by Anthology
He darkly commends with a hushed voice, “I love your cherry pie.”
“I’m glad you like it,” I stutter, reacting nervously to his subliminal compliment.
With a flash of silver and a slight of hand, he stabs the last bite, the tip, and mops up the melted ice cream from the plate. It disappears into his mouth, a pleased smirk on his face.
I clear the table, set out a tray, and load it up with two coffee cups, the pot, sugar, Bailey’s Irish Cream, and Irish whiskey, bringing it back to the table. “I wasn’t sure if you like a bit of the hot stuff in your coffee.” I hold up the bottle, shaking it.
“Jameson,” he says. “Always a good choice.”
“I second that,” I reply, pouring the black brew, a splash of cream, and a healthy helping of the good stuff. He picks up the spoon from his silverware and carefully mixes the contents until blended, swiping the bowl against the lip of the cup and then tapping it once before setting it back down on the table. I like the way he moves, assured and steady.
“Thank you.” He smiles a closed mouth smile and drinks his drink. “Best meal I’ve had in a long time.”
“I’m happy you enjoyed it.” I beam appreciatively, curling my hands around my cup of coffee, the warmth heating my palms. We silently nurse our drinks and take comfort in one another’s company. It’s nice to be able to sit with someone and not feel the need to fill silence. I’ve become very fond of Jamison in the short time I’ve known him. He’s certainly rough around the edges. He’s also funny, sharp-witted, selfless, and perplexing at times. He’s more than what I’ve seen. And I fully intend to figure him out.
When I realize he’s staring at me, with a whole other level of hunger in those perfectly mismatched eyes, I feel myself straighten up, alert under his gaze. “I—” he mutters before his phone goes off. When he looks down, his face falls into a frown. “—better get this.”
He stands and walks out of the kitchen. It must be an important call for him to leave the room. Maybe he wasn’t honest when he said he wasn’t with someone. That would explain his reluctance in the beginning. I hope against hope another woman isn’t the reason.
He isn’t gone very long, but when he returns, he doesn’t look happy.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, attempting to act as if I wasn’t just freaking out.
“I hate to do this.” He pauses, mumbling something incoherent under his breath. “I have to leave.”
“Um,” I whisper, hesitant to ask the question stuck in my throat like a dry lump. He stares at me, each second seemingly longer than the one that proceeds it, but the words won’t form in my mouth. They’re there, in my head, a tornado of letters and syllables, but all I get out is, “Never mind.”
“I’ll call you,” he informs me before swiftly kissing my forehead and walking out. As I watch him disappear through the door, I get another feeling deep in my gut. He’s keeping something from me.
After five days of total silence, I finally receive a text from Jamison, asking me to meet him at the Common on the bridge around noon. He doesn’t say anything beyond that.
The restaurant is extremely busy today, the place bursting at the seams with patrons, business picking up with a surge of spring tourists. I wasn’t even supposed to come in, but I had tasks I’d forgotten to take care of the day before. Since it’s Meghan’s day to watch over everything anyway, I figure I can steal an hour.
When eleven forty-five sneaks up on me, I ask to borrow her car, and she gives it to me without hesitation, as she always does when I need it. Since my life is so localized, I don’t tend to travel outside of my little neighborhood unless necessary.
Arriving at the bridge fifteen minutes later, he’s there overlooking the lake, mindlessly watching the swan boats disappear under the bridge, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black wool duster. He doesn’t seem to notice me approach. When I tap him on the shoulder, he slightly jolts out of his trance.
“Hi,” I whisper when his incompatible eyes meet mine.
He manages a smile then holds his hand out for me to take, which I do and follow him further into the park. Silently, we walk around the lake for a few minutes. His pensive face gives me an unsettled feeling in my gut.
Realizing he’s stalling for time, I ask, “Why did you ask me here?”
“I need to talk to you.” He keeps his eyes forward.
Even though April has turned to May, late spring warming the air, it’s a rather chilly day. I can’t help wonder why he would bring me to the park to talk when we could be inside and warm.
“Any reason why we can’t do this indoors?”
“It’s better here.”
Did he bring me here because he thinks I won’t overreact in public? My stomach flips. This can’t be good.
“Are—Are you with someone?” I ask, praying I don’t regret it. “Is that why you left the other night? If you are, I really want nothing to do with any of it. I’m not meant to be the other woman.”
“I told you I wasn’t.” He squeezes my hand reassuringly. “I haven’t been for a long time.”
“Are you going to break up with me? Is that why you brought me somewhere public?”
“No,” he laughs out. “The opposite actually.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” he stops walking, facing me, “in a way, I want to take it to another level. I want you to understand me better.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow.”
“Let me explain.” He scratches his chin, a nervous tick perhaps. “There was a reason I wasn’t very friendly to you when we first met. It’s stupid really. But I found you extremely attractive, and that was a problem.”
“Why would that be a problem?”
“Because my life is different than most people’s. It’s more complicated than a normal person could understand.” He’s talking around what he really wants to say. “Anyway, if you really want to be with me, you should know one thing about me first.”
“Yeah?” I urge him to go on.
