Grind: The Doyles, A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  It all floods back now that I can breathe, and the weight of familiar darkness settles on my chest. Somehow, the loss of that relief I’d felt for just an instant seems worse, though.

  “Did I run into you?” I ask softly, dodging the question. I don’t want to lay bare the mess and the shame of the last year of my life to this man. He’s done nothing to get dragged into this, not really. Telling him more might change that. Put him in danger.

  And selfishly, it’s the first time in months I’ve felt anything approaching normal.

  “I barely felt it, miss. You’re not very big.”

  He pauses a beat, and then says perceptively, “But that’s not what I asked you, is it?”

  Not unkind, but also not going to be distracted by diversion tactics either. He might look easygoing. But this is a man who knows what he wants and gets it.

  Heat sweeps over my cheeks, taking them from pink to searing red. The familiar heavy feeling of embarrassment, of shame, drops from my chest and makes me feel nauseous.

  More of my awful mistakes, my dirty laundry, bared in public.

  The big man’s dark ocean eyes scan my face. He laughs, and the sound has a lightness to it, an openness, that’s drawing me in with an irresistible force. Every part of my body hurts, and yet I can’t seem to stop staring at this man.

  Who, I remind myself, I know nothing about.

  Whose inviting exterior could be hiding anything. Awful things. Do I trust my instincts, or not?

  “We’ve had a hell of a night, haven’t we?”

  “Ava,” I offer suddenly.

  “Ava,” he repeats, rolling the arms of his white dress shirt up to his elbows to reveal an intricate shamrock tattoo on his forearm. Impossible muscles cord his arms and then disappear beneath the expensive fabric.

  Connor.

  I know absolutely nothing about him. He saved me from Brooks, but a familiar wariness settles in. Even if he’s perfectly safe, perfectly kind, he doesn’t deserve my kind of trouble landing on his doorstep.

  “I’m sorry,” I begin, my eyes lingering on the tattoo. “I don’t mean to be any trouble.”

  He eyes snap up to mine, assessing. “I don’t know who told you that you were trouble, Ava, or an inconvenience. You’re not. You’re my guest and I’m pleased to have you here.”

  The dimples flash and I look at his face, then back down at the tattoo. Something about it nicks at the edge of my mind. Familiar somehow, although I can’t think why.

  Sully flings open the door to the back office then, a loud bang sounding as it bounces off the wall, and his booming voice cuts into the room. I flinch, knocked abruptly out of whatever was flowing between Connor and me.

  “Hey, boss, I got rid of the fucking prick. He’s gonna have one hell of a headache tomorrow,” Sully calls loudly, sounding delighted.

  He sees me and stops abruptly, eyes going wide.

  “Shit. Pardon my French, lady.”

  “No, you’re right.” I ignore pain stabs as I swing my legs down to the floor. “He is a fucking prick. He’s also Mayor Stacy’s son, Brooks, and unfortunately, my ex-boyfriend.”

  It’s like the air gets sucked out of the room instantly. Now everyone knows how it feels, I guess.

  Both men watch me intently, the force of their combined gaze pinning me to the couch. They look at each other, and it’s hard to read the silent communication that runs between them. With a frustrated sigh, Connor stabs a hand through his thick black hair. His smile turns wolfish. Every instinct I have screams danger, although the undercurrents don’t seem directed at me.

  Have I traded one bad situation for another?

  “Boss,” Sully’s voice is a warning.

  Connor rises to his feet quickly, almost looming over me. All I can do is stare up at him with wide eyes. That familiar fear tightens around me like a vice.

  “I should go,” I say rapidly. Whether I’ve walked into something or I’m just unwanted because of the baggage I’ve brought with me, it’s time to get out of here. Find somewhere safe. Anywhere. I’m feeling around the couch for my things and trying to get to my feet. Pain shoots through me like lightning. I press my lips together hard, fighting it back. I’ve fought through much worse than this.

  Connor’s face clears. He looks down at me, the tension of his face easing and a hint of his boyish grin returning.

