by Holly Hart
We turn – or his body does, and I follow, as mine is draped around his. He presses me against the cold concrete wall, sprouting goose bumps which sweep across my skin in wild waves.
A door swings open on the outside of the warehouse, and noise spills out: two men laughing; the sound of an empty beer can being tossed aside; the striking of flints as cigarettes are lit.
I pull back, and my body freezes, but gray sweatshirt ignores it; his hands keep roaming my body, stroking my inner thigh and rising up inside my skirt. I squeeze my legs together, closing the gap between our bodies, in an attempt to stop him.
“What are you doing?” I whisper in panic. “You can’t –”
“I can,” he pants, “and I will.”
His fingers slide insistently between our bodies and stroke my pussy. I flinch, and a spark flies from my core all the way up my body, crackling and burning up my spine and exploding in my head. I squeeze my legs together again, but this time I’m panting with desire making my reaction feeble, weaker, faint … deceitful.
I give up; I give in; to him.
I plant my lips on his again, and I bite down – hard. So hard I worry for a second that I might draw blood or make him pull back. I don’t, and he doesn’t. A deep chuckle throbs inside his throat, and he pushes me back into the wall.
Harder, I think, even if I can’t bring myself to actually speak the words. Please, go harder.
My body jolts with the force, but I don’t get a second to recover. His fingers slide up my back and with practiced ease my bra is lying on the floor. His rough hands slide across my breasts, and my nipples harden in an instant. He dips his mouth to them and rolls one across his tongue, and my body stiffens with the pleasure.
Then he stops.
“Tell me you want this, Puss,” he growls. “Tell me you need me inside you.”
I freeze. I know what he’s doing. He’s taking me for himself, imposing his will on me – claiming me. I don’t care. Right now, I want all of it: him, and this – whatever this is – and a few short minutes where I’m not thinking about how my life fell apart in a matter of days.
I look down at him, and at his unique, glowing eyes glittering in the semi-darkness. I nod urgently, desperately, my head bobbing up and down like a Jack-in-the-Box.
“Out loud,” he commands. “I want to hear you say it.”
“I want you,” I gasp. “Whatever the hell your name is. I want all of you.”
A strange look flickers across his face. “Baby steps, Puss,” he whispers, and that’s the last thing I remember because he pushes my skirt aside and rips my underwear away.
My protest dies in my throat as he presses his mouth on mine and I’m lost in an ecstasy of pleasure. His fingers stampede over my body like a horde of migrating animals, never stopping long enough to allow me to settle.
I pant, and all I can hear over my breath is the sound of men in the background, and the fear of getting caught heightens the pleasure. My tormentor, now – what – my lover, presses his palm between my legs and finds them opening up to him, and my pussy is wetter than it’s ever been. He presses a finger inside and I jump from the pleasure. It’s not enough, so I bite down on his neck, and he gets the message.
His fingers withdraw, leaving me momentarily empty, but the sound of his buckle opening fills the room, then his jeans dropping around his ankles, then the crinkle of a condom appearing from God knows where.
He bites down on my lip to repay the favor and presses into me, and he’s big – so goddamn big I can barely take all of him. My eyes water, and I bite down harder, and he presses into me and it’s a circle of pleasure. He grabs my hips so hard I imagine his handprints will mark me for days. He grips them and pushes himself to the hilt, and almost pulls out –
I let out a suppressed groan of longing.
Then he starts to fuck me.
And I mean fuck me: not softly; not missionary on your birthday sex; but a real honest to God fucking. I don’t know what the hell’s going on, or how I fell into this, but this is the kind of sex that girls dream about, but don’t often get. It’s rough, it’s quick, it’s hurried; it’s perfect for a girl whose life fell off the tracks and started careening through a damn wasteland. It’s been so long since I’ve felt a man’s touch –
“Don’t stop,” I pant, and he growls as if to indicate that was the last idea on his mind. No, he’s an animal off his leash, and I’m his. I might be marking him by biting down on his shoulder, but he’s claiming me for himself.
It’s like he’s pushing a wagon up a hill. With every thrust, every stroke, he sends the orgy of pleasure inside me an inch higher, before the heights of my budding orgasm fade.
