His Captive

by Zahra Girard

  I take the quickest shower I can, making sure to keep my hair dry. I touch up my makeup with some of the basics I keep in my purse, and dig through the clothes in Connor’s dresser.

  Finding something that actually works as an outfit is maddening. There’s a monogrammed Celtics dance team uniform, a New England Patriots cheerleaders outfit — also monogrammed — and a whole lot of leather. It’s not hard to pick up on Connor’s type.

  So why is he so interested in me? I’m not anything like these girls.

  I throw on a pair of too-tight jeans and a Celtics t-shirt and hope I don’t look too ridiculous for where we’re going.

  What am I saying? I definitely look ridiculous.

  I finish everything with a minute to spare.

  Connor’s waiting for me at the door. He’s grinning like a kid at Christmas.

  “You look nice,” he says.

  I smile back. This outfit is so not me, but I’ll take the compliment.

  “So, now that I’ve jumped through the hoops, care to tell me where it is we’re going?”

  He unlocks the door and holds it open for me, before following me out into the hall.

  “Evelyn, I’m about to show you what it really means to be a mobster in this city.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Evelyn

  Screams.

  Tears.

  Bawling, ugly faces.

  Shouting.

  A ball pit.

  Children.

  And a bizarre looking mouse dressed like an Italian chef.

  Help.

  This is what being a Boston mobster is all about.

  In a small, child-centric restaurant called “Martin the Mouse’s Pizza Playhouse”, I’m getting my first real look at the Boston Underworld.

  It’s a lot different than I would’ve expected; they even have skee ball.

  It’s not far from Connor’s penthouse. We got here in less than five minutes, even though we hit every red light on the way.

  But from the second we step inside, I’m on edge. This is all so weird.

  “Who are all these people?” I whisper to him, once we clear the doors.

  Connor’s got a huge, childish grin on his face that’s almost endearing. And as soon as we enter the restaurant, three young girls and two young boys — one of whom is wearing a huge paper crown and must be the birthday boy — yell and wave at us.

  Connor gives them a big, exaggerated wave back.

  “Neighbors, mostly,” he says to me. “It’s Ryan’s birthday. He’s the tyke in the crown.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “And this is mob stuff?”

  He nods. “Yeah, it is. Isn’t it fucking great? I love this place.”

  “Do you and I have grossly different understandings of what the phrase ‘mob stuff’ means?”

  “I guess we do,” he says, shrugging. “We MacCailins live the high life.”

  My eyebrow stays raised, and I keep looking at him.

  He sighs.

  “It isn’t all just about killin’ people and busting heads, you know. Even when you’re the best in Boston at it. Being a MacCailin is about looking after your own. Including the regular people in your neighborhood. You do it for them, and they do the same for you.”

  He goes quiet as Ryan and his oversized birthday crown sprint right towards us. “Uncle Connor,” the kid squeals.

  Connor drops down nearly to his knees, getting to the kid’s height. He holds his hand up high. “What’s up, birthday boy?”

  Ryan doesn’t answer, but he gives Connor a huge, jumping high-five.

  It makes sense, but I still can’t wrap my head around it. Seeing Connor — or “Uncle Connor” as Ryan calls him — give the kid a big hug, ruffle his hair, and then hand him his present, is just too much to process.

  Don’t these people know he’s a killer? How can Ryan’s mom — who is watching us from a table by the ball pit — just smile while her kid hugs a hitman?

  Little Ryan leaves us to go running back to his friends, and Connor looks to me, grinning. “Go ahead and mingle with the adults. Have some fun. We’ll be here for a while.”

  Just like that, Connor’s off. Not to the mom’s table with the other adults. He’s off to the ball pit.

  Within seconds, he’s talked a couple of the kids — Ryan included — to join him in a game of skee ball.

  I stare.

  Is this for real?

  Then the reporter in me comes out. At least I’ll have a chance to find out more about Connor from the people that know him.

  The more information I have, the more I know where I stand and what’s going on, the better chance I have of protecting myself and getting out of this alive.

  I head over to the mom’s table.

  Four women — all in their thirties, all looking like normal, Boston housewives — sit around a small, plastic banquet table, covered with open pizza boxes, presents, and a birthday cake.

  Thank God they have wine.

  “Hi, I’m Evelyn, I, um, came here with Connor,” I say.

  I feel so dumb. And awkward. Maybe I should go to the ball pit.

  What do I say? How much do they know? What can I talk about?

  I’m a journalist. I ask questions for a living. I can figure this out. Maybe.

  Ryan’s mom — at least, I’m assuming she’s Ryan’s mom, since she’s the same woman that was watching as Ryan ran over to us — stands up, pulls a red solo cup from a stack, and fills it nearly to the brim with white wine.

  Smiling, she hands it to me. “Sit down, relax, drink. We know what Connor does.”

  I practically slump into my seat at the table and take a huge sip of wine. Well, more like a gulp, really.

  “You do?”

  She nods. “Everyone knows he works for the MacCailin family. I’m Jennifer, by the way. And this is Rebecca, Christine, and Lora.”

  I say ‘Hi’ to each of them and am already starting to feel more relaxed.

