Thug: The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  I had plenty of practice.

  But Vinny’s not wrong, we’re both eager to get started, and within the hour he’s called in a favor to have that dumpster dropped off. The next several days pass in a haze of hard work. Danny isn’t much help and Vinny spends a lot of his day tied up at the fish shack, although it’s obvious he’s closing as much as he can to lend a hand.

  But for my part, I don’t mind the hard work.

  Physical labor has always made sense to me.

  It’s not that what I do isn’t important to the Doyles. The opposite: sometimes enforcing lines and boundaries is the key to making things work smoothly and to clearing the way to make a bigger vision a reality.

  Sometimes though, it can be hard to face that reality day in and day out.

  I’ve done things I’m not proud of.

  Things I can usually forget when I escape into my music.

  Things I’d say were necessary, even when they make me angry that they had to happen.

  Still, it’s nice to feel like I’m improving things in a gentler way maybe, although there’s nothing gentle about the way I rip out the old boards we need to repair in parts of the house.

  The whole Carney business has left me unsettled.

  And rather than dealing with the bullshit of James Carney’s landgrab, or the complexities of the reaction that I seem to have in Siobhan’s presence, I turn all that into the work.

  Scraping paint. Ripping out rot. Resurfacing floors.

  The effect on Danny is good. He’s not able to do much given his age, but in a way he’s being refreshed, renewed, and rejuvenated as he sees things coming back to life around him.

  I’m glad to play a part in that.

  I had no idea Vinny was so good with carpentry skills. But I did know that he’s a patient, efficient teacher, and when we encounter details that we can’t handle, he brings in an older man from across the island. The retired carpenter spent his career restoring the stately homes of New England, and he gladly does a few hours work for some beer money and the chance to share his stories and teaches us things along the way.

  Things continue along this path, and by the end of June, we’re in great shape on the demolition side of things, and moving firmly into rebuilding.

  I’m sawing molding in the front yard, when Siobhan stops by. We’ve seen each other briefly a few times since our moment in the library, and every time the heat between us is palpable.

  Once, we’d run into each other at a quiet park near her cottage, accidentally of course. I love parks and polite conversation turned into a fevered make out session on the world’s most uncomfortable bench.

  Not befitting a lady like Siobhan, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  The way she moves between cool refinement and hot desire is one of my favorite things about her.

  She’s dressed in tight, black capri pants and wears a wide brimmed hat on her head. The joke goes that the Irish have two colors: white and red. It’s not true of all of us—my brothers and I always go a tanner shade of pale over the summer—it certainly is of Siobhan. That girl must go through gallons of sunblock.

  “Hi,” I say, taking off my safety goggles. “It’s good to see you.”

  Suddenly, I can’t stop smiling. I told her we were working on repairing the place and invited her to come by if she wanted.

  I never imagined she would.

  She smiles and holds up a basket. “I brought lunch. Don’t worry, I didn’t make it.”

  Truth is, I’d eat anything Siobhan made, even if it looked like the mysterious black stuffing my Nana cooked at Thanksgiving. None of us ever figured out how it turned that peculiar color, and we were afraid to ask lest we be taught some manners.

  Manners, right. I’m staring at her like an idiot.

  Heading into the house, I wash my hands and grab some lemonade for us. It’s cliché as fuck, but I hadn’t ripped up and repaired the rotting wood on Danny’s porch to not drink lemonade on this beautiful summer day with this gorgeous woman.

  “You need Adirondack chairs out here,” Siobhan says as I pull some folding chairs onto the porch. I dust hers off and stand until she sits down. It’s amazing how she can make a shitty metal chair that’s been in a basement for decades look like a Chippendale.

  “We’re going to seal the wood and then paint it.”

  She places her basket between us.

  “What color?” She asks, opening the basket.

  Whatever’s on sale?

  She hands me a sandwich.

  “From the butcher.” She grins. “Does your uncle have pictures of the place from before it….” She pauses, looking for the right word.

  “Before it went to shit? He must.”

  She giggles. “Well, I don’t exactly mean that, but are there any pictures of it from when your family bought it? Restoring homes to their original condition, including matching original paint colors and interior design, increases its value exponentially.”

  I unwrap the sandwich and take a huge bite without even looking to see what she’d picked up. Some kind of Italian sub, but on bread that’s crusty on the outside and soft on the inside.

  Like Vinny.

  Not that I’d say that to him.

  “This is delicious.” I’m halfway through the enormous sandwich before Siobhan’s even taken two bites of something that looks like a pita full of chicken salad. And hot peppers? What kind of witch is this woman? Boston Irish person need a bucket of antacids to counter food with heat. “That’s a great idea.”

  Better than just fixing the place up. Vinny and I could, with help, restore it to its former glory. Remind Uncle Danny of happier times.

  Siobhan takes off her hat, and beams at me. She reaches a slender hand into the basket. The bones of her hands and wrist are delicate. But I know the strength it takes to play a string instrument, so I know not to underestimate her. Especially if she can eat hot peppers.