  “Easy, Ava.”

  I falter, my hand resting on my bag. His voice is deep and decisive.

  “I just have some quick business to finish up here, and then I can take you home.”

  Home.

  It’s not a suggestion—there’s a kind but definitive edge to his voice.

  My mind races, the endless fear that engulfs my life hitting me with the word. I can’t go home. It’s not safe. My stomach feels like it’s being shredded from the inside, a thousand terrified butterflies with razorblade wings escaping. No doubt Brooks will be there, furious after being humiliated.

  My whole body starts to shake. Not again.

  With a very deliberate effort, I draw in a breath, ignoring the rasping in my lungs and the ache that’s melted into one full-bodied experience. I can take care of myself. I repeat it silently to myself, over and over again.

  But I don’t really have anywhere I can go. If I hadn’t lost my tips, I could have gotten a cheap motel room. There’s just a few dollars in my wallet–that wouldn’t even cover a subway ride. No matter how many times I tell myself otherwise, it’s the truth.

  “What’s wrong?” Connor looks intently into my eyes, his own radiating confusion and concern. Little crinkles form at the edges from his intense focus.

  It’s too much. The nearness of his body, the kindness in his eyes, and that feeling of desolate emptiness. I’ve gone to the very edge of what I can handle, but I’ve run out of options. If only I hadn’t felt that momentary relief, hadn’t been reminded of kindness that’s seemed so far out of reach for the last year. I might have held it together, but not tonight.

  There’s nothing left. No hope, no energy, no respite. Hot tears pour down my cheeks again, as I let out a strangled sob.

  Instead of moving away from me, Connor steps toward me tentatively and puts a gentle hand on my arm. It’s so fast, instinctive, maybe a little possessive. Those steady blue eyes never leave my face, and for an instant, they’re an oasis as I’m lost in this desert of fear. I can’t quite make sense of it. But part of me clings to it anyways.

  There are so few things I can cling to.

  “He knows where I live. I don’t know what to do.” I finally manage a tight whisper between wracking, horrifying sobs.

  I can’t even afford a motel room tonight. The next sob turns to a hiccup as I steel myself and try to force it down. More air. Feel the ground solid under my feet. Curl my hands into fists.

  All the techniques that I use to center myself, to keep the anxiety at bay, aren’t holding it together. My endless scenario planning has brought me to the moment I fear most – the one where I’ve run out of ideas.

  Sully’s eyes move between Connor and me. He shifts like he’s uncomfortable, and after exchanging a look with his boss that I can’t decipher, backs out of the room. The door shuts softly behind him.

  Connor and I are alone, standing inches apart in the huge empty room. He’s miles away, but still feels like he’s my lifeline. Some distant buzzing in another part of my brain warns me that I need to be careful.

  Dark hair, those unforgettable eyes, a square jaw and a scar down his cheek that’s so faint he must have gotten it as a child. I just focus on the planes of his face while he regards me for a long time.

  A series of emotions cross his face at lightning speed. Then he gives one short, sharp nod.

  Connor’s blue eyes widen and take on a stronger hint of brightness, of interest, of kindness. His hands gently come to rest on my shoulders. They’re so big they span them and then some.

  “Don’t be afraid, Ava. I’ve got you now.”

  Staring in
to his face, I try to read what’s there. What’s underneath. My gut says I can trust this man. My heart just hopes I’m right.

  3

  Connor

  Fuck, this is a complication I do not need.

  Glancing away from the road, I cut my eyes toward the beautiful woman in the passenger seat, as I drive my Mercedes through the back streets of Boston way too fast. Checking again, I make sure she’s buckled in for the second time.

  My hands grip the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white. My shoulders are hard knots of tension, and that muscle on the left side of my neck twitches. The one that tells me I’m too wired for my own damn good.

  I need to relax.

  She’s safe.

  Everything’s just moving too fast and I can’t afford to lose control here.

  Ava. She’s curled up in the passenger seat, her eyes closed. She must be too on edge to sleep, but she looks more relaxed than she has all night. She practically vibrated with terror earlier, but now she’s breathing evenly and her face looks almost peaceful.

