The After Party (A Badboys Boxset)

by Karr, Kim

  That’s not what happened.

  Rather, the ring sat in the silver box waiting for the right time and instead of being with Elle, who needed me right now, I was sitting in a room with Blanchet, Miles, and a team of DEA agents who love drawing on a fucking whiteboard all day.

  There had been some wrong assumptions made, Mickey O’Shea being the Priest one of the biggest. But I was confident now that we had all the dots. It was connecting them to compose the right picture that was slow in coming together.

  My old man had gone to see Patrick and surprisingly, Patrick told him everything. That Seamus wanted vengeance on Patrick. For his mother’s death. For being sent away to Ireland. For his whole fucked-up life. That Seamus had kept his identity a secret so that when he was ready, he would come out guns blazing and annihilate the Blue Hill Gang. Tommy’s fuck-up with the drug fiasco had only served to accelerate his plan and only made it sweeter.

  A voice pulled me out of my thoughts. “This is the only photo we have of Seamus O’Shea, otherwise known as the Priest,” Blanchet said, pointing to a copy of the picture from Erin’s house that Elle told her about when Blanchet went to see her in the hospital this morning. “Immigration is sending us over a more recent one but it hasn’t arrived. Details surrounding this man are sketchy at best, but it seems he was a miracle child, born seventeen months after Mickey O’Shea,” she pointed to a picture of an old man taken walking into his flower shop, “went to prison.”

  O’Reilly, the poor sucker who was appointed her subordinate, coughed out, “It’s called conjugals.”

  She narrowed her stare at him. “Prison records show Rose visited her husband every Sunday for the three years he did time but during family visitation hours only.”

  He cleared his throat. “Sorry, go on.”

  Another guy raised his hand and then glanced down at the report in front of him. “It says here Mickey was sentenced to five years.”

  She shook her head and flipped the page of the report she held. “Early parole for good behavior.”

  The red marker scratched against the smooth surface. “Juvie records show the young Seamus caused a lot of trouble. Didn’t go to school. Break-ins. Fights. Public disturbances. Then Rose O’Shea is gunned down in a bar and subsequently the bad seed is shipped off to Ireland to some seminary school, supposedly never to be heard from again.”

  “So what happened?” an agent called out.

  The she-devil herself was in full form and ready with every answer. “Immigration records show him reentering the United States about three years ago, with a wife and kid in tow.”

  “Should we assume he didn’t go to seminary school if he was married?” O’Reilly asked.

  “You don’t assume anything because if you do, you’ll be wrong. He went to seminary school in Dublin and just before he was to be ordained, he disappeared. No one knows what he did between the year of his disappearance and his reappearance in the U.S., but sources say he has strong ties to the Continuity Irish Republic Army, which is more than likely his pipeline for the drugs.”

  “And you said he’s known on the street as the Priest?”

  She nodded in confirmation but her eyes said, “No shit.”

  I almost laughed out loud.

  “How could the DEA have been unaware until recently?” one of the agents shouted out.

  “You tell me,” she sneered.

  “And we’ve never had eyes on him?” another guy asked.

  She shook her head. “As far as I can tell by flipping through old reports, he was a myth. No one ever laid eyes on the Priest, so the DEA assumed he wasn’t real. Something conjured up to take our attention off what it should be on. Happens all the time. We have so many leads that go nowhere and so many hyped-up heads of drug rings that never existed. According to these reports, any investigation into the Priest led to a dead end.”

  “Makes no sense,” someone mumbled.

  Irritated, Blanchet slammed her fist down. “All I can say is either he was really good at staying underground or all of you are really stupid.”

  O’Reilly stood. He had some balls. He strode over to the whiteboard and started writing. “Seamus O’Shea is still at large. We believe him to be traveling with his wife and son. No known direction.”

  “We have this composite of his kid,” Blanchet added, pointing to a taped-up photo Elle helped a sketch artist render.

  “Looks like another sick fuck,” one of the guys muttered.

  That earned him a look from Blanchet. “Let’s stick to the facts. Text messages and voicemails from Seamus O’Shea on the day of Michael O’Shea’s suicide clearly show threats made toward his sister-in-law, Elle Sterling, and his daughter.” She pointed to screen shots taken from his phone.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  “Are they still in danger?” someone interrupted.

  “Not that we have reason to believe. As far as we can ascertain, the reasons for the threats had to do with Michael O’Shea’s political career and well, since there won’t be one, I would surmise they should be out of danger.”

  Miles was leaning against a window with his arms crossed. “What do you say we concentrate on finding Seamus O’Shea?”

  Blanchet’s head snapped in his direction.

  The room quieted.

  And then she gave him the slightest smile of agreement.

  Another agent raised his hand like we were in class.

  Blanchet nodded.

  He pointed to the board. “What does Seamus O’Shea have to do with Tommy Flannigan’s murder?”

  “A life for a life,” I muttered.

  Blanchet looked at me.

  “It’s an old mob saying.”

  “Whose life?” he asked.

