Shamus (Welcome to Spartan Book 3)

by Ashley Lyn

  I drag my tired ass out of the bathroom and flop down onto Shamus’s bed. His shower in the master is the only one that is safe. The floor in the other one is squishy as fuck and I’m not chancing it.

  “Get out of my bed, Savannah.” All I can manage is a whimper.

  “Oh, God, don’t make me move. My whole body hurts. I swear, even my hair hurts.”

  He snorts. “You have to get out of my bed.”

  “Nope.”

  “At least go put on some clothes.”

  “I have my jammies on.” He’s sitting up against the headboard with a pair of glasses on. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.” He pulls them off quickly and I smile at him, scooting up to sit next to him.

  “How do you feel about today?” I shove my legs under the blankets.

  He blows out a breath. “Went good. Stuff wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. The kitchen and bathrooms are going to be a giant pain in the ass, and if I could do this and not catch glimpses of Bruce’s butt cheeks and nuts every five seconds, I’ll be happy.”

  I burst out laughing. “He reminded me of the Village People. I hummed the tune to “YMCA” all day.” I snuggle down and pull the covers up. “Are we going over to Home Depot tomorrow? I have some ideas for the floor and stuff.”

  “Yes, but you can’t sleep with me.”

  “Shut up.” I scoot over and rub my foot along his calf. He jumps out of bed and stands there, clenching his fists at his sides. “Fine. Good night, Shamus.”

  I laugh a bit and get out of bed. Smacking him on the ass again, I make my way out the door.

  I don’t make it two steps before my breasts are plastered to the wall and he’s crowding my space. “Pretty sure I warned you about that.”

  With lightning speed, he lights my fucking ass up. I didn’t expect him to go full force like that.

  “Do it again, Savannah, and you will be out of my house.”

  I jerk, feeling like my stomach has dropped to my knees.

  “I know, Savannah. I know that there’s something here, but you move at my pace. I won’t tolerate you pushing me, thinking you can lead me around by my dick. I need fucking time. When I invite you into my bed, you’ll know, but until then, stay out, and quit spanking me.”

  I wander out of the bedroom in a daze, not quite sure of what just happened. I sit on the bed and stare at the wall. A grin splits my face, and my whole body shivers. I almost moan thinking about it.

  That man is fine as fuck.

  I’m scooting around the kitchen, singing along to the radio, “Mr. Jones” by the Counting Crows. I’m dressed in black leggings, a black tank, a red flannel shirt, and some old-school Doc Martins.

  I went dramatic on my makeup, with a messy bun and a black headband. I think I look darn cute today, sort of ninety’s grunge.

  “What are you doing, Savannah?” I jump about a foot in the air and flip around, spatula at the ready to defend my honor.

  “Motherfucker! You scared me!” He just grins and makes his way over to the coffee maker. I cock my head to the side. “Why don’t you wear your kilt anymore? Every time I saw you, you had it on, and now I haven’t seen you wear it in weeks.”

  “Jenny loved the kilt. I think it’s a small way of distancing myself from her. Before I left for Denver, I did a lot of thinking, and it’s clear that as much as it makes me feel like I’m betraying her in a way, I have to put her in the back of my mind. Keeping her at the forefront was slowly bleeding me of life.”

  I look away and flip the pancakes before they burn as I consider his answer. “I can see that. Have you called that counselor that Parker suggested?”

  He sits down at the breakfast bar, cupping his coffee cup. “Yes, I have an appointment tomorrow.” I slide a plate across the counter and sit down next to him.

  “I’ll never eat all this,” he says, staring at the mound of food in front of him.