  She pulls out an envelope and hands it to me, a slight flush creeping up her neck.

  “It’s for my show,” she says. “If you still wanted to go?”

  “Fuck yeah I do,” I say, taking the envelope. “I thought you changed your mind. Too embarrassed of me.”

  I wink at her and the flush creeps up to her cheeks.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Her smile is gorgeous.

  “Will you help me pick out paint?” I ask, suddenly. “I mean, if I can find a photo?”

  Her smile gets even brighter.

  Score.

  “I’d love that.”

  So would I.

  Even though I shouldn’t.

  But it’s the summer and here on the Vineyard maybe Siobhan and I can just be ourselves, and not representatives of our families. At least not entirely. I pour her some lemonade, then fill my glass.

  “What should we toast to?” she asks.

  She’s so fucking classy, this woman.

  “To friendship,” I say, not wanting to push my luck. “And to finding it in unexpected places.”

  She taps her glass to mine.

  14

  Siobhan

  I love playing in the theater here.

  It’s intimate enough that I can see people’s faces as they listen to the music.

  The acoustics are perfect, and there’s something about the crowd. If you’re coming to the theater to listen to a violin player in the middle of your vacation, it’s because you’re a true music lover.

  Tonight’s show should be no different.

  However, I find myself a bit more anxious than normal as I get ready. My goal is always a polished, professional reserve that shows I am a serious musician. That both commands the eye and doesn’t distract from what matters: the sound.

  Yet tonight I find myself drawn to a dress that I know will show off my body and take extra care with my makeup and hair. The result is something that still fits with the aesthetic of a professional violinist taking the stage. But it holds open the possibility of commanding a man�
��s interest later in the night.

  The next part of the evening flows.

  An introduction, the lights dip, and to take my familiar place on the stage.

  I have not always been a confident woman.

  Growing up in the shadow of hard, opinionated and dominant men – especially with the expectation that I be quiet, feminine and reserved at all times – left a mark.

  Am I confident in my ability to navigate any social situation with grace?

  Absolutely.

  Am I confident that people actually have any interest in me as a person?

  Much less so.

  Kieran’s excited interest about my input on his renovations has been refreshing, exciting. He listens to me in more than just a perfunctory way. The way my brothers do sometimes, patronizing and placating, trying to get me to shut up and move on to something they deem more fitting.

  It’s like being smothered slowly.

  But as I get lost in the music, it’s as if all those doubts melt away and I step into another version of myself.

  Emotions have always been forbidden, regarded with suspicion, and discouraged. If I show too much enthusiasm, I would get long lectures about ladylike comportment and remembering how much image matters.

  On the stage? That’s where I find freedom.

  Riding the waves of the emotional arcs of the music, I revel in the full expression of the human experience. Joy and sadness. Love and hatred. Vast possibilities and binding constraints. It’s all there, on offer, and the more richly and wholeheartedly you are in the delivery, the better the audience responds.

  It’s almost as though no time has passed when I realize I’m playing the last song.

  It ends and enthusiastic applause breaks out as the lights come back on.

  I stand, make a small bow, and prepare to head back for a meet and greet.

  Not before I see him.

  I don’t know what I expected. Every time that I have seen Kieran Doyle, he’s been casual. But tonight, you couldn’t distinguish him from any of the other guests. At least, if it weren’t for the fact that he is the single most striking man in the room. Tall, with broad shoulders, beautiful eyes and wild hair, the intensity of his gaze draws my eyes immediately.

  He’s wearing a white shirt and a dark suit.

  For one second, it’s like I can’t breathe.

  But in a very different way. An exciting one.

  I imagine being back on the couch in the Fitzgerald library, with my legs spread and his hands between my thighs. Our eyes lock, and I would swear he knows exactly what I am thinking. Heat creeps into my cheeks and it takes every ounce of self-control to maintain a professional demeanor. My mother would be horrified. The cardinal rule of the Carneys is not to embarrass the family, and if anyone knew what I’d been up to with Kieran—well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  The next few minutes pass by so much like every other night. Most of the guests are older couples – wealthy part-time residents or tourists – who want a few minutes of polite chitchat with the performer. Occasionally, there’s a real music lover or a difficult personality to navigate around. Frequently, I’m dodging the brush of a hand or an off-color comment from an inappropriate man that’s old enough to be my father, or even his father.

  Nothing basic social graces don’t manage.

  Tonight though, Kieran Doyle stands to one side waiting patiently for me to wrap up.

  Anticipation buzzes through me and I keep glancing his way. The first time our eyes meet, he gave me a broad smile. But with each lingering glance, I can see his demeanor growing intense, his eyes darkening with the promise of something that makes me shiver.

  He watches me shiver and his nostrils flare.

  My hand flies up to my throat, and then, for some reason I have the strangest thought.

  The guests I’m greeting have just turned away and I skim a hand down the front of my dress.

  Over my breasts, the curves of my waist, to my thighs.

  Anyone watching would think I’m just smoothing my dress. But not just anyone’s watching.

  He’s watching – and from the look in his eyes, he knows.