Every time he strokes inside me my clit throbs, driving me wild, and every time the plateau of pleasure is a second longer, a second brighter. I rake his body with my nails, tattooing my claim on his back just as I did on his shoulders.
“I’m close,” I pant, “so close, please, please –”
My words tail off into meaningless nonsense, and sparks begin to radiate from my core like flames off a blacksmith’s smelting iron. The beast I’m still thinking of as gray sweatshirt doesn’t tire, not like ordinary men. He keeps going, taking one hand from his hip and shoving his fingers in my mouth. He’s silencing me, making me his, proving who’s in control.
Through the rising tide of orgasm, I know he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t have to mark my body to claim me. He’s done it already. I know that no man will ever make me feel this way again. No man will ever have the strength, the experience – the will. So I’m his, at least in part – forever – whatever…
I’m so, so, close to the best orgasm of my life …
“Casey, you stupid bitch!!”, Suddenly, everything comes crashing down.
“Where the fuck are you?” A voice bellows down the corridor. “You’re supposed to be goddamn working. If I have to come find you, you best believe things ain’t gonna go well.”
I freeze and push my unnamed lover away from me – and out of me. He lowers me to the ground gently, turning his head with questioning eyes. My eyes water even as my body keeps smarting and sparking with the orgasm that was so close to the brink of washing over it, and I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.
I’m panicking and gray sweatshirt is already dropping to the floor. He picks up his clothes and tosses them to the wall, then retrieves mine. I’m still wearing my skirt, because all he did was hoist that up my thighs so he could fuck me like some high school kid in the janitor’s closet.
He motions towards me; in a daze, I obey him. He threads my arms through the bra strap and fastens it shut with nimble fingers. He leads me to the window and straightens my clothes before tidying my hair.
He tugs at one of the loose boards that cover the window. His shoulders bunch and his back knots, and it comes loose. I blink, and his naked leg is already half way out.
Down the corridor I hear another bellow. “Casey – you bitch!”
Gray sweatshirt motions his fingers towards me; once again, I obey. He grabs me by the back of my neck and pulls me in for a deep, possessive kiss. I’m spinning, half-terrified of what’s coming down the hallway, and half desperate for this moment to never end.
He breaks it off, already pulling away and out into the shadows of the night. “It’s Declan, by the way,” he murmurs. Then he’s gone.
Declan.
A second later, the door to the storage room is kicked open, and it clatters against the concrete wall.
Of course, it’s Lenny, and boy is he pissed.
Chapter Six
Declan
“That’s a nasty habit you’ve picked up, Patrick. You should cut it out.”
Patrick spins on his heel, and before I get a chance to blink, a flying cigarette comes out of nowhere and singes my cheek. Sparks explode across my vision, and for a second I’m blinded, and choking on smoke. I hear a metallic click, and I put my hands up laughing.
“Okay, okay, you go
t me,” I chuckle, brushing black ash from my face. “But I had the drop on you, Pat. You’re getting old.”
A grimace flickers across the grizzled old man’s face. He’s got white hair, as white as a dove, and a beard that goes half way down his chest. He’s wearing a long black trench coat, and he looks like an undertaker – or deeply depressed Santa Claus.
But none of that’s the most easily recognizable thing about him. No. Pat’s standout features are the two burnished steel, sawn-off, shotguns he carries with him under that coat, everywhere he goes – the shotguns that are now pointed at a spot an inch above my eyes. He’s a dangerous man, Patrick O’Hanlon is: a good man to have on your side.
“Dickie boy,” he rasps. “You keep pulling that trick, you’re gonna get a face full of buckshot one day, you know that?”
I notice that he hasn’t dropped his two shotguns, and that they’re still aimed – pointedly –at my forehead. Pat’s sending a message. I step past them, stifling a grin. I knead his shoulder, and the weapons disappear back under his coat. “Naw, you’re too good for that, Pat.”
“Patently not,” he grumbles, reaching in to the chest pocket of his trench coat and pulling out another cigarette. “I’m getting old, Dickie.”
