by Anthology
“You’ll never know what tonight means, Abby.” His arms constrict around me, swathing me in his affection.
“I think I do,” I whisper against his taut forehead.
We arrive at Louisburg Square, the car stopping in front of a three-story brick townhouse with white trim and black shutters, warm light pouring out from every window. Antique lampposts line the square with a gated park in the center. It’s all very normal, welcoming, not what I expected. I had something different in my head, like in the movies, a compound with tall, impregnable walls and armed men in suits standing guard.
We step out of the car and walk up to the door. After a quick knock, it’s answered by an older woman wearing a simple black dress.
“Welcome home, Mr. O’Rourke.”
“Hazel,” Jamison greets her in return as we step inside.
“There’s my boy!” a deep voice calls from behind the woman.
It’s Connor.
“Pops.” He walks toward his father and into his open arms. Hugging Jamison tight, he kisses him enthusiastically on the cheek and then glances over at me.
“This must be the girl you’ve told me about.”
I feel unbearably shy under his gaze.
Jamison smiles proudly. “Dad, this is Abby Delaney…my girlfriend.”
I can’t prevent the shock on my face, eyes wide and searching, mouth ajar.
“She’s beautiful, Jamison.” He slaps his son on the back with pride. I’m slightly embarrassed about how easily he speaks of me as if I’m not even in the room. “It’s very nice to meet you, sweetheart.”
I manage a smile and extend my hand out to him as a show of good faith. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. O’Rourke.”
He reaches out and takes my hand with a firm hold, keeping it there. “You’ve got a strong grip for such a little thing.”
I nod my head.
“My grandfather taught me that a good handshake can open a lot of doors and shows a strong sense of self.”
He smiles, impressed.
“I agree with him.”
He lets go and I drop my hand.
With a motion of his finger, he beckons Jamison to follow him. They walk a few feet away and turn their backs to me. Connor clasps a hand to the back of Jamison’s neck and brings his ear closer, whispering, “Did you take care of that thing I asked you to do?” Jamison nods his head with one assuring tilt of the head. This must please his father because he pats him on the back a few times, like a that-a-boy. He faces me again and sweeps his hand toward a door to my right. “Why don’t you come and meet the family,” he suggests, turning and walking into the room.
Jamison, now at my side, slides his powerful hand under my hair, wrapping it about the nape of my neck, and guides me behind his father, a sense of security washing over me at the small gesture.
When we enter, there are two other men with dark hair already waiting at the table, talking quietly between themselves. I assume they’re his brothers. Connor takes a seat at the head and we procure the empty chairs next to him, me sandwiched between Jamison and his possible brother. He turns to me with a warm smile, Jamison’s smile. I notice how much they look alike, nearly identical, except for one distinct difference, the eyes. Flynn’s are an impressive shade of gray, the same bright gray as Jamison’s right eye. They must get their looks from their mother, because they don’t resemble Connor much. Since she isn’t here, I can’t compare. The lack of her presence only raises questions. Where is she? And why hasn’t Jamison mentioned anything about her?
“I’m Flynn,” he introduces himself.
“I’m Abby.” I smile.
“I know.” He returns one. “Jamison hasn’t shut up about you,” he laughs. He leans in and says, “Actually, it’s a nice change from him saying nothing at all.”
I’m flattered by the idea that Jamison talks of me with his family.
“He’s told me about you as well,” I lie, attempting to be polite. Honestly, he’s spoken very little about them. I wonder if he’s worried about what I might think of him, of them, with their chosen professions.
“It’s all lies,” he retorts with a playful smirk.
I laugh nervously, an awkward sputter of breaths and forced noises.
I’ll admit I’ve pondered the depth of Jamison’s involvement with the family business. Has he done any of the crimes his family’s been accused—but never found guilty—of committing?
“I’m Brady,” the brother across from me announces, his eyes, the rich brown of Jamison’s left. That might be the only trait these brothers adopted from their father.
