by Fiona Keane
“You don’t play fair,” he grumbled while pushing me into the office, not caring that I was forced to walk backward.
“I thought we weren’t playing.”
He looked up at me, his eyes the only warning I needed. “Don’t discuss my family with anyone. Ever.”
“It’s just Emma, and Liam is your brother,” I protested, watching Julian scan the office for my suitcase. He knelt against the floor to seal the zipper before standing and approaching me, his posture towering and imposing.
“It isn’t just Emma,” he mocked, ridiculing my intelligence. “Emma Daly is not a friend of yours. And Liam, I don’t want to hear his name on those precious lips of yours ever again.” Not my friend? Now I couldn’t even talk to Liam?
“Are you going to be this cruel in public, Mr. Molloy?”
“Cruel?” His face contorted, full of insult from my question, eyeing me expectantly.
“Are you going to alienate me, tease me with your insight, and belittle me when we’re out in the real world, pretending to be hopelessly in love with one another? Are you going to threaten me out there? Am I going to feel as pathetic out there as I do in here?” Without a verbal response, Julian lifted my suitcase into his right hand and wove his fingers through my left, pulling me with him as he stormed from the office. His strides were powerful, almost painful to keep up with, and determined. He was getting us out of the coffee shop as quickly as possible, and the nagging tug inside battled my heart. We breezed by Emma, her head spinning in our dust.
Two men waited for Julian, one of whom I recognized as David. Both were dressed in all black, their suits covered by coats that probably concealed a multitude of weaponry. As we approached, Julian’s grip dangerously tight, the men separated and allowed us to pass through their wall of protection. Julian’s foot held the door for me while I struggled to maintain his pace, but he refused to look back. The snow continued falling overnight, adding inches to the present blanket already covering Boston.
“Get in,” Julian grunted while dropping my suitcase in the snow and opening the door to the backseat of the familiar black Mercedes. I stalled, my heart hesitant in its beating.
“Get in the damn car,” he muttered, his face lifted to glare at me with such angst, such primal determination, that I froze. His hand was quick to wrap around my back, gently shoving me into the backseat. I stumbled, falling onto the seat face first, but the gentleman that was Julian Molloy gave my bottom a push. Pervert. With the doors closed, the car filled with an overwhelming silence. Please, someone turn on the radio.
“There are few things that truly bother me, Aideen, but you need to understand that your disrespect won’t be tolerated.” Julian’s tone was debilitating, the sound alone enough to tighten my throat. I turned to him, surprised when his eyes hung with a haunted depth that suggested, possibly, he was no longer as livid as he had been while shoving me into his car.
“David,” he hollered to the driver, his eyes locked on mine, “my home. Please.” I couldn’t imagine what depravity or content lingered behind his eyes. I couldn’t begin to comprehend what he witnessed or knew through those stunning blue eyes.
“Was press outside?” I choked, my throat dry as I risked communicating with him. Julian’s head shook, a slow and deliberate movement, while he licked his lips.
“Me touching your bottom was for my own pleasure,” he teased, fighting a smile at the corner of his mouth, “and you weren’t moving quickly enough.”
“You can’t treat me like that.” My confidence bubbled, beginning to return beneath the cloud of angst. “I won’t stand for it.”
“I won’t allow you to disrespect me in such a manner either,” he rebuked, “so I guess we’re even then.” Julian’s eyes flickered from mine, dropping to the ground while he wiggled into his coat and buckled the seatbelt across his lap. I studied him in awe, transfixed by how each hair on his perfectly groomed head was meticulously placed. Yet the further I examined him, our faces only a foot apart, I wondered if the shadow along his jaw was normal, if the gray darkness beneath his eyes was the truth.
Isolated with only each other in the back of his car, I examined Julian Molloy, memorizing each line around his eye, every muscle fluttering with his clenched jaw, and I felt my heart ache. The pain was familiar, like a spoken word long since forgotten but ever present.
“We’re even,” I repeated, mindlessly watching him. “Both lonely. Always have been?”
