Grind: The Doyles, A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  Grind

  The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

  Sophie Austin

  Grind

  Book 2 in The Doyles Series

  Copyright @ 2019 Sophie Austin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Any brands, trademarks, or other proprietary terms are the property of their owners.

  Production team:

  Cover Design: Kasmit Covers

  Editing by: Jessica Snyder

  Proofreading by: Mystique Editing

  Want to keep in touch? Sign up for my newsletter at Sophieaustinromance.com.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  1. Ava

  2. Ava

  3. Connor

  4. Connor

  5. Ava

  6. Connor

  7. Connor

  8. Connor

  9. Ava

  10. Connor

  11. Ava

  12. Ava

  13. Connor

  14. Connor

  15. Ava

  16. Ava

  17. Ava

  Epilogue - Connor

  Author’s Note

  Thank you so much for reading this book and exploring the world of the Doyles! The Doyles can be read as standalone stories or enjoyed as a series. Each book has no cliffhangers, no cheating, and steamy, heartwarming HEAs you won't forget.

  A note on the timeline: Each book follows the story of one individual Doyle brother - Ronan, Kieran, Seamus, Connor, and Owen. The stories happen one-after-another over the course of about a year. The epilogues happen further in the future - after the end of the last book in the series - and don't affect the timelines or characters of these individual stories.

  Now, buckle up and get ready for toughest, big-hearted Irish guys Boston's ever seen and the ladies that steal their hearts along the way!

  1

  Ava

  “If your section’s clean, you can leave, Buchanan.”

  It’s 2:00 a.m. My manager, Gus, emerges from his office now that the restaurant’s closed and the hard work is done. His shirt is covered in grease stains, and his tie is stiff from dipping into the soup. Gross.

  Time to get out of here. My feet throb after hours serving tables.

  I spin the numbers on my locker, relief flooding through me as it clicks open. Some servers leave theirs unlocked, only to find their phones or money stolen. But I need every dollar I can earn to pay for law school. I never take chances.

  Even the thought sends an icy chill down my spine.

  Slipping into my coat, I step out the back door into the chilly night. The coolness hits my skin, reviving me a little. But asthma makes it harder to breathe in this weather, and my chest is already tight with fear.

  I scan the darkened streets, taking in every detail. Stay vigilant. Be alert. It’s the only way I’ll make it home safe.

  Sketchy clubs and bars dot the streets of Boston’s former red-light district , and all the drunks will be pouring out of them soon. As I round the corner, exiting the alley onto a better-lit street. I clutch my coat tighter around me.

  His voice cuts out of the darkness just ahead of me.

  “About time. I’ve been waiting for over an hour. I don’t like being kept waiting, princess.”

  That voice instantly fills me with a bone-chilling fear. My heart thunders as I back up against the brick building behind me. The facade scratches against the fabric of my coat, and there’s a sound of cloth tearing

  “Brooks,” I won’t let my voice shake. “You’re not supposed to talk to me. That’s part of the deal.”

  The deal we’d made after he’d almost killed me.

  He smiles smugly, crowding closer and pushing me harder into the wall. His eyes have that strange, vacant look they get when he’s about to lose control. Sweat beads on my neck, and I turn my face to avoid the reek of his sour breath. It’s a look I know all too well.

  “I’m Brooks Stacy, baby. I do what I want.”

  His hand strokes the side of my face. Involuntarily, my body shivers, his soft fingers sliding down my cheek. Repulsion pushes up through the fear, and I fight not to remember those hands touching me during more intimate encounters.

  Must get out of here. Now.

  Last time he raised his hand to me, I’d been in the hospital for two weeks. Just the thought sets my nerves on fire. The pain. The fear. Counting every day of my recovery in missed dollars from my waitressing shifts and mounting workload from my classes. My throat tightens, raw and slick with panic.

  Digging my fingers into the craggy, sharp brick, my eyes dart left and right as I frantically search for any opening to get away.

  “Please,” I push against his solid chest. The edges of my own breathing close in, and the pressure on my chest constricts

  Don’t hyperventilate. Not now.

  “Aw, princess, you know I love it when you beg.”

  It’s always worse when he’s drunk. The hairs on my arms lift, remembering the last time he caught me alone when he was drinking.

  “Brooks, your father will be mad if you get in trouble again.” My voice drops to a whisper, struggling to stay steady as I try to reason with him.

  The only reason he’s not in jail is because of his father. Mayor Stacy made a deal with the judge, to rehabilitate his wayward son and pay my medical bills. They didn’t even give me a restraining order. One wasn’t needed against a fine, upstanding member of the rich and powerful Stacy family, after all.

  Nothing makes you feel safer than top-to-bottom corruption.

  “Don’t worry, princess,” his words slur and his voice drops to a deeper pitch. “He’ll only get mad if they find the body.”