“It’s a pleasure,” I murmur, feeling peculiar being the only female in the room.
“Well, let’s have dessert,” Connor says, snapping his fingers in the air. A gentleman comes into the room holding a tray, five plates with healthy slices of Bailey’s Marble Cheesecake arranged on it. We serve it at the restaurant. It’s our most popular dessert.
I pick up my fork and dig the prongs into the creamy cake, taking a test bite from the crust. I let it sit on my tongue, melting over my taste buds. It’s perfect—and familiar.
While we eat our dessert, I listen to their conversation, except when I’m asked a question about myself. The cheesecake is delicious and the company is intriguing. As you’d expect, they don’t speak about their lifestyle or illicit crime activity, just stories of the boys as kids.
After finishing, we’re served brandy in the sitting room, letting our dessert digest.
“Tell me, Miss Delaney. Are you of Irish descent?” Connor asks, seemingly out of nowhere. The interrogation commences. At least he was nice enough to wait until after dessert. I anticipated this. Every parent does it, even ones who aren’t normally suspicious of people they just met. I would assume in Connor’s line of work, he’d have to be more wary of outsiders.
“Yes, partly. My mother was English. My father was Irish.”
I sense him sizing me up, figuring out if I’m good enough to be with his son.
“I suppose I’m a bit of a mutt,” I jest with a lighthearted smirk.
This seems to lighten him up. He chuckles and shrugs with a nod. “I like that.”
Jamison takes my hand resting on the couch next to his. “Please, Connor, try not to scare my girlfriend off the first night.”
It’s strange he would call his father by his given name, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. It’s even stranger hearing Jamison call me his girlfriend. What was the moment that changed everything between us? Was it the night he saved my life? Was it that first kiss in my hallway in the dark? Was it when he let me into his world?
“I’m playing nice,” Connor responds, bringing the mug of coffee to his lips.
Without a knock, the front door suddenly opens in the foyer. The others notice it and perk up. I look to Jamison who exhibits the same alert expression on his face. It quickly changes to a hard scowl, his nostrils flaring like a bull ready to attack. When I glance toward the entryway, I tense up, clenching Jamison’s hand with a death grip. Standing in the doorway of the dining room, eyes targeted on me, Seamus pauses. My heart throbs like a jackhammer, ready to drill a hole through my chest. My throat closes, choked by an invisible rope. I swallow, but it catches. The air’s been vacuumed from the room, which feels much too small all of a sudden. I’m petrified beyond belief. I can’t force my eyes to leave his. After what seems like hours, he finally moves and stands beside the alcohol cart, pouring himself a glass of brandy with a steady hand.
I want to get up and run out of the house as fast as humanly possible. But I can’t. I’m paralyzed.
“Seamus,” Connor says, “this is—”
“Abigail,” he mutters. “We’ve met.”
“Have you?” Jamison asks from tense lips.
I’m very baffled right now. How does Seamus know Jamison and his family? Do they—? Did he—? No—
Without thinking, I jump out of my seat and blurt, “May I use your restroom?” breaking the heavy s
ilence in the room. My voice sounds monotone, mechanical, and a little erratic.
They all examine me with curious looks. Not the brightest idea, acting suspicious in a room full of gangsters or Mafioso or whatever the heck you call them nowadays.
“I’ll show you where it is.” Rising off the couch, Jamison guides me out of the room and into the foyer. With a hand on my arm, he halts me. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you…? Did you…?”
“What, Abby?”
“Did you set up that night I was attacked in the restaurant?”
“What? Are you insane? What in God’s name would make you think that?” My eyes fall. He places both hands on the sides of my face, demanding me to look at him. “What’s wrong, Abby?” he repeats himself.
If he wasn’t in on it, then he has no idea it was Seamus. I think it was Seamus following Meghan and I on my birthday too. It had to be. I don’t know anyone else with the mentality to stalk and harass me. I’ve known the whole time he wasn’t right. I couldn’t admit it to myself because I didn’t want to believe I was in danger.