“We have,” he whispered, lifting his fist to his mouth while his elbow rested against the window. I turned away, my glance following the monochromatic blanket of white that we passed while driving to Julian’s home. He knows something. I was on thin ice, and he was a sledgehammer, ready to break me if I said the wrong thing. I needed to figure it out, or at least determine how to speak with him, before my mind exploded. This isn’t the right time. He’s clearly still upset with me. The ass touched my bum. Oh, he’ll be my first tally if he keeps that up.
Silence lingered heavily around us for the remainder of our drive; the only sounds coming from Julian were the soft padding of his body moving or the hushed vibration of his unanswered cell phone. Once we arrived at his building, David pulled along the curb at the front door. Of course his sidewalk is shoveled and clear. Rich people.
“Sir,” David spoke to Julian, acknowledging our arrival. Julian tapped on the window before opening the door. He slid out from the backseat rather fluidly, like dark silk flowing in a warm breeze. Silently, he reached for my hand. His skin was warm, invigorating, and powerful wrapped around me. I let him help me down, aware of my previous warnings while in public with Julian, and kept my head toward the ground. He smiled and nodded in greeting to three people we passed on our way to the elevator, pausing to intertwine our fingers with his left hand while reaching around my shoulders with his right as we waited for the elevator to arrive.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Molloy.” A man slowly inched off the elevator, his age showing through speckles of gray in his brown hair. “Haven’t seen your grand-dad as of late.”
“It’s nice to see you, Mr. Hill.” Julian’s tone lifted, returning to the charismatic senator-wannabe. I couldn’t disagree any longer; it was intoxicatingly hypnotizing.
“He’s been busy,” Julian continued. “I will let him know you’re looking for him.” The man’s eyes roamed toward me, scanning the length of my figure with glee, his tongue licking his bottom lip in sordid approval.
“And who is this fine maiden?”
I blinked, my breath hitching as Julian’s hold of my shoulder and fingers clenched, covetously tightening around me.
“This is my girlfriend, Aideen Leary,” Julian replied, his tone dropping slightly, perhaps only noticed by me. “We’re heading up. Have a good evening.”
“Hope to see you again soon. Both of you,” the man promised, his left eye winking at me while we stepped into the elevator and the doors closed. These perverts. I can’t deal. Julian released my shoulder, but not our fingers, and stretched across the elevator to enter his floor.
“Deviant,” he muttered beneath his breath, the words trickling out with a sigh, certainly hoping I hadn’t heard his words.
“Did you say something?”
“No.” His response was curt, painfully brief, the tone of which left much to be desired.
“My hand,” I whispered, wiggling my sore fingers between his. His head snapped toward mine, impassively staring at me upon releasing our shared contact. Yikes. This is going to be a wonderful ride. As the doors opened, my chest filled with panic that consumed me days prior. Nobody would hear me scream. One door. Long hall. Julian Molloy. I worried he sensed my tension, the shortened breaths that struggled to leave my chest, but he hadn’t spoken more to me. Leaving me wanting, as promised.
I followed him through the foyer, fearful as we returned to the scene of Julian’s emotional crime. We were back in his home, together.
Julian hung his coat in a small closet, kicking off his s
hoes inside, before turning to me. Without words, he motioned for me to follow his footsteps. When I caught up with him, almost crashing into his back, he turned a doorknob and opened the panel, revealing a second bedroom. The room was smaller than his and contained a bed that screamed for my dreams to occur on it, covered in thick, plush fabrics of rich blue and crisp white. I waited in the doorway, watching Julian navigate the space while my mind hung onto the details of our car ride. Julian pressed some buttons on a remote resting on a white dresser near the door, and a panel lifted from the wall opposite the bed as I entered the space. Blue flames were quick to rise from the exposed gas fireplace, immediately warming the room with heat and glow. My suitcase was brought in before us and rested on top of the plush bed. He wasn’t speaking to me, and I also opted for silence.
My arms were tightly crossed around my body, fidgeting with the mess dangling from my ponytail. Julian slowly paced the room, crossing from one task to another, before stopping at the bed. What is he doing? Julian opened my suitcase, his long fingers sifting through the pile of things I grabbed in my hurry to leave my apartment. Nothing matched. In fact, I don’t even remember what I packed.