  The last thing I was going to do was get Frank involved, so I shrugged and said, “I have no idea.” I did, of course. Mickey must have told Seamus what happened years ago, how when he went to shoot at Patrick, Rose got in the way, and then once Seamus was holding the cards, he ordered Patrick to have his own son killed to avenge his mother.

  A life for a life.

  I’m sure Patrick had a choice, just as my father had years ago. His life or his son’s life.

  There’s always a choice.

  Blanchet started writing on the board again.

  Hands went up.

  Miles took the lead and answered most of the questions. In time, he would share Mickey and Rose O’Shea’s tragic story with the DEA. Just not yet. We needed some time to let things settle for all of us first. For Clementine’s sake, Elle wanted the O’Shea name out of the press as much as possible. I understood that.

  I watched Miles in action.

  Where Blanchet was good, Miles was better. But since she officially worked for the DEA and he didn’t, he had to follow her command. I had a feeling that it was just a matter of time and soon he’d be on her team or possibly managing her. Either way, combined, they both had enough of the facts, and I was certain together they would bring Seamus O’Shea to justice.

  With Seamus O’Shea on the lam, and no political hopeful in his pocket anymore, we all really did believe Elle and Clementine were no longer in danger. I had to give it to Michael O’Shea: in the end, he took care of his family the only way he could.

  He had made the right choice.

  Completely over all of this, I rose to my feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I don’t think I can be of any more help.”

  She nodded. “Thanks, McPherson. You’re free to go.”

  The way she said it, I knew what she meant.

  My father was free. I was free. Elle was free.

  Finally, Elle and I could be together without outside forces pulling us apart.

  And if that didn’t sound like a happily ever after, I didn’t know what did.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  DAY 85

  ELLE

  I had never been much of a romantic.

  I’d never even thought about it. My time was spent searching the wo
rld for treasures. It was odd, but it wasn’t until Logan entered my life that I thought about the person I was before him as being a nomad. A gypsy. Traveling around in search of nothing yet never stopping.

  Sure, there were times I’d watch romantic comedies and get that little high that comes with happy endings, read chick lit for the sheer pleasure of smiling, and once I think I might have thought the idea of ice-skating in Central Park while holding someone’s hand could be fun, but in all honesty that was as far as my romantic thoughts had ever gone.

  Until now.

  While I lived with Clementine at Michael’s house, Logan stayed at my place. We had both agreed that easing Logan into Clementine’s daily routine was the best way to move forward. Also, with Michael’s absence, I didn’t want to compound her confusion by moving her out of her home right away.

  Small, baby steps, we both agreed.

  A saying that never could be applied to our relationship. We’d started full blast, but over the past several weeks we’d learned how to temper the inferno that lived within us both. It was fun. We actually went on the most incredible dates. Real dates. He picked me up and we went out to dinner, sometimes to the movies, and other times we went sightseeing. We double-dated with Peyton and Declan, something I had never done nor had Logan, and sometimes we brought Clementine on our dates.

  We also indulged in classic movies from the eighties that for most kids were a rite of passage. Neither of us had a normal childhood, so this was all new to us. Logan bought a Best of the Eighties DVD complete set and it included The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Back to the Future, Sixteen Candles, and so many more favorites of that decade. At the end of each date, he would drop me off and kiss me good night. The kisses were never soft and sweet, though; they were much more reminiscent of the very first night we met.

  Hot and heavy.

  Breathtaking.

  Unforgettable.

  Mrs. R had stayed on, which allowed me to go to the boutique and work on transitioning it over to Peyton. The plan was that I’d remain the owner, but she’d be my managing partner, and once she was ready to be independent, I’d sell her the boutique. And since I was easing out of my duties, I had the luxury of sneaking off during my lunch break and meeting Logan at my place, but today we had a completely different agenda.

  Today was the start of our new life.

  Logan and I would be saying our goodbyes to everyone.

  And leaving Boston.

  It was early, around eight, and he was waiting for me on the stoop to my townhouse. With a kiss, he took my hand. “Morning.”

  Butterflies bounced within my belly. “Good morning.”

  “Come on, we have a lot to do today, so let’s get started.”

  I followed him, and as I watched him open the door, I thought, I’d follow him anywhere.

  He turned back before entering. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked tenderly.

  I nodded and let my gaze devour him. The soft tone of his voice was such a sharp contrast to the strong man standing before me. Logan was wearing a black T-shirt that hugged his torso and faded jeans that hung low on his hips. His arms were chiseled in such a way that didn’t make him appear bulky in the least. He was all long and lean and hard. Powerful. Strong. Competent. There was no one else in the world I trusted more than he to help me raise Clementine.

  “It doesn’t matter to me. You know that, right? I will love her no matter who her biological father is,” Logan said.

  I nodded again. My heart in my throat, because I knew he meant that with all his heart and soul.

  The envelope marked Clementine’s Paternity that had been in the panic room was in my hand, and Logan and I were standing in front of the fireplace in a home that was soon to be owned by someone else. I’d be turning over the key today at noon to the real estate agent. The townhouse was completely bare, except for him and me, and a fire in June.

  With trembling fingers, I tossed it into the flames. That envelope contained DNA results that Michael had run. Logan and I both knew there was a very likely chance Tommy Flannigan was Clementine’s father, but it was equally as likely to have been Michael, or someone else entirely.