I want to tell him everything, but I don’t know what kind of danger that could put us both in, so I lie, “I don’t feel very well.”
He inspects me, gazing deep into my eyes.
“Are you sure that’s all?” I shut my eyes and nod my head. “Alright, I’ll take you home.”
He doesn’t believe me. How could he? I’ve always been a terrible liar.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
Without announcing our departure, he wraps his arm about my shoulder and takes me away from the man who nearly ended my life.
Jamison orders our driver to take us back to my place, arriving at the entrance of my building fifteen minutes later. We stand there, the cloud of gloom still hovering in the air over our heads from Seamus’ unwelcome presence this evening. Something shifted when he walked into that room. I wonder why Jamison appeared angered by his presence though. I’d ask him what happened between them if I didn’t fear him asking the same question of me. Instead, I hold myself back.
Finally breaking the booming quiet, he speaks, “Do you want me to come inside?”
I want him to desperately. I also need to be alone.
“I don’t—”
He sets two fingers over my mouth. “Shh.” He glances over his shoulder at a dark car driving down the street in our direction, slowing as it nears. It doesn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary to me—until it stops, the passenger window rolling down gradually. Before I see who’s inside, Jamison grabs me into his arms and throws us to the ground. Completely disoriented, I scarcely comprehend the bursts of flashing light, fragments of brick being chipped away at, or the sound of shattering glass as something continually whizzes through the air over us, missing Jamison by only inches.
As fast as it came on, it stops and the car speeds off.
I look up at Jamison lying over me, his hands frantically wandering my face and body.
“Are you alright?” he asks, panic in his voice.
I nod my head, trying to catch my breath. “You?” I squeak.
“Yeah,” he sighs.
He climbs off and pulls me to my feet, clutching me to his chest.
“What the fuck was that?” I ask with an uncontrollable stammer.
He doesn’t answer me. He just grabs my keys from my hands, scoots me into my building, and shoves me up the stairs.
A bit of clarity seems to wash over me.
“Was that a gun, Jamison?” I ask, adrenaline pumping through my veins.
As he slides my house key into the lock, he says, “Yes,” and opens the door. I shuffle in quickly and he shuts it behind us, locking the deadbolt and latching the chain. He moves over to my windows, glancing outside before making sure they’re locked as well, and shuts the curtains. I stand in the middle of the living room, watching him move through my apartment like a wild man. Once he’s checked everything, he stops dead in his tracks.
“What happened tonight?” he asks.
Unable to see past what happened moments ago, I’m confused by his question.
“What are you talking about?”
“When Seamus came in, you froze.” He shrugs his jacket off, flinging it on the couch. “How does he know you, Abby?”
I want to tell him everything, but knowing who Seamus is associated with, I’m terrified more than ever. I don’t want to put Jamison’s life in more risk than it is already, so I attempt to play it cool.
“He’s a patron at my restaurant.”
“Then why did you freeze when you saw him?” he interrogates me further.
“I was shocked to see him there. It’s not every day I run into my customers outside of work.”
He narrows his eyes, searching mine.
“Bullshit.” He steps into me and cups both of his hands about my neck, under my jawline. It’s not threatening or painful. In fact, it’s tender and protective. “Don’t lie to me, Abby. You couldn’t if you tried, so it’s smart to just be honest from the beginning. I want the truth. I want it now.”
“I’m not lying—completely.”
He releases me with a sigh and takes a seat. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I stick my thumbnail into my mouth, furiously sucking on it. It’s a nervous tick.
“He—” I begin to speak, but the words snag on the tip of my tongue, mentally forcing myself to regurgitate them. “It was him.” Without having to say more, he understands immediately.
“Are you sure it was him?” He doesn’t even seem fazed, as if he isn’t surprised Seamus was capable of such violent acts. The way Jamison looked when he saw him standing in that doorway tonight was anything but friendly. He looked enraged.