  I shrug my shoulders. “I found some old pictures of you, and you’ve lost too much weight. You said you wanted to work on you. I assumed that meant physical health as well, and that starts with eating. Maybe you can start working out with Bruce? I’m sure he has an outfit you can borrow.” I wink at him, then sober up. “I’m sorry about last night. I have a tendency to jump feet first into things and move too fast. I usually end up in trouble, alone, heartbroken, or arrested.” He raises an eyebrow at that last one. “High school boyfriend blew me off. He was supposed to meet me at the mall. I waited until the mall closed, way past curfew, mind you. I decided to swing by his house and confront him. His father didn’t take too kindly to me breaking into the house, and he really didn’t appreciate me kicking him in the balls when I got scared when he started coming at me.”

  He’s barely holding in his laughter. “The real kicker is that I was screaming for Grant to save me from the madman. That’s when the gentleman informed me that Grant lived next door, and I had the wrong house.”

  He shakes his head at me. “I really don’t like feeling pressured into things. It’s a huge pet peeve of mine. This…whatever it is between us, needs to go slow, and at my pace. It could be good, so good, and I want to do this right.” There’s an odd look on his face that I can’t quite describe, but it’s gone in a second.

  “I kind of invited myself along for the flooring and paint colors and shit. If you want to go alone, I’m sure I can go meet up with Ali or something.”

  He walks around the counter and puts his plate in the sink, then comes back around and kisses the side of my neck, shocking the shit out of me.

  “Come with me, Savannah. Maybe you can tell me more stories of your misspent youth.” I get up and huff before loading the dishwasher, then walk out with him, skipping the whole way.

  My knee is bouncing a mile a minute. I’m in the waiting room at the office of Pamela Meeks, the counselor that Parker set me up with.

  The door opens and a kind looking older lady, with graying brown hair and a modest white pant suit.

  “Shamus?”

  I nod my head and stand up. Wiping my hands down my pants, I go into the room and don’t know where to sit. There are four different chairs, and she sits in a big blue one. I look at the other chairs, a hard wooden one, a couch, and a bean bag chair.

  I feel like this is a test, and I’m mildly freaking out.

  “It’s not a test, Shamus. Pick whichever one you would be more comfortable in.”

  I sit on the couch and try to get comfortable.

  “Tell me about you, Shamus.” I jump up, looking around the room. Clearing my throat, I think about what to say.

  “I’m thirty-three, my wife was murdered, and my children were kidnapped from the womb.”

  She looks at me with a shocked expression, but schools her features before she responds. “I’m sorry to hear that, but what I mean is, tell me about Shamus. Not what happened to you, but what makes you, you?

  Thinking about it, I look at the wall and answer her. “I think I forgot me along the way. I don’t know who I am anymore without the heaviness of what happened hanging over me. I was born in Ireland. My mother took a trip to Dublin after she graduated high school, met my father, and they were married within a month. I moved to the states after my grandfather died. Coming from Ireland to the states was a shock. I met Jenny within weeks of moving here. I used to like camping and fishing. I loved to read, mostly paranormal books, some paranormal romance novels. I liked to renovate older homes, taking something old that’s been forgotten and making it new and fresh again.”

  “Everything you said was past tense.”

  “Everything stopped after Jenny was murdered. I haven’t spent a second on just me in so long. I feel separate from who I am and who I was. I don’t feel like I can ever get back to that person after being touched by such filth.”

  “You seem to be pretty aware of your sense of self, even though you say you feel disconnected from you. You’re still aware of it on some level. What’s the main issue, or road block in moving forward?”


  I stand up and start pacing. I look at her and open my mouth, only to close it again, and sit down to bury my face in my hands.

  “Guilt.”

  “Why.”

  Hot tears are sliding down my cheeks.

  “I had a thought while I was in interrogation. When the police were called and came to the house, I was franticly looking for the kids in the bushes, the trash, everywhere. I was a person of interest and I remember sitting in the interrogation room. It was cold, and yet at the same time, I couldn’t hear or feel anything. I felt like I wasn’t there. The officer had just left the room, and I... fuck! I felt relief.” I stand up again and stand by the window. “What kind of a horrible person feels relief that their wife was murdered?”