“There is no dinner,” I mumbled, glancing at the slowly burning blue flames of his gas fireplace. “Is there?”
“No.” Thought so. He continued to sort through my luggage, his head shaking in disgust or disdain. I didn’t know—he wasn’t talking.
“There will be one this weekend, though,” Julian finally said. I inched closer to the bed, studying his movements. He took his cellphone from the front pocket of his pants, entering a number before turning away from me and staring at the fireplace.
“Maureen,” he said, “I need a favor. Yes. I don’t know…” Julian stepped back to the suitcase, his fingers sifting through until he found a pair of jeans, holding the tag down with his index finger while resuming conversation with his sister.
“Size eight,” he continued, “thank you.” Julian stuffed the phone back into his pocket and leaned his bottom against the mattress.
“Buying my body bag?” His head hung in response. He’s smiling. Definitely buying my body bag.
“No, Aideen.” He chuckled. “I’m not buying your body bag. Maureen’s buying you clothes. You packed in a hurry.”
“I couldn’t stay there.”
“I know, babby.” His head shook before his blue eyes met mine, beckoning my stare. “We need to talk about it.” My mouth gaped, watching Julian’s hand extend toward mine.
“Truce?” His question came through grinning lips, parting with a friendly smile. My eyes drifted from his hand to his face, worried, nervous, overly paranoid, yet his eyes lifted with his smile, calming me.
“Take my hand, Aideen,” he assured me, “no games. No rope.”
“No gag?” The sound of Julian’s laughter, the vibrant hum that swirled like a pleasurable tornado, consumed me. The smile that followed was even more detrimental.
“No, Aideen. No gag. Just two old friends having a conversation.”
Chapter Twenty-One
My eyes narrowed questionably. “Old friends?”
“Well,” Julian continued to reach for my hand, “we’re much more than that out there. We can be whatever you’d like in here. Whatever would make you happy.” Old friends. It was simple, too casual to be a misunderstanding or humored commentary. Old friends.
“Take my hand,” he pressed, gaining my attention once more. His eyes were wide with need, burning with a blue flame to match the warm fireplace behind him.
“What is this room?” I hesitantly reached for his palm, shuffling from the mattress as he stepped back. The sleeves of his sweater were pushed up, revealing the muscles of his forearms that moved like a perfectly chiseled rolling wave of strength with each move of his wrist while he escorted me from the bedroom. We approached the living room, the fireplace already roasting the room like a warm hug.
“Wait,” I tugged against his hold, “what is that room?”
“It’s where you’ll sleep.” Julian mentioned that as if it were expected, as though I was a moron for assuming anything other than taking a room in his home. My jaw dropped, simultaneously peeved and relieved.
“I’ll sleep in there? What about you—”
He released his hold around my wrist, smiling at me with a smug lift of his mouth. “I can sleep in there too, if that would make you happy, Aideen.”
“No.” My head shook. “I don’t want us sleeping in there.” I couldn’t believe his humor, his toying attempt at seduction. As if I would ever!
“My room it is then.”
I punched his arm, his smugness turning to laughter. “That’s not what I meant! I was going to ask how can you have a space for me here if I’m not to know anything about your life?” His left arm extended into the living room, nodding for me to enter. The box he gave me during our hostage crisis was tucked against the side of the large couch, suggesting that perhaps he expected my return. Creeper. Julian sank into one end of the couch, watching me linger in the doorway expectantly.
“No games,” he assured me, “nothing. Simply talking. Trust me.”
“Can I?” While waiting for his response, my heart grew stupefied by the longing I felt to hear the velvet pour from his mouth. I stared at his arms, taking in every mark of ink winding around his skin, forming a decorative sleeve on his right forearm. Squinting, my mind more composed than the last two times I saw his entire arm; one time when he had on no shirt—sweet Lord, I can’t go back there, I found myself possessed by a series of lines within a rectangular shape, weaving around his elbow. I’d seen that before.