“Yes, I’m positive,” I verify. “He spoke to me. I recognized his voice straightaway. And—”
“And?”
“There’s more.” I let out a sharp breath. “When I walked into your shop the first time, it wasn’t simply because I was cold.”
“He was following you.” He leans forward and steeples his hands in front of his mouth, his face fraught with worry.
“It wasn’t hard to figure out it was him after the attack. Before the incident, he would come to my restaurant almost every day. He was always flirtatious and a little grabby. I thought he was harmless enough. Well, maybe not harmless. I guess I never thought he would take it past that.”
“When you realized it was him, why didn’t you tell someone?”
“Really? Who? I knew he was a part of a family. I didn’t know it was your family. I figured that if I snitched, he would’ve had me killed. Who was I supposed to turn to?”
“You could’ve turned to me, Abby. I’ll deal with him.”
“How?”
“How do you think, sweetheart?”
I realize his ties with his father’s affairs may go deeper than I originally assumed.
“Are you involved with your family’s business?”
This is the kind of question that could get me in a lot of trouble. Honestly, I don’t even expect him to answer me. “I got out a long time ago,” he confesses.
Well, Hell’s Bells, I think to myself, channeling my nana. Anytime she was too upset or shocked to respond with a coherent sentence, she would simply mutter, ‘Well, Hell’s Bells, Abigail.’
After a moment of silence, I finally ask, “Why did you leave?” urging him to continue.
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I stopped before it went too far.”
“And how far was that?”
“You really want to know? You want to get yourself involved? Do you think that’s wise, Abby?”
I didn’t want to be involved, but it’s his life. How can I be with him, without putting myself in a risky position of knowing too much? I don’t want to push the subject if he isn’t willing to openly tell me, so I change it instead, hoping to get other information from him.
“Why weren’t you surprised when
I told you it was Seamus?”
“I’ve seen some things in my day, horrible things, but none of it compares to what I’ve seen he’s capable of executing.”
Even though at this point it doesn’t seem necessary, I state the obvious, “It was him down there, wasn’t it?”
“Most likely.”
He reaches into his jacket on the couch beside him and takes out his cellphone, punching in a quick message. It only takes a few seconds for a ping to chime. When he checks, he just glimpses up at me, worry in his eyes.
“Who was that? What did they say?”
“Flynn. He said that Seamus made a quick retreat after we left.”
“Then it was him.” He nods. “What do you think he wants?”
He looks away from me, his mouth shut tight. I don’t like the look on his face. He appears…scared.
“Please, Jamison, tell me what you’re thinking.”
He stares up into his eyes, intense and apprehensive.
“You,” he murmurs. “He wants you.”
CHAPTER 6
JAMISON INSISTS ON spending the night with me. I don’t know if he’s afraid to leave me or he fears for his own life. Either way, he refused to leave my side.
Something wakes me in the middle of the night. It isn’t a noise or anything tangible that stirs me from my sleep, but an overwhelming feeling of dread. Not mine. His.
When I turn over, I find him sitting up against my headboard, staring into the darkness. The outside glow from the streetlamps is the only light in my room. It contours every edge and line of his silhouette with a golden trim.
I snuggle up to him, lying my head on his brawny chest with a contented sigh. That’s when I notice it, a gun in his lap, clenched tightly in his hand.
“Jamison?” I mutter in a hushed voice, sitting up.
He just glances over at me with an unyielding expression on his face.
“I will protect you, Abby. No matter what. I will protect you with my life if I have to.”
I stare far into his eyes, reaching the remotest plane of his soul, where the heart of him lies. Without a grain of doubt, I know he means what he says.
“I’d rather be dead than have you harmed,” I admit, surprised by my own words. He takes his free arm and pulls me into him. I rest my head on his shoulder, kissing his tatted neck. “Why won’t you tell me about the things you’ve done for your father?”
