Chapter 142

Night had fallen faster than he expected. Seated behind his desk, Cillian glanced at his digital clock for the hundredth time in less than an hour and his finger tapped impatient rhythms on the table. In front of him, Rourke, who had the unfortunate fate of coming here to discuss some improvement of the gym with him—only to end up getting ignored, worse, snapped at—exhaled loudly. Slamming the leaflet in his possession shut, he tossed it into the table and shook his head. "How do you expect someone to concentrate if you keep tapping that damn finger?" Cillian's finger stopped, but only for a brief second. The moment he glanced back at the clock again and his mind resumed its marathon, his fingers continued their work. "Okay, stop, stop!" Rourke, finally having had enough, reached across the table and grabbed him by the wrist. Something he immediately regretted doing when Cillian sent a glare in his direction. With a sigh, he let go and leaned back in his chair. "You're killing me here.