  Except for the damn bruise that’s forming on her cheek.

  The urge to destroy that little asshole who gave it to her surfaces again, bitter bile and the need to fight all too familiar. Deep breath, Doyle. I didn’t recognize him in the dark, being too focused on Ava. Rage kept me from registering that Brooks fucking Stacy was her assailant.

  Rage. That’s all I feel when someone hurts a woman. Complete and blinding rage.

  I ease back in my seat and glance over at her again.

  She is safe, I repeat silently. Each word is punctuated with a tiny pause.

  My mouth goes dry as my thoughts drift to another woman who isn’t safe, that I couldn’t protect. Claire.

  Just the name still brings an agony I can barely crush down.

  My cousin Claire, with her bright eyes and the freckles sprinkled across her nose. A happy girl with a fast laugh and a quick temper. My mind races on, matching my car for speed as I gun the engine. Images flash of our childhood, and what happened to her as young woman: After she met that O’Dooley asshole. After the first black eye. After she disappeared.

  After my father and I tracked him down.

  I can’t think about this now. Ava is not Claire. She’s here, she’s safe.

  And the protective instincts this woman stirs up – whatever they are – are definitely not familial.

  Long minutes pass, and then I can’t help but take her all in. She’s gorgeous, with big green eyes, long dark hair and curves that I shouldn’t be noticing right now.

  We take another sharp corner too fast, and I growl in pure frustration. Aggravation makes my skin hot. I’m not a creep that preys on vulnerable women. Ever. But I’m definitely attracted to this woman and that’s a fact I’m going to have to deal with.

  Now.

  In less than five minutes, we’ll be at my place. I don’t bring women home, not even for sex. Especially not for sex – but not for any reason either.

  And I’m definitely not going to sleep with Ava. I’m just going to keep her safe tonight. My muscles tense again at the imagined threat, even as resolve steels itself in my spine.

  The crazy protective instinct that she’s bringing to the surface leaves me unnerved. I’m a businessman, not a goddamned bodyguard.

  Brooks fucking Stacy. The little shit’s been in my club once, and we threw his ass out for getting too handsy with the bartender. What my Dad had told me, and what I’d seen and heard around the city wasn’t good either, and from the level of fear that Ava shows, I know everything I need to about this guy.

  Not just an entitled idiot, but a violent one too.

  The kind of guy that finds himself paved under a parking lot, for example. Or going for a swim at night off the bow of a Gloucester fishing boat with 300 pounds of concrete encasing his feet. Our family has lots of friends at the local sand and gravel pit.

  He’s a problem, and I have to take care of it. But I’ve got more pressing issues to take care of tonight.

  Like the one in my passenger seat.

  The timing isn’t good for complications in my life. And I need to watch myself. Keeping her safe? That’s one thing. Getting emotionally involved? That’s the kind of distraction that I just can’t afford.

  A minute later, my car slides easily into its space in the garage. Ava’s eyes snap open wide, and her posture says she’s ready to bolt. Her eyes focus on my face and her shoulders drop, the frightened look melting away as she realizes where she is and who she’s with. That feels good and drives that protective feeling even harder into my core.

  “We’re home,” I say, adding quickly, “At my place. Come on up.”

  I open her door, and then it’s a short walk through the garage and into the elevator that opens right in front of my loft. She’s trying to stay a little bit behind me. But I find myself standing closer than I should, putting a hand to the small of her back to guide her through the maze of my South Boston apartment building.

  I just want to touch her. When we make contact for even a second, an electrical jolt runs through my entire system.

  Unlocking the door, I stand back to invite her in. She steps cautiously into the loft ahead of me, and her breath catches. Her eyes sweep the place, taking in the chrome, marble, and leather. Stepping in behind her, I close the door.

  She spins around as it clicks shut, a panicked look crossing her face as I throw the bolts.

  “Easy, Ava.”

  Quickly, I put my hands out in front of me in what I hope is a disarming gesture.