There aren’t a lot of men I’d allow to call me by that nickname. My brothers, sure. Da’ – of course, not that he would. His pride wouldn’t let him. And Pat.
My earliest memory of the family’s old enforcer is Ma telling him off for smoking inside after he got invited over for Sunday lunch. The corners of my mouth turn up with amusement at the memory of Ma beating Pat’s chest with a broomstick, and then the sight of the pint-sized Irish lady stopping for a second at the sound of wood connecting with weapons.
Sometimes I think I can still hear the sound of her shrill scream ringing in my ears. “What have I told youse about hanging those up at the door?”
“What you grinning at?” Pat grimaces, lighting a match off the outside of his coat.
“Nothing, Pat. So, ‘s‘everyone here?”
“Almost. Liam still at college?”
Liam’s the youngest of my four brothers. He’s the one who got the brains in the family. Not that I’m stupid, far from it, but this kid – he’ll go far. I nod in agreement. “And da?”
Patrick’s face darkens, and what little of his face is visible and uncovered by white hair furrows with frown lines. “He’s here: in the back, gettin’ his shots. He doesn’t look so good. How is he, Dickie?”
“I’m sorry, Pat,” I say softly. “I know how long you’ve been with him. You’re right; he’s not doing so good.”
Pat clears his throat. He’s old school – not so good with emotion. I’m grateful for it. The more I have to think about da’s increasing frailty, the more I want to punch something.
“You’d best go inside, Dickie. They’re waiting.”
I clap him on the shoulder and we share a moment’s silence. I know what he can’t say. Pat’s been like a second father to me. It doesn’t last. I see Pat’s nostrils flare.
“You find yourself a woman, boy?” He asks.
“Why do you say that?”, I ask, my eyes narrowed. “You know me. Don’t like to get tied down. Don’t like being told what I can and can’t do.”
“I’m askin’ ‘cause you stink of sex, Dickie boy.” Pat leans forward with interest flaring in his eyes, and I shrank back under his inquisitive stare. “She different?”
“Just a girl in a bar,” I say lightly. My voice doesn’t sound natural, not even to me. It’s an octave too high, and squeezed tight.
He nods, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “You’re acting awful defensive, Dickie, for a man who met a girl in a bar,” he grins. “But I guess all of us got secrets, don’t we.”
I push through the swinging wooden doors and enter the bar. The last thing I need is a goddamn psychoanalysis session from a mafia killer. Jesus. What the hell’s my life coming to?
A loud, familiar voice greets me. “Brother!”
It’s Kieran – my younger brother by a full ten minutes. We’re identical, but I got the looks. Least that’s what I claim – I guess he’d say the same of himself. He’s leaning over the bar, pulling himself a pint.
“Where are the rest?” I ask, hoping I’m not too late. I’d meant to be in and out of the Morello fight in half an hour – but my dalliance with Casey changed all that.
“Out back with da’,” he replies, while grimacing. “He’s not doing so good, Dec.”
Kieran’s admission hits me like a knife in the gut. It’s the second time in minutes that someone’s mentioned da’s condition; and now the words hit all the harder ‘cause it’s my brother saying it. It’s a low cold blow, making my stomach twist. This is the last news I want to hear.
We’ve all known that da’s health has been failing, but the downward spiral keeps getting quicker and quicker: it’s fucking terrifying. I’m the oldest, by ten minutes, and that means that when da’ passes, I’m the one who will have to take care of the family.
I wince and look around for a distraction. I get it, but from the last place I would have expected. There’s a commotion outside. It sounds like a carol, or a hymn or something, and the longer I listen, the wider my jaw drops.
“Ten Thousand Men of Harvard,
Want victory today,
For they know that over Old
Eli’s, Fair Harvard holds sway…”
“The fuck is that?” Kieran asks with a look of stunned disgust on his face. “It’s not those feckin’ college punks agin’?” Kieran always seems to fall into his accent more with a tad too much alcohol, or when he’s spoiling for a fight.
“Fuck if I know,” I reply, neatly plucking the mostly-full pint of beer from his hands. Kieran’s fingers clutch to save it, but a second too late. I take a deep gulp and sigh with satisfaction.