  Images flash too fast to process: Brooks in a rage, his skin rage-red as his mouth contorts. Me, unable to get away, curling into a fetal position when it was clear I had no other option. The horrible aftermath taking weeks to recover from. Even now, I can feel the dark remembered ache of shattered bones.

  He won’t catch me this time. I’d rather die fighting.

  I lash out in panic. Shock dawns slowly across his face and melts into fury. But I take the opening and squeeze out from under his grip, darting into the dark night

  Plunging ahead, I try to navigate winding streets. My blood pounds. My heart slams. Adrenaline spikes narrow my vision. Can’t even scream for help.

  Goddamn asthma.

  Brooks roars, a sound of pure primal rage, and the hairs on my arms raise in terror. He’s somewhere behind me. I won’t look back. Go, go, go. The leather soles of his shoes ringing out on the sidewalk. Closer. Closer. The street is completely deserted.

  Where the hell is everyone?

  There’s nowhere I’m safe. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve done. Gone in an instant because of this man. Not even safe in my own bed anymore. He knows where I live. Damnit.

  It’s taking me too close to the edge. The carefully crafted sense of control that I’ve built back up piece by piece starts to slip away. I can’t spiral out of control. Hold it together, Ava.

  My lungs burn as I gasp for air. Stumbling down a darkened side street, I hope I lose him long enough to get my inhaler. My hands shake uncontrollably as I claw through my bag, frantically searching
.

  Not enough air.

  One draw on my inhaler.

  One deep breath. That’s all I need. Get back in control and get away.

  Hot tears stream down my face. Fear and exhaustion war in my body. Adrenaline’s the only thing keeping me upright.

  And it won’t keep me going much longer.

  As I finally wrap my fingers around the plastic inhaler and pull it out, relief shoots through me but turns into to a tense, icy fear. Brooks’s loud and chillingly hollow laugh echoes down the narrow street.

  He’s close. Too close.

  There’s no time. Running again, my legs moving as if they’re under someone else’s command. Just run. Every instinct urges me forward. Move. Faster. Forward.

  My purse is still unzipped. The money I earned tonight flies out in a trail behind me. My gut gives a raw twist. Goddamnit. Three hundred dollars. It’s nothing to Brooks, but everything to me.

  My vision grays as Brooks’s hand closes like iron around my forearm. The hairs on the nape of my neck rise in terror. My inhaler flies out of my other hand, and plastic skitters across concrete as I slam hard into what feels like a wall. Pain arcs across my body from the impact, and I fall to the ground with another burst of pain.

  “Sorry, man,” I hear Brooks say in a tight voice. “My girlfriend is drunk.”

  Scream. Just scream. But there’s no breath left. Even the panic starts to fade, melting into airless oblivion.

  Then everything shifts.

  Thick strong arms surround me and lift me up. I’m being cradled by muscled arms, and the side of my cheek falls against a hard chest.

  Something eases in my chest slightly. My body involuntarily gives a little shudder as tension drains away.

  “You okay, miss?” A deep, soothing voice vibrates in the chest my ear rests against. There’s a hint of a Boston Irish accent, but right now it is compressed with concern.

  Or anger.

  Brooks’s voice always sounds too shrill. Just as I catch at the thought, everything shifts out of focus again, dimming to gray. But I manage to grab the soft material of his shirt.

  “Please help, I can’t breathe.” It’s all I can get out, a raw whisper.

  “She’s just drunk, man,” Brooks repeats louder, sounding petulant. “I can take her home.”

  Silence follows, and then the man holding me growls, “I don’t fucking think so, buddy.”

  The threat of violence roils just below the surface. Even though it’s not directed at me, another shudder runs along my spine.

  “The fuck you say to me, asshole?” Brooks barks, back to that familiar fever pitch. “Do you know who I am?”

  The man holding me shifts me to one shoulder, his arm just under my ass. Broad shoulders. Warm, comforting, and stable; it’s all I can cling to through the haze. But he snorts softly before answering.

  “Jesus, do you hear yourself? You’re the one who’s drunk. Go before you regret it, son.” His voice is icy calm, derision infusing the edges of his tone.

  “I’ll kick your ass right now!”

  “Hey, Sully?” The man holding me calls out to someone, a commanding note in his voice. “Can you help me out for a second? Got my hands full.”

  An enormous bruiser of a man pops out from a back door facing the side street. That must be Sully.

  Sully takes one look at Brooks and a wicked grin slowly spreads across his face. He’s already flexing his fingers, big meaty hands that have had their share of fights. He’s missing a tooth and his nose has definitely been broken a time or two.

  “Escort this gentleman on his way, Sully, while I take the lady inside, please.”

  “You got it, boss.” Sully’s smile widens as he cracks his knuckles, moving with menacing speed towards Brooks.

  2

  Ava

  The huge man never even looks back.

  Lights blink overhead as we move off the street and inside a building. He carries me into what looks like the back room of an upscale nightclub. Despite his size, he moves with an easy grace and speed I notice, even through the blur of pain.