  Bringing her here is crazy but she was so wild with fear I didn’t know what else to do. Just taking her to a hotel and paying for the bill felt like abandoning her. And another part of me wants her here. Wants to keep her close.

  That’s where I can keep her the safest.

  “Look, these are to keep the bad guys out, not you in,” I gesture at the locks. “You can leave anytime. I’ll be happy to call you a car, call a friend, or take you somewhere and pay for a hotel room at any place in the city.”

  My shoulders tense as I say it, though. I really don’t want her to go, I realize, and I don’t like feeling that way. If she’s here, I can keep her safe. And if she’s here, she’ll be with me.

  Her dark green eyes linger on the bolts.

  “Do you deal with a lot of bad guys, Connor?” her voice is very quiet.

  Hearing her say my name, even in that innocent way, is almost too much. Turning away so she doesn’t notice the effect she’s having on my body, I drop my suit coat and tie on the counter.

  “In my line of work, you can’t be too careful.” I go for nonchalant and try not to give too much away, answering her question over my shoulder. Yet for some reason, I don’t want to lie to this woman.

  When I turn back, she’s walked over to the center island and is tracing her fingers over the marble. My eyes linger on the point where her fingertips touch the hard stone.

  “This is gorgeous,” she murmurs. My chest swells with pride as she admires work I did myself.

  “Thank you. Actually, I installed that. My family bought this place a few years ago, and my dad put me in charge of rehabbing it. Picked it all out, put it together for all twenty units…” My voice trails off. I don’t miss those construction days, but from my vantage point tonight, they seem a lot simpler than whatever mess I just stepped into. Don’t think of Claire.

  She looks up at me then, our eyes locking across the room. Tension’s building in my body from sheer proximity, like she’s sending off pheromones that tell my DNA to stand up and take notice. Her eyes darken slightly. She might be feeling it too.

  You could filet the damned tension in this room with a steak knife.

  “So you do construction and manage a nightclub?” Her voice lilts up, like she’s curious and forcing a little lightness into it. It feels good she appreciates my work and that she’s interested in what I do.

  It’s more complicated than that.

  I
don’t answer, suddenly feeling like I might be in danger of pouring every secret out of myself to her. The force of that realization slams into me. My life is held together by secrets. She’s affecting me in ways I don’t understand, and the stakes are way too high to make a misstep. For both of us, it would seem.

  I move toward the stove. “You hungry?”

  She immediately freezes up, her body going completely still. Her face flushes a deep red.

  “Oh, no,” she says, a beat too fast. “I’m fine. I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  A cold rage takes shape in my chest. I fucking hate every person that ever made her feel like she was an inconvenience, or that she had to be quiet and small. But I’ve got to play this differently. Lighten the mood.

  “Look,” I say, pulling a frying pan off the copper rack and flipping on the gas. “I can’t promise it’ll be good, but I’m starving.”

  My stomach growls as if to offer proof.

  Flashing my best smile, I add, “Don’t make me eat alone.”

  The smile seems to do it. She eases back onto the stool where she’s sitting and gives a tentative nod. My eyes are on her glossy dark hair that she’s pulling forward nervously over her shoulder and twisting around a finger.

  “Actually, I am hungry.” It’s like a confession.

  “Good. What’s the last thing you ate?” The stainless steel fridge door swings open, as I pull out eggs and a carton of milk.

  “What? Oh, I had a sandwich before my shift.”

  I grab the whisk and pour the eggs and milk into a bowl. A dash of salt, a lot of pepper, and I’m beating the eggs with a little too much enthusiasm.

  “Shift? What kind of work do you do?”

  The wariness comes back, a tension line forming in her forehead as she unconsciously bites her lower lip. “I’m a server at Gus’s Diner six nights a week.”

  Know the place. It’s in a tough part of town, not too far from the club. My eyes scan her again; she’s tougher than she looks but I don’t like the idea of her working in a place like that.

  “That where you meet that ass—that where you met Stacy? He a customer?”