  We both watched as it went up in flames.

  Blood isn’t thicker than water. It took me seeing the way Logan interacted with Clementine and seeing the sacrifice Michael made for his daughter to really believe it. After all, I’d grown up in such a completely different environment. A place where carrying on the bloodline was all that mattered—no matter what the risk.

  Logan pulled me close. “Are you sure you’re ready to leave Boston?”

  I smiled at him gleefully. There was no hesitation in my voice at all. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  His laughter was such a beautiful sound. “Say that again,” he whispered.

  “Yes. Yes. Yes,” I said with even more excitement in my voice.

  It was he, and I, and Clementine, and we would be starting fresh in a new city.

  His fingers were stroking my thighs. It was finally summer, and I’d worn a pair of lightweight khaki shorts and a silky white top. Easy, breezy fashion is what Peyton called my wardrobe. I’d never thought of it like that before, but she was right.

  Those competent hands moved up my body, over my hips, my belly, my breasts, up to the buttons of my blouse. Goose bumps covered my body.

  “Are you cold?” he asked coyly, his warm breath scathing my neck.

  I laughed. “No, it’s summer.”

  His grin was wider than mine. He knew what he did to me.

  My laughter came to a halt when his mouth fastened itself to my neck. I tipped my head back to allow him full access. Just the way he knew I liked, his tongue trailed down to the buttons he had undone and his teeth skimmed my skin along the way. When my blouse was completely opened, he dragged his tongue all the way back up to my mouth.

  “Are you sure you’re not cold?”

  “No,” I said, a little breathless.

  “You’re practically shivering,” he said around his kisses.

  “It’s the way you’re touching me.”

  I could feel his mouth turn up with satisfaction. “Come with me,” he said.

  I looked at him questioningly.

  “We have some time.” His voice had that husky edge to it.

  I loved that sound.

  With my hand in his, he led me up the stairs to my now empty bedroom. He seemed a little nervous when he opened the door. With a step back he shoved his hands in his pockets, and curiosity had me looking inside. My hand flew to my mouth and I gasped when I did.

  Last night it had been completely empty. Today it wasn’t. There was a blanket in the middle of the floor, with small red tea lights surrounding it and twinkle lights hanging from the ceiling. My heart felt so full it was banging around my rib cage.

  He reached for my hand and led me inside.

  I licked my lips. “And you say you don’t have a romantic bone in your body.”

  He shook his head. I think he was blushing, and if that wasn’t the most adorable thing.

  It didn’t last long because his mouth was back at my neck and his hands were taking my shirt off, then my bra, then my shorts and panties. “God, I need you,” he breathed.

  And God, I loved to hear it.

  In a blink I was completely naked and he was fully dressed. I couldn’t have that, so with much haste, I stripped his clothes off.

  Gently, he picked me up and carried me to the center of the room, laying me down on the blanket and hovering over me.

  I looked at those hazel pools, so much greener today. We’d been through so much, and every night when Clementine and I said our prayers, I thanked God for him, for the day he came into my life.

  His hand went between my legs. His fingers slid against my slick flesh, then inside me, and I moaned. “I love when you touch me like that.”

  He moved in and out in a rhythmic pattern that could easily bring me to orgasm in a matter of minutes.

&nb
sp; And he knew it.

  My own hands sought his beautiful cock, fully erect and ready for me.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I want to hear the noises you make when you get turned on, when you come, and I can’t concentrate when you’re touching me.”

  I laughed. I knew exactly what he meant.

  Logan teased me, moving slowly, feathering soft strokes over me with his fingers and circling his thumb with just the right amount of pressure.

  I trembled on the edge and I knew he’d take me over when he felt the time was right. I let him know how much he turned me on, with my sounds, my nails, my arched back, and then finally, I exploded and my orgasm rocketed through me. “Logan!” I cried and took a breath before calling out his name again.

  When we were together, everything went away but the two of us. The intimacy we shared was erotic and beautiful and joyful, and made to last a lifetime.

  My body was still tingling when he thrust inside me.

  I loved the feel of when he first filled me. The way his body shook from head to toe, the sounds he made, the way he made certain not to crush me.

  He moved slowly.

  Up.

  Down.

  In.

  Out.

  I met him thrust for thrust, and I knew how much he was enjoying it by his groans of pleasure. Loving how I could turn him on, rev him up, make him lose control, I started to move a little wildly beneath him, and he did the same above me.

  We were two pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly.

  Our union felt so incredible.

  Raw and real and sensual.

  If oblivion was a place we could go, he took me there.

  It wasn’t long before his breath got hoarse in my ear and he slid his hand between us to caress my clit.

  My fingers practically clawed his back it felt so incredibly good.

  We moved harder, faster. Skin slapped and mouths sucked.

  I moaned in delight.

  He cried out, “Elle! Oh fuck, Elle.”

  “Logan,” I called.

  “Come with me.”

  I already was. “I am. I am. I am.”

  I closed my eyes and behind my lids the universe opened up. Stars, moons, planets, and comets surrounded us in my empty bedroom.