“You know the answer to that, Aideen,” he finally replied, following my eyes and promptly running a hand through his hair. “Please come and sit down with me.”
I walked over to Julian, brazenly filled with confidence and a new level of comfort, and lifted his right arm from the armrest of his couch. His skin was smooth, as though his world required he never lift a finger for work. Privileged. Julian stiffened, paralyzed by my touch. I feel it too. The spark tickled through my palm as I held his wrist, my other hand pushing the sleeve of his sweater farther back, folding it over his elbow. It was a delicate cashmere, a fabric so light it graced his body like silk. I shouldn’t have looked up at him; his eyes were raw, widened with a fear I had yet to witness within those hauntingly deep circles of blue. Raw. Terrified. Primal.
“Aideen.” Julian swallowed, his throat tightening around my name. I quietly looked away, pulling my gaze from the burning expression in his eyes, focusing on the tattoo my finger traced around his elbow. The lines were straight and curving, weaving within the frame of a small, fading black Celtic cross.
“You’re a religious man,” I scoffed, the trembling tip of my index finger stroking the lines along his arm. “This is Celtic. You’re Catholic?”
“I’m a nothing, Aideen, a nobody.”
I know those words. My eyes fluttered upward, receiving an empty gaze, a lonely expression that possessed me. In that moment, my heart disregarded what he did to me, who he was, and I became consumed by the beauty before me. In that moment, Julian was human.
“That’s not something I would expect someone like you to admit.” I studied his stare, receiving no feedback, barely even a blink. “Are you…I’ve seen this before.”
Julian’s arm rotated within my palm, twisting itself free from my grasp. He cleared his throat, the cushion of his couch shifting beneath his weight as he moved.
“How can you think you’re a nobody?” I prodded, my persistence possibly promising my death. Julian shifted to allow his right leg to fold beneath him, repositioning himself comfortably in the corner of his couch. His right hand pulled along his face, stretching his skin with exasperation. But I have so many questions.
“Why am I here?”
His hand fell, dangling from the armrest, and the deep circles melted into mine. “Because I want you to be.” Swallow. Breathe. Don’t die.
I don’t know what came over me—his eyes, the way his tongue slowly probed along his lips, or how disastrously melancholy Julian appeared while sitting across from me—but my hand took control, my brain ceasing to anticipate physical function, and lifted to hold the stubble on his cheek. I thought it would be rougher, but it still felt smooth, the bristles tickling my skin. His eyes locked on mine as my hand roamed above his clenching jaw.
“You’re a nothing,” I repeated his words, questioning their depth, “a nobody.”
Julian’s brows met, hovering above his locked eyes. His blink broke his silence, his left hand quickly reaching to pull my wrist from his face.
“I’m thirsty,” he told me as he placed my hand at my side and slowly got up from the couch. I choked, wanting to say something else to him but unable to before he left the room. He smells delicious. I turned around, my arms protectively crossed against my chest, gazing at the wall of books next to the smoldering fireplace. I wondered if he had time to read all of them or if it was for show, an illustration of his intelligence or wealth. Why do I care? I’m a nobody.
With a sigh, I spun slowly, my eyes catching Julian’s return. His right hand possessed a bottle of glistening Riesling, the glass sparkling with condensation. It dangled by his index finger and thumb, swaying while he stood in the doorway. His eyes were softer than before. He must have used eye drops. Nobody like him would show this much emotion after all he said and did to me. Nobody. Ah, the word of the hour. Julian’s left hand held the stems of two wine glasses, both sparkling and clear from his expensive dish detergent. I’d kill for a dishwasher. Maybe he did.
“I know this wasn’t your best of friends the other night, but,” Julian shrugged, a small smile lifting in the corner of his mouth, “we can try again?”
“We?” I questioned, my arms dropping to my sides while I approached him, losing myself at his beck and call. I hate me. I waited for him to return to the couch before making my next move, not wanting him to believe he completely changed my mind about his sanity and motives. Once he placed the bottle and glasses on the coffee table, Julian walked around to the box that rested like a terrible hangover on the floor.