  She hasn’t said anything, and I close my eyes, wiping my cheeks on my sleeves. “I loved that woman. She was the first and only person to make me feel welcome here, but she was manipulative and needy. There were days where she was so sweet and loving, and I lived for those days. Then, there were the days she hated me, days that I would come home and she would be “entertaining” men. When I kicked them out, she would just sit there, smiling. When she couldn’t get something she wanted, like an expensive purse or something, she would yell and hit me. If I had to work late, she would tell me that I didn’t love her, and she would sink so deep into depression, she would tell me she was suicidal. Being with her was exhausting. I tried…God, I tried so hard to get her in to see a therapist or something, but she would just get mad at me.”

  I look over at her, and she’s smiling at me.

  “Let me tell you a little something about me. I was married for twenty-five years to my high school sweetheart. I don’t tell my patients this story often, but I think you’ll understand. My husband was diagnosed with colon cancer five years ago. I will never forget the day he passed. We were at home, and I could smell the faint hint of smoke; our neighbors had burned a pasture the day before. I sat there alone, for about thirty minutes after he passed, and cried and cried. Then, I took a deep breath, and like you, I felt relief. Relief that he was no longer suffering, and relief that I could get back to me. We did home hospice and we didn’t have any children. It was twenty-four seven, caring for my dying husband. Feeling relief is common. Those, like my husband, it’s a relief that they’re not suffering anymore. Like car accident victims, people feel relief that they went quickly. It isn’t shameful, or uncommon.

  “You’re not alone in your feelings, Shamus. Feel what you feel. Owning it acknowledges it and you move on. In many ways, caring for Jenny was like my husband; she was sick. I can’t say for sure from what, but from what you’ve described, she should have been seeing someone and been medicated. Remember, take in the emotion. Give yourself permission to feel it and move on. Now, tell me where you’re going from here?”

  “Like, location?” My lips quirk.

  “What are you doing for you? I want you to focus on you.”

  “I’m renovating my house.”

  “Why?” I give her a dirty look.

  “Because my kids are coming home, hopefully soon. They don’t know exactly when.”

  “So, the main reason is the kids?”

  “A bit of both. I was passing through Spartan and fell in love with the house. There was something about it that spoke to me. I left, but when I decided to take a break and reevaluate things, I came back and bought it. It’s a gorgeous old home that’s going to be so beautiful when it’s done.”

  “Name something selfish that you’re doing for you, and you alone.”

  Savannah’s smiling face comes to mind. “I’m sort of seeing someone.” She smiles, and I smile back at her. “I met Savannah when she bullied her way into my kids’ case. She’s Luke’s, a friend of mine’s, sister. I was so frustrated with her because she’s pushy and aggressive in ways that totally irritate me. She’s so freaking beautiful. I guess the best way to describe her is beautiful chaos. She’s a feisty, petite blonde who races through life, spreading sunshine and shitting rainbows. She touches something in me that draws me in. I want her positivity, her happiness, and willingness to just jump. She’s honest, and totally up front with everything. She doesn’t manipulate; what you see is what you get. She’s made it known that she wants a relationship with me, and I want that too, but I feel fucking overwhelmed with everything. I want to take things slow, and she wants to run headlong into a relationship.”

  I look at her, contemplating what I want to say. “She brings something out in me, and that scares me. It was a part of me that I touched on with Jenny, but she hated it. I crave control. Not over Savannah’s everyday life, but in the bedroom. I let that part of me run a little wild when she was trying to bully her way into my bed last night…not sexually speaking, not sex. But I crowded her space and spanked her, told her how I felt and explained that things will move at my pace.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “I was horrified, and aroused by my actions.”

  “Your marriage was controlled and manipulated by Jenny. You felt out of control, so it makes sense that in your next relationship, you would assert your dominance early, especially if it’s natural to you.”

  “The thing to remember, Shamus, is that in a relationship, where dominance and submission is prevalent, communication is paramount. You should outline and reaffirm what you need out of your relationship.” Just then, her phone beeps. “Well, that’s it for us today. How do you feel?”