  After he settles me down carefully on a soft black leather couch, he squats on the floor next to me. Strong, muscled thighs strain against the dark fabric of expensive suit pants.

  Startling blue eyes bore into mine.

  Too intense.

  I look away, then back, a magnetic draw I can’t resist pulling my eyes back to his. Every breath makes my chest crackle and one hand clutches at my collar. Almost involuntarily, my other hand moves toward him. What’s wrong with me? It’s a fight to keep from touching him.

  Oxygen depletion. It’s the only excuse.

  “Hey,” he finally says, a crooked grin spreading slowly across his handsome face.

  Disarming, dangerous.

  Who is this man?

  He rescues me from the monster who almost took my life once and threatened me again tonight. But then orders someone to hurt him like it was nothing.

  And now he’s here, totally at ease and focused.

  All traces of anger gone. The only thing I sense is genuine concern rolling off him in waves as his eyes move over me, assessing. Not in a demanding way. His eyes linger at the fast-blooming bruise that’s forming on my wrist before moving back to my face.

  My ragged breathing is loud, reminding me again how close I came tonight. I don’t know what to make of him, but I owe the fact that I’m here, safe, to this man. Whose name I don’t even know.

  His smile transforms the hard lines of his ruggedly good-looking face into something that echoes boyish charm. My stomach flips, and not just because of everything I’ve been through tonight. There’s a dangerous edge to this man. Then that fleeting impression melts away as a dimple crinkles the skin next to his lips.

  Shit.

  He could wield those dimples like a weapon. Probably does.

  “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

  He runs a hand across the hard planes of his jaw, adding, “I’m Connor, by the way, and you’re in the private area of my club, Intrigue. You’re totally safe here. If there’s anything you need or want, just say the word.”

  That deep voice has an easy and light quality to it, so different from the way he spoke back in the street. He sounds like a man who likes to laugh. And the idea of being so close to a man like that makes my throat constrict even more. Men in my life have brought me nothing but pain.

  Giving my head a little shake, I wait for the fog to clear. Connor clears his throat and his face swims back into focus.

  “My inhaler,” I finally manage to whisper. “He knocked it out of my hand, in the street…”

  Before I can finish, he’s on his feet. Connor’s brow furrows, a lock of dark unruly hair spilling down over his forehead. Kindness touches his eyes. He gives me one sharp nod, as his hand grazes my shoulder just for a second. They’re rough and callused, but his touch seems impossibly gentle.

  “I’ll find it.”

  He disappears through the door and back out into the night. My eyes drift, taking in the room around me.

  Intrigue. I’ve heard the name. It’s a nightclub that everyone jokes is owned by the mafia, since it’s one of the only clubs to survive the Stacy family’s overhaul of Boston’s red-light district. I hadn’t been inside, but my classmates say it’s different now than when it opened years ago. It’s no dive, but a modern, edgy club that attracts Boston’s wealthy elite.

  Maybe the mob thing’s more than a rumor. Everything feels heavy, so I concentrate on remaining calm. I must drift off for a few minutes because I awake to another gentle touch on my shoulder. For the first time in months, I don’t jerk awake in a wave of panic.

  “Miss,” the big man rumbles as his face comes into view “Is this yours?”

  When I nod, his forearm slides around my back and he helps me sit up, laying the little red plastic inhaler in my open palm. If only he’d found my three hundred dollars, too. But it looks like that got pocketed by someone passing by
tonight.

  Not a surprise, but I have to fight a new wave of anxiety. I can probably make rent, but food?

  Shaking the medicine, I take two long puffs. Tension eases as my airways open and I take a deep breath. My eyes drift shut in relief, and then open so I can focus on the lines of his face.

  I flash him the most grateful smile I can manage.

  “Thank you,” I say, finally sounding more like myself. “You saved my life.”

  First from Brooks. Then from the asthma.

  Something in my gut tells me that I can trust him, trust Connor. That’s the one thing that I’ve always known. One thing I can always trust – no matter how bad things get - is my instincts. Even when I met Brooks, when he’d been a perfect gentleman and had an unfailing pedigree, something felt off. I just wish I’d listened.

  This man? There’s definitely more than meets the eye. And yet, the one part of myself and the world that I still trust says he’s a good man.

  That crooked grin spreads across his face again. What would kissing that dimple feel like? My cheeks immediately flame with heat. Just the idea of wanting to touch a man, let alone a stranger, seems completely foreign. But this man is disarming, even in the face of such a bad night.

  Maybe that makes him even more dangerous.

  “My pleasure,” he says, taking a seat next to me on the couch. We’re so close. Heat radiates from his body, even though we’re not actually touching. The flush on my cheeks creeps lower, an inexplicable rush of desire moving through me.

  “Can I ask what happened? Who’s the preppy asshole?”

  His voice is casual, but the weight of his stare tells me he’s paying sharp attention.