I prepare myself for anything—anything.
“Do you remember when we were talking about family?”
“Um, yeah.”
“You mentioned my last name was the same as Connor O’Rourke.” Oh—no. “Well, you weren’t wrong.”
“Connor is your—”
“My father.”
How do I respond to this?
Here, I thought Jamison was just your everyday, white-bread bad boy, owned his own tattoo parlor, with the ink to match, and drove a sexy, fast car. But this—
Heading one of the biggest crime families in Boston, Connor O’Rourke has quite a history in this town. People both fear and respect him. As they should. It’s an unspoken fact that he’s had his hand in money laundering, theft, drugs, and murder. Even if he wasn’t directly caught doing it, his hands are anything but clean. He’s been arrested countless times, but they have yet to convict him of anything because no one is willing to testify against him.
“I honestly don’t know what to say,” I admit.
“Told you it’s hard to understand.”
Now I know why he wanted to do this out in the open, less likely anyone would be listening to our conversation. This is some mafia movie stuff. I suddenly find myself looking over my shoulder, becoming suspicious of those even glimpsing in our direction.
“Are you really a tattoo artist? Or is that a cover?”
“I’m really a tattoo artist. That’s really my shop.” He clasps this hand where my upper leg meets the hip, over the rose vine he imprinted on me. “That’s really ink on your hip, which I really placed there.” He yanks my pelvis into his, pressing them together until air couldn’t squeeze between us. The heat emitting from under his jeans isn’t the only thing I feel against my stomach. “I’m real.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” I inquire, struggling to wrap my head around everything.
“He wants to meet you.”
“He, what?” I squeak. �
�Why, in God’s name, would he want to meet me?”
“He wants to get to know you.”
“I’m nobody. I’m nothing.”
“No, you aren’t.” He slithers his arms around my waist, bringing me into the warmth of his coat. “Truthfully, I haven’t dated anyone in a while,” he affectionately rubs the small of my back with his thumb and stares into my eyes, “not anyone serious anyway—except you. You’re something to me, Abby.”
“You’re something to me, too, Jamison.” I tuck my arms under his, squeezing him so tight I think I might break him. I realize what it means to meet the people who brought you into this world, even if I don’t have anyone to introduce to him.
“When you said he wants to get to know me, you meant he wants to see if I can be trusted. He wants to sum me up.”
He smiles apologetically. “Yes, but what parent doesn’t?”
Being interrogated by Connor O’Rourke kicks it up to a whole new level of intimidating.
“This isn’t the same, Jamison.” I step back and wrap my arms about myself, unnerved by everything. He sees it and grabs both of my arms, pulling me back into a hug, his cheek nuzzled atop my head.
“I suppose you’re right,” he pauses, uncertainty wavering his voice, “but he’ll love you.” Pressing his lips into my hair, he whispers, “I know he will.”
“Doesn’t this seem fast to you,” I pull away, my arms still crossed tight over my torso, “meeting the parents?”
“Yes, but my life isn’t normal. When you live the way we do, you have to live every moment as if it were your last. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.”
I shift my head from side to side, trying to weigh out the information crowding my mind. I glimpse about us, watching people enjoying their day, carefree and happy. This makes me feel oddly alone.
“When?” I ask, figuring I’d at least find out the details before I make any real decision.
“Sunday, for my family’s weekly gathering. You and I can have dinner together then we’ll go to my father’s home for drinks and dessert. It’s nothing formal, Abby.”
I nod my head, pondering the idea of actually meeting the city’s, perhaps the country’s most notorious criminal. This isn’t the type of decision you make on a whim.
“Can I think about this?”
“Of course,” he answers with an understanding tone, sweeping my bangs out of my eyes. “This is why I told you. If you want out, I want to give you a way before you get too involved.”
It’s a little late for that, I grumble in my head.
I like Jamison O’Rourke. I like him a lot. But that’s not the question here—is it? If I want him enough, I’d have to intertwine myself within the lives of these unsavory characters, his family.
“I’ll let you know by Friday,” I mumble before leaning in, kissing him on his rough, stubble-dusted cheek, and walking away.
I need time.
I need to think.
I need to figure out if being with him is worth the trouble it could bring by being associated with his family.
I need a drink.
Over the next few days, I take time away from Jamison to think about everything he confessed, wondering if he’s the type of guy worth putting myself in harm’s way for. He is an amazing man from what I’ve seen. How could a man willing to risk his life for you be anything other than incredible? Though I’m thrilled he invited me to meet his family, I’m nervous about meeting his father. How am I supposed to feel about being introduced to one of Boston’s most notorious criminals?
By Friday, I feel no less unsure of my decision. Putting it off, I don’t call him. I focus on work, ordering produce, paying the bills, covering my sick waitress’s tables, and managing any problems that came up with customers. The day sped by, and before I knew it, it was time for me to call it a day. I leave Meghan in charge of the evening dinner rush and head upstairs to settle in for the night. I climb the stairs, going through my ring of keys to locate the one for my apartment. When I glance up, Jamison is sitting on the top step with his hands clasped together.