  Another couple steps forward, friends of my mother’s. I greet them warmly and they say nice things, none of which I hear.

  As they turn away, I look back over.

  Bite my lip. Toss my hair. Wet my lips and let my tongue linger.

  Part of me is embarrassed. I know enough to be subtle.

  I don’t know enough to be sure I’m doing this right.

  But if the way he’s standing is any indication, I’m doing it very right.

  The power of that shoots through me.

  You could get used to the pleasure of knowing you have power over a man like Kieran Doyle, who wields so much incredible power himself.

  Hands skim down my dress again and it’s like he’s powerless not to watch.

  What are you playing at Siobhan?

  I’m playing with fire, and I don’t care if I get burned in the process.

  Finally, Kieran steps forward.

  The sheer size of him, his overwhelming presence, is enough to make my mouth go dry. For one fast second, I wonder if I made a mistake: inviting him here, teasing him, promising something that I’m not sure I can offer.

  “Siobhan,” he says, his voice dark and low. He utters my name like a threat, like an endearment, like a challenge.

  Just then, an older woman steps forward, a small poodle shoved in a bag.

  It’s a very jarring contrast to whatever was just happening with Kieran.

  Her eyes are on me, but then they catch sight of Kieran and go wide. Wider still.

  “You’re very talented, Miss Carney,” she says, her voice sounding far away. “But I don’t want to keep you.”

  “You’re not keeping me,” I say quickly. It’s always important to be polite to guests and make sure they have a good time.

  Even when it’s the last thing you want to do.

  She launches then into a steady stream of questions. How long have I played? How often do I practice every day? Do I play other instruments?

  There the same questions I get asked at every performance and can answer by rote. But as the time drifts along, I can see Kieran getting more and more frustrated.

  For some reason, I like it. I’m used to feeling powerless, and this is different. Intoxicating.

  “You know Mr. Doyle here plays the guitar,” I find myself saying. Why I tell this woman is something I will wonder for a long time.

  She turns toward Kieran, glad for the opportunity. “Do you play anything I know?”

  He laughs.

  “Just Irish love songs at shady old taverns, ma’am.”

  “And how did you enjoy Miss Carney’s violin tonight?”

  His eyes are dark on mine. “Oh, I quite enjoyed seeing Miss Carney’s unparalleled skills at making such beautiful sounds.”

  My entire body feels like it’s on fire.

  His eyes flash. Two can play at this game, they seem to say.

  “The way she moves that bow back and forth, eliciting such a passionate response from an instrument. It’s very hard to find talent like that.” Now he’s grinning shamelessly.

  There is such a cheesy inflection on the word hard I laugh out loud.

  And with that, the woman departs looking a little confused, but none the worse for wear.

  For his part, Kieran leans in close and whispers, “Let’s go make some beautiful music together.”

  He makes such a hideous eyebrow wiggle that I actually snort loud enough that a couple of the theater staff turned to look.

  Who am I to turn down an invitation like that?

  15

  Siobhan

  I didn’t expect to spend the rest of my night in a place like this.

  But as I watch Kieran’s hands move across the strings of the guitar, deftly playing a complex piece, and witness the pure unfiltered joy on his face, I have no regrets.

  Appar
ently, Kieran Doyle likes to hang out in shady places.

  It strikes me that they suit him, and that I’m surprised I see the appeal.

  Of the place, not the man.

  The appeal of the man is apparent.

  We’re in a tavern that I haven’t ever noticed, despite all the time that I’ve spent on Martha’s Vineyard. According to the story on the back of the slightly sticky, laminated menus, the restaurant has been around for at least 20 years.

  There’s not a lot to bring a woman like me here.

  Unless you take into account the 6’4” guitarist playing his heart out and staring straight into my eyes.

  I expect Kieran to take me somewhere fancy for dinner. There are so many upscale seafood and Italian choices just an easy walk from the theater, and then just an easy walk to my cottage beyond.

  Maybe that had been more hope than expectation.

  But instead, he took me to his truck and held the door open while I gingerly climbed inside. The truck is old, and now that I consider, I don’t know if I’ve ever been inside a pickup truck before.

  It’s spotlessly clean and that also tells me something about the man.

  He seems to intuit what I’m thinking and gives me an easy smile. “Just because something is a little rough on the surface doesn’t mean you don’t take care of it.”

  I try not to read too much into that.

  It’s a short drive to the restaurant, and we get to the parking lot, I desperately wish I had something less flashy to change into. But Kieran – who has taken off his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his well-fitting white shirt over thick, muscled forearms – slides a proprietary hand along my lower back.

  And then lower still.

  “You are the most beautiful girl on this island,” he growls in my ear. “Too beautiful to go straight to bed, as much as I hate to say that.”

  He gives me a big grin.

  “You like to dance?”

  The question fills me with horror. Of course I know how to dance. The standard Carney educational regimen included ballroom dance lessons. Take me to any wedding, and I can waltz with a creepy old Senator, smile while holding up conversation, and even manage to avoid his wandering hands when he tries to grab my ass.