  “So, you all know? That he…”

  Rebecca shrugs, and her red curly hair bounces a bit. “Dear, we don’t ask questions. All that anyone knows is that he’s a MacCailin.”

  “Well, it’s not that we don’t ask questions. But we know what not to ask about. It’s enough for us to know who he’s with, and that he’s a good man,” Christine says, chiming in.

  “This isn’t the first birthday party he’s been to. He’s come to Ryan’s last three birthdays,” Jennifer adds.

  I look over my shoulder to see Ryan and Connor locked in a heated game of skee ball. They’re laughing their asses off, and Ryan’s giving as good as he gets — which means Connor’s probably taking it easy on him.

  He’s a natural with the kids.

  And as much as I’ve seen him to be a fierce, terrifying man, there’s no way he’s faking with these kids either. He genuinely cares about them.

  “So, it doesn’t bother you, what the MacCailin’s or any others like them do?” I say.

  I know it’s a bold question, and I almost regret it the second it’s out of my mouth.

  “Where’d you meet Connor?” Jennifer says, her tone just a bit less friendly than before.

  “A bar,” I answer. Which is the truth. Just heavily edited.

  “And how long have you known him?” Lora asks. She looks pointedly at me through the lenses of her glasses.

  “Not long. Why do you ask?” I say.

  I’m used to being the interrogator, not the interrogated, and I’m starting to feel on edge.

  Jennifer reaches out and puts her hand on my shoulder. “We care about Connor, that’s why. I’ve known him for a long time, and Lora lives in the same building as him.”

  “Not on the same floor. My husband, Richard, and I live quite a few floors down, but we have him over for dinner from time to time. And he and Richard got courtside tickets for the Celtics playoff games last year,” Lora adds.

  “And in that whole time we’ve known him, hearing about all the women’s he’s broug
ht home — and trust me, his neighbors hear it most every night — we’ve never met a single one of his girlfriends. Ever. So we ask because we don’t want to see him get hurt,” Jennifer gives my arm a squeeze.

  I look back at Connor again.

  He’s holding Ryan on his shoulders, helping the kid lean way forward over the skee ball table so he can drop the ball in the center hole. Ryan drops it, and a big victory siren goes off over the skee ball machine while he and Connor give each other a high five.

  I smile.

  “He’s a good man, isn’t he?” I say.

  “He is. I’ve known him since he was fifteen. Lochlan used to hire me to babysit every Friday night. He always had a standing date with Lily, and he never missed it,” she says.

  I look at her a bit bug-eyed. Babysitters and dinner-dates don’t really fit in to my vision of the Irish mob.

  “So, what was that like?” I say.

  Jennifer shrugs. “The boys were a handful. Well, Liam wasn’t. He followed Lochlan’s orders to the letter, and Lochlan always told the boys point-blank that I was in charge.”

  “And the others? Connor?”

  Jennifer has a motherly smile on her face, same with the other women at the table.

  “Davin was a terror, first of all,” she says.

  “Still is. That kid ain’t right,” says Rebecca.

  “That kid’s going to start a war some day,” Lora murmurs.

  Jennifer shrugs. “Be that as it may, Riley and Connor were both great kids. Thick as thieves and they used to sneak out all the time.”

  “Sneak out? Sure, Jen, a likely story,” Lora says, smirking.

  “Ok, I may have let them. But do you think anyone could stop Connor from going out when he’s got a date?” She shoots back at Lora. “Besides, it was good for Riley.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  All the women share a look, before Jennifer opens her mouth to speak. “Connor trusts you, so we’ll trust you, too. But you do not speak a word to anyone else, got it? Not even the other MacCailins, if you ever meet them. They’re too traditional.”

  I nod. “Yes, of course.”

  Lora leans in, her voice a hushed whisper even though we’re the only adults — and only people — near this table. There’s so much noise from screaming and playing kids that I doubt anyone could eavesdrop if they tried.

  “Connor would sneak out to meet girls, and Riley would sneak out, too. For similar reasons, but for dates he could never tell his family about because they’re very traditional. Connor was always his alibi.”

  It hits me. “I see.”

  I look back to see Connor and Ryan now in a heated argument with one of the Pizza Playhouse employees. Connor has Ryan on his shoulders, dropping ball after ball into the grand prize hole on the skee ball machine. They have a line of prize tickets at least twenty feet long.

  “Take care of him, Evelyn,” Jennifer says. “You wouldn’t think it, knowing what he does for a living, but he’s got a good heart.”

  I’m starting to think that there’s much more to Connor than I gave him credit for, and the things I’m finding out about him are things I like.

  Well, excluding the cheating at children’s games.

  We’re not out of the woods yet, though. My life is still in danger and I’m stuck in limbo with a hitman. But I’m feeling like maybe, just maybe, I’ll be ok. Thanks to him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Connor

  “What was that about? Was that a test?” Evelyn says as soon as we’re back in the car.

  I steer us out of the parking lot, navigating us into traffic. I use it as a chance to think, to put my thoughts together.

  I wasn’t intending on testing her.

  I really did have to go to that party. I’d been telling Ryan and Jennifer for weeks that I’d be there, and my word is my bond. Especially because I promised Ryan an RC car and, since he’s smart kid, he’d have given me hell if I didn’t deliver.