  “Lighter. Things don’t seem so muddy.”

  Shaking her hand, I walk out with a better attitude, not so weighed down by guilt. When I was working on the master bedroom and bathroom plans, there was a lot of things that I wanted to do and decided not to. Now, I think I just might go ahead with my plans.

  I leave in just a week and half. The house is coming along nicely, but Shamus won’t let me into his bedroom. He’s been working like crazy on something in there.

  We’re sitting on the couch snuggled up, watching TV, and Shamus is going over his business plan. I look over at him and cringe because something has been weirding me out.

  Okay, maybe not weird, weird, but maybe OCD in a way.

  You see, he has an eyebrow hair, just one, right in the middle that I shit you not, is like four inches long.

  “What’s wrong with you tonight?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Savannah?”

  “What!” I snap.

  “Spit it out already. You’re making me tense.”

  Fuck it. I get up off the couch and go into the half bath to get my tweezers out of my makeup bag, then make my way back into the living room.

  He takes his reading glasses off and sets his paperwork aside. I’m working up the courage, and I think to myself, that if this is going to work, I need to be me. So, I walk up and straddle his lap. I’m far away from the happy zone, trying to temper my actions.

  He smiles at me. “Something I can help you with, dear?” I pull out the tweezers and hold them up. He looks confused. “What the fuck?”

  “You’re a unicorn.”

  “What?”

  “You have a single, nutso eyebrow hair that’s pissing me off! That sucker is like four inches long. How in the hell you haven’t noticed it is beyond my comprehension.”

  “What are you planning to do with those?”

  “I’m pulling that bitch out by the root. I’m plucking your eyebrows, Shamus.”

  “The hell you are!” He tries to take them from me as I scoot back, almost falling off his lap, but his hands grip my hips and we both go still. I glance at his face and my eyes zero in on the single wacky eyebrow hair.

  “Please, Shamus, I can’t stand it!” I whimper.

  “Just the one. I don’t want girly eyebrows.” I bounce around on his lap and his eyes zero in on my breasts. Sliding forward, I lean in and hold up the tweezers.

  I’m shocked stupid when Shamus grips my hips and pulls me all the way forward, where my pussy rests directly over his hard cock. I look down, and then look back at hi
m in shock.

  “If you’re going to do it, now’s the time, Savannah.”

  My hands are shaking, but I concentrate and lean forward. My breath fans over his face. I probably don’t need to be this close, but fuck it. I grip the hair in my tweezers and yank it out.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yells out, rubbing his forehead, and I burst out laughing. I pulled one single hair out and he’s crying like a baby. He jerks the tweezers out of my hand and throws them on the coffee table. I’m still laughing my ass off when he flips us, him now on top of me.

  I stop laughing.

  After his display of dominance a couple weeks ago, I don’t really know how to approach this kind of situation with him.

  I haven’t ever been with someone like that, and it gives me an insane thrill, but makes me nervous at the same time.

  “I like control in the bedroom, Savannah,” he blurts out. “Shit, I didn’t mean to just throw that out there like that. Pamela said we needed to talk about it. I kind of surprised you with it the other night, and surprised myself as well. I don’t need or want dominance in everyday life, and I’m not going to go all Mr. Grey on you or anything. But, I need to be the one to call the shots when and if we’re intimate. I won’t ever do anything that would hurt you, and I need to know you’re okay with that.”

  “I can handle that. The other night was hot, and not something I have any experience with, but it resonates with me, I guess. I’m trying to temper my…actions. It’s hard, though, even if we weren’t dipping our toes into this relationship, considering it. I’m still a touchy-feely person. I like to snuggle and hug, and touch. It’s hard because it’s natural for me.”

  He rests his forehead against mine. “I don’t want you to stop that, but when it comes to sex, things move at my speed.”

  I smile at him and run my hands up his back, then hug him.