to be expelled, or to have to explain that the Declan Lynch that got expelled was an impostor?
"You weren't even supposed to be boxing," and Adam sounds half reproachful, half fond. Either of those on its own would be odd from a member of the staff. It draws Declan's attention away from how to handle the situation and back into the immediate moment, makes him wonder, wait, who the hell am I talking to?
The answer occurs to him and he has to pull the phone away from his face so the receiver won't pick up his quiet goddammit.
He gets confirmation a second later:
"I guess I won't see you at the club," Adam says, "but I thought, after the other night -- "
"I'm going to stop you right there," Declan says. "Adam, was it? You have the wrong person."
There's a pause. "This is Declan Lynch, right?"
"Yes, I am Declan Lynch. The man you're looking is not."
A much longer pause, and then Adam says, pure ice, "if you're not interested you can just say so."
"If this were a kiss off, I'd tell you," Declan says. "That would be much less embarrassing."
Adam says nothing, which says a lot.
"I live in New York, I only ever go to the club here or in DC," Declan explains. "I do, however, have an irritating little brother in Boston, who is the kind of person who gets kicked out of places for starting fights."
"Right." Adam is still skeptical. "Your brother. That's convenient."
"Shaved head? Gaudy tattoo? The kind of respect for rules that would lead someone to impersonate a relative?"
Slowly, Adam admits, "yes."
Declan snorts. "Yeah, you're looking for Ronan."
Adam mulls that over.
Declan shuts down Outlook. He doesn't think he'll be sending that email, after all. He crosses his office to the liquor cabinet and pulls out a bottle of Scotch, pours out a finger, half-listening for outrage from the other end of the phone.
"I don't suppose you'd give me his number," Adam ventures.
So Declan was right in the first place: Adam wants something from him. Adam who has been angry, and rude, and inappropriate, who abused his position to get Declan's phone number.
In other words, Adam, who is exactly Ronan's type.
There's a chance that Adam is a stalker, which would save Declan the trouble of driving up to Boston to kill Ronan himself. If he's not, well, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to help Ronan out. It'll get Ronan's guard down for when Declan decides on his real revenge.
"He never uses his phone," Declan says. "I'll text you his address."
"Thanks," Adam says, like that is the riskiest thing he's said today.
"Don't mention it." Declan drains his glass. "Really."
Adam hangs up. Declan decides to cancel his next meeting. He deserves a long, high-proof lunch, and then he has to figure out what he's going to do about Ronan.