  But getting an approving look from Jennifer and the other moms as Evelyn and I were preparing to leave? Well, that may’ve made me puff my chest up a little bit more than usual.

  Those women are all part of my adopted family.

  They might not be MacCailins, but we all take care of each other, we watch out for each other, because that’s what you do in the neighborhood.

  So, even though I wasn’t testing her — I really just wanted to give her a chance to get out, even if it was to a kids birthday party — it feels good to know she passed whatever paces Jennifer put her through.

  “That was about keeping my promise to a very important eight year old, that’s all,” I say.

  She smiles. Sighs a little, but she doesn’t press me further.

  Her hand settles on my shoulder, rubbing me through the fabric of my shirt. It’s an idle touch, but it’s enough to send blood coursing to my cock.

  Fucking hell, she’s got a hold on me.

  I shift my legs, trying to cover up the fact that I’m hard nearly the instant she touches me.

  Even though she’s still technically my prisoner, passing Jennifer’s test did a lot to change how I see her.

  Yes, Evelyn knows incriminating information about the MacCailin family, and every sensible part of me knows getting close to her is wrong and dangerous.

  But I’ve never let that stop me before.

  I can’t stop thinking about her legs. And hips. The way she moves. She’s temptation in a five-foot-something package of perfection.

  I want her in ways I can’t even describe. I need her, and for more than just one night.

  Ever since she sashayed away from me the other night at the bar — walking like she was tempting me to take her right then and there — those hips have been seared into my brain.

  They’d be perfect handholds while I fucked her from behind. I can just imagine how that ass will look, with her bent over, and with her back arched and her dark hair flying every which way.

  Bloody fucking perfect.

  “Connor?”

  There’s an edge to her voice and she switches from rubbing me to putting a death grip on my shoulder.

  Oh yeah, I’m driving.

  “Right,” I say, pulling myself out of my fantasy just as it was getting to the good part.

  We swerve back into the correct lane.

  I swear I see her eyes flicker, looking down between my legs, at the bulge I can’t hide.

  And for a second, a smile tugs at the edges of her lips. She wants it.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says, her just a bit heated. “Just don’t get us killed.”

  Nearly getting in a car crash does a bit to stop my throbbing erection. Just a bit. Evelyn’s still right next to me, still making me hard though the simple fact of her existence.

  I can feel her even when I’m not looking at her. Like every nerve of mine is firing on overdrive and edging my cock to swell harder than it’s ever been before. It feels like the head of my cock is going to pop like an overfilled balloon.

  “Sweet mercy,” I grumble.

  I just missed the fucking entrance to my parking garage.

  “Are you ok, Connor?” She asks.

  That hands back on my shoulder, squeezing, stroking, and giving me all sorts of rock hard problems.

  Fuck, I’m a mess.

  I want that dark-haired, hazel-eyed angel in my passenger seat more than anything I’ve ever wanted.

  I have to keep her safe. I have to make her mine.

  Just the thought of something happening to her grates my spine and makes my fists clench.

  I hardly know her, but I’d kill for her.

  Hell, I’d die for her.

  But can I really do this to the MacCailins? They raised me up from being a worthless nothing on the street. They stood by me. They shed blood for me. They sat me at their table. They’re my family.

  I’m not a thinking man — everyone knows that — but it looks like the heavens have given me one tough riddle to cr
ack.

  I finally get the car parked, and rush Evelyn out of the car. As soon as she’s not looking, I shift my pulsing erection up and into the waistband of my jeans.

  It’s still noticeable — I’ve been told more times than I can count that I’m gifted — but it’s not as blatant as before.

  When the doors shut, things get worse.

  Evelyn looks me square in the eye. Her jaw is set. The determined expression on her face sets off the perfect angles of her face.

  God damn, she’s beautiful.

  “I did something for you back there. I trusted you. I went to that party. I let four of your friends interrogate me. Now it’s your turn to do something for me.”

  I can feel a headache building behind my eyes. It’s a very strange sensation, considering it’s coming along with me still being hard as a rock.

  Swelling in both heads. Just great.

  “What’s that?” I say.

  “I need you to charge my phone. I need to call my work, my family, my friends, to make sure they know I’m not dead.”

  I’m dumbfounded.

  There’s no way I can agree to that.

  And she’s not done.

  “I know you’re not going to like this, but, I need to go in to work tomorrow.”

  She’s right. I don’t.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Evelyn

  I’ve never seen anyone do so quick of a one-eighty.

  One second he’s looking at me like he wants to eat me just like he devoured the cake at Ryan’s birthday party. Which was pretty fucking cute. He had frosting on his nose.

  That kind of man — the kind who makes the people he obviously cares about feel cared for in return — is a kind of man I could be with.

  But the Connor I see now?

  He frightens me.

  His eyes burn with a fierce fire and it’s like all the muscles in his arms and chest are tense and ready for a fight.

  This is the man that owns me.

  Owns my life. Owns my body.

  My heart is racing.

  I try go get myself under control, to look like I’m not overwhelmed by how raw and powerful he is.