“Hello,” he says warily.
“Hey. Ah. What are you doing here?”
“Just thought I’d stop on by and get your answer in person.”
“Sure,” I stutter, walking past him to my door. I unlock it and step inside, dropping my purse on the floor and kicking off my shoes. He follows a few paces behind. “Let me get comfortable and we’ll talk.”
I head back to my room, throwing on some sweats and an oversized shirt, then back out to him. He’s in the kitchen when I emerge from the hallway, pouring whiskey into two glasses. He walks over to me, handing me one.
“Would you like to sit?” I ask, gesturing to the couch. I follow him over, and we sit, taking awkwardly silent sips of our drinks.
“I understand if what I told you the other day was too much for you to take,” he says, shattering the silence with a wrecking ball.
“It was certainly shocking to hear,” I admit, scratching the back of my neck.
“I’d be surprised if it wasn’t.” He takes finishes off his drink, setting the empty glass onto the table, then turns to me. “I’ve kept women at a distance for a long time. I’ve never had to tell them about this part of myself.”
“Why me?”
“You’re different,” he whispers, reaching his hand up to my face and rubbing the knuckle over my cheek. “If you weren’t, it wouldn’t have been this hard to reveal my secret to you. I like you, Abby.”
“I like you, too, Jamison.” Looking into his distinctive eyes, my answer seems clear. I like him, and I won’t let his father’s choices determine that. “I’d love to meet your family.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
CHAPTER 5
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, I probably try-on a hundred different outfits, nothing good enough for this evening. In a closet full of clothes, I have absolutely zilch to wear.
Finally giving up, I ask Meghan to come over and help me. She brings more options, and we settle on a white cap-sleeved dress with black lace overlay. She does my hair, pinning the front back and loosely curling the rest.
“I feel like my stomach is turning in on itself,” I admit through a taut mouth, Meg smearing clear gloss over my lips.
“You’ve got this in the bag, Abs,” she says, her lips curled under her teeth, mimicking my face. “I’m sure his father will love you.”
She leans back, assessing her work.
“He’s just so intimidating.” I twirl the ends of the hair hanging over the front of my shoulder. “If something goes wrong with Jamison—”
I don’t want to think about what might happen if I break his heart. Would his father be the type to ‘take care of me’? I don’t want to become a liability.
She gives me a genuinely disquieted look.
“I may have had my doubts about Jamison, but I don’t think he’d ever let anything happen to you. Just be smart about what you involve yourself in when it comes to the—family business.”
I manage a weak nod, attempting to smash my nerves down deep into my psyche.
As if he knew I was thinking of him, Jamison calls and tells me to meet him down on the street when I’m ready. Saying goodbye to Meg, I exit my building and lock the entrance behind me. When I turn around, a black town car with darkly tinted windows waits at the curb. I stare suspiciously at the strange car for a spell before the back door opens. It’s darker inside still.
Suddenly, Jamison emerges from the darkness, decked out from head to toe in black, black suit, black button-up shirt, black dress shoes. He looks like a legit badass gangster with his onyx hair combed back and edgy tattoos.
“Miss Delaney,” he extends his hand out, “you look perfect.”
I take hold, permitting him to guide me into the backseat. He slides in beside me and rests his hand on my thigh, the tips of his fingers lightly caressing the sensitive inner skin.
“You look really nice,” I compliment him.
<
br /> “Thanks,” he responds with a sly smirk. “I only dress like this around my family. Sundays are a big deal with my father.”
The car pulls away from the sidewalk, driving us off.
Becoming increasingly nervous about the evening ahead, I sit quietly and stare out the window spotted with beaded water droplets, wondering what to expect.
“I thought we’d have dinner before I subject you to my father,” Jamison suggests.
“I’m too nervous to eat,” I confess, setting my hands over my churning stomach. “Maybe after.”
“This isn’t the normal meet the parents nerves, is it?” he asks, his grip on my thigh tightening.
I glimpse back at him and notice the edgy smile on his face. “No,” I answer honestly.
He bends down and grabs my ankles, setting my calves over his strong thighs, running his fingers along my shins. “You have no reason to worry,” he assures, but there’s doubt in his voice.
“He’s,” I pause, not sure if I should speak the words, “the head of a crime family, so that’s not completely true.”
“I can’t argue that.” He slides his firm hand over my knee and up my skirt, stopping mid-thigh and caressing it with his thumb. “He isn’t the same person on Sundays as most other days. When it’s about family, real family, he’s my father. I promise. You’re safe with me.”
“I’ve never felt safe with anyone—until you.”
He grabs my legs with both hands, hauling me onto his lap with one quick tug. My hands fly up to his face within kissing distance. A slight lean forward and my lips will be on his.
But I don’t move.
I don’t blink.
I don’t breathe.
I wait.
I wait for him to press his lips to mine and kiss me so completely, I feel whole.
When his mouth covers mine, his arms wind about me like vines up a tree, his hands splay against my back, holding me close, all my fears and worries fly out the window, replaced with the certainty his lips give me. He breaks away, panting, and rests his forehead against my lips, which I kiss tenderly.