“Hey, asshole!”
“Perks of seniority, K,” I grin with false sincerity. “When you’re my age, maybe you’ll get it.”
He flashes me a sour look. “Asshole.”
A scrap of sound floats in through the door. It’s a whiny voice, a couple of octaves too high for my liking – higher even than mine when Patrick asked about Casey.
“Good sir! What say you let us into your fine establishment for a couple of jars?”
Kieran forgets his beef with me in a second, and his face splits wide with a broad grin. “Oh, this is gonna be good,” he says.
I can’t say I disagree. Patrick doesn’t suffer fools lightly – and especially not Ivy League, New World, WASP-speaking douchebag punks who chose the wrong goddamn Irish bar off Dorchester to get their guilty, gritty evening’s pleasure.
“Password, gentlemen?”
“Pass–?”, then we hear the sound of a hand slapping against a back. “See, Percy, I told you we’d find somewhere good down here. It’s a speakeasy, isn’t it?”
Patrick doesn’t reply. I can just imagine his face, as he’s looking them up and down, furrowed with disgust. I bet the Ivy Leaguers think it’s all an act, but I know better. They’re about to find that out.
“Oh, pick me!” His friend replies. I can picture him, too: all khaki pants and white Oxford shirt, purposely untucked: a tourist here from ‘cross the river, looking for his fix of the poor, the downtrodden, the Irish.
Patrick lets a long silence stretch out, and the friend eventually fills the awkwardness.
“It’s something local,” he guesses, his voice brimming with enthusiasm, “isn’t it? Let’s see – something historical? Can you give us a clue? Are you the clue?”
More silence, and I picture Patrick’s murderous rage with glee. I share a look with Kieran, and he mouths, “what do you reckon the old man’s gonna do?”
I shrug.
We don’t have to wait long to find out.
“Don’t ye feckin’ tooch me,”, Pat growls, “Lessen ye wantin’ to lose a finger, Ivy League.”
“Gun!”, a voice shrieks. I cover my
ears and grimace as another joins it – screeching even higher. It sounds like nails on a chalk board.
“Please, sir,” Mr. ‘Khaki Pants’ begs. “We didn’t mean any harm. We’ll get out of here, and we won’t tell a soul!”
“Nay,” Patrick replies, his voice like sandpaper, “ye won’t. Not unless ye want to face charges”.
“Charges? Preposterous!” Khaki’s friend splutters. “We’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Assault,” Pat threatens. “Attempted break in? ‘Ere I was, minding me own business, when two drunks attempt to burglarize me place of business. ‘Ow do ye think Harvard would be thinkin’ on that?”
I fight back a laugh.
“The college?” Khaki says in a low, shocked – and feckin’ self-important voice. He’s shrinking from a lion to a mouse before our very ears. “you wouldn’t. We’ve –”
Patrick cuts him off. “Now, I’m a generous man,” he allows. “If you git’, and git’ now, maybe we can forget this unpleasantness.”
Their leather soled footsteps echo into the night, ricocheting off the cobbled side street like gunshots.
Kieran brings his hands together in a slow clap. “Bravo!” He cries. “Someone get that man a pint!”
The door to the card room clicks, interrupting us, and Kieran and I turn as one. The smiles slide right off our faces just like they did back when we got caught misbehaving as kids. This is worse.
“Yuppies!” Da’ wheezes.
I feel sick just looking at him. He’s skin on bones, and his skin’s gray and papery at that. He looks a shell of the man who took me to football games when I was a kid; the man every Southie feared and respected in equal measure.
Ridley’s holding him up on his left, and Mac on his right, and they’re helping him forward in a slow, sad shuffle.
“Yer lookin’ good, da’!” I say, forcing sincerity I don’t feel into my voice.
He looks at me with disgust, and it rocks me back. It reminds me of the man Seamus Byrne used to be – not this pale imitation before me – and I realize that the fierce, smoldering anger he was always known for is still there. It’s just his body that’s failing him. Only I can’t do anything about it, and it’s eating me up. If it was an enemy I could see, I’d kill it, but it’s not.
