by Zahra Girard
When I collapse beside her, the two of us sprawling out in a mess on the couch — thank fucking hell it’s leather — I’m more empty, yet more fulfilled, than I’ve ever been in my life.
I’ve fucked an angel and sent my life straight to hell.
What the fuck have I done?
Chapter Fifteen
Evelyn
That was an argument I’d be glad to have again. And again. And again.
I didn’t see it turning out like that.
I figured I would just ask him some reasonable questions, interrogate him, and wear him down until he saw reason: that ruining my life and my family’s life, just to maybe save me from a potential hit, does me no favors.
But then he had to shut down the elevator, get right up against me, and pretty much short circuit every bit of logic and reason I have by being so unrelentingly fierce and irresistibly masculine. I had to have him.
Not to mention the fact that he did a horrible job of hiding his erection the whole drive back to his place.
I don’t blame him, though, it was like he had a second stick shifter between his legs. Kinda hard to hide something that big.
But either way, I won.
I sit up, feeling energized.
I can finally get back to my life.
“Ok, Connor Halloran, Irish Son of Boston, whose word is his bond: it is time to deliver,” I intone, like I’m some monk making a serious declaration.
Then, I giggle-snort, because he looks at me like I’ve just turned into a leprechaun.
I feel like a total dork.
But my head is still swimming and I guess I’m still feeling giddy from the ride up the elevator that involved just the right amount of going down.
“You’re fucking mad,” he says. “You really want to do this?”
I nod. “We agreed.”
“That’s because you had me by the balls, lass. Literally.”
Shrugging, I shake my head. “An agreement’s an agreement. You could’ve said ‘no’.”
His eyes practically bug out of his head. “How the fuck could I have done that? You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen — I’d sooner cut me cock off.”
I blush. It’s the most foul-mouthed compliment I’ve ever received. And it’s beautiful.
“Either way, you can trust me, Connor. I don’t want to die. But you’re not the only one who thinks family is important. I do, too. Trust me.”
He sighs and makes a face like a child forcing down a plate of brussels sprouts.
“Fine.”
Minutes later, the familiar and comforting glow emanates from the screen of my phone as we find a charger and plug it in.
I go through my voicemail — a not-fun task on any day, an especially not-fun one today. None of them are happy messages.
Greg Hosking is pissed I didn’t show up for work today.
Greg Hosking can go fuck himself, I think.
Connor must be rubbing off on me.
Wait, no, those thoughts about Greg are entirely my own.
Karen’s reminding me that the wedding is nine days away — as if I could forget — and the bachelorette party is in two days, on Saturday night.
All of this means I have tomorrow to save my job, write and turn in an article so I can get paid and somehow figure out how I’m going to get to my best friend’s bachelorette party.
Oh, and there’s a voicemail from my bank, reminding me that my credit card payment is due by Monday.
I’m one of those special customers — they call us the working poor — that the bank takes time out of their day to actually call and give a stern reminder about payments.
They send me letters, too. With red ink, even.
Maybe it’s not too late to convince Connor to shoot me.
“Something wrong, lass?” he says, a look of concern plain on his handsome face.
“Everything. Nothing. The world’s just as I left it: my editor hates me, my best friend is still getting married, and I’m still broke.”
Connor nods, knowingly, which irks me.
I roll my eyes, feeling a bit bitter about my situation. “What do you know about any of that? You live in a penthouse. Also, you have a TV that’s so big it looks like you stole it from a drive-in.”
He pours two glasses of whiskey and hands me one. “What do I know about suffering, Whiskey Gal? I’m fucking Irish. We practically invented suffering. We live on potatoes, and there was a time we even failed at that.”
“Fair point,” I say, taking a sip.
He puts his arm around my shoulders and the two of us, naked, sweaty, and smelling of sex, drink together.
“But, you’ve got my word, so you’ll be going in to work tomorrow. And trust me, this will all turn out fine, in the end. Whatever it takes.”
He clinks his glass to mine, looking so self-assured that part of me wants desperately to believe him. I know I’m in a messed up situation and life is harder than hell right now.
I deserve a break. Right?
Chapter Sixteen
Connor
I told her it would all work out fine. But I said that as much for myself as for her. Because, for the first time in a long time, I’m feeling doubt.
And doubt has no place in my life.
I hate it.
I like absolutes.
Like family is everything.
Like Lochlan MacCailin gives me a name, and that person is absolutely going to die.
Like Evelyn Thomson makes me feel like I’ve never felt before.
And that last one? That last one makes me doubt, makes me question the others. And that is an absolutely uncomfortable feeling.
I finish my drink and set it down. “I’m turning in. I’ll be up around five to take you to your job.”
Evelyn looks at me expectantly. “Get me up around six, ok? And, do you want me to…?”
She doesn’t need to finish it. I know what she’s saying. She wants to know if I want her to join me. And even though I do — for once in my life, I’ve met someone that I wouldn’t mind spending idle time in bed with — I shake my head. “No, I’m not one for cuddling and all that, lass. You’ll be more comfortable out here.”
I shut the door to my bedroom and force myself to sleep.
Tomorrow is going to bring even more doubt into my life.
* * * * *
Five’s normally when I get up.
It takes a lot of time to look as good as I do.
I run through my morning workout routine — cardio, free weights, boxing drills, and then I shower before I go to wake up Evelyn.
I almost hate to wake her.
Asleep, wrapped in a blanket and looking still and peaceful on my couch, I take a moment just to appreciate how beautiful she is. Delicate, yet tough; curvy, yet somehow slender enough to slide right into my dreams.
Connor Halloran, you really are Irish. And really, really fucking dumb. You’re stuck on the one stupid thing that’ll make you suffer the most.
I decide to let her sleep for a minute longer and make some coffee. I don’t usually drink the stuff, but she might. I want to be ready.
“Mmm, that smells good,” comes a voice from the entryway to the kitchen. There’s a sleepy smile on her face that is just the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. But I’m having a hard time looking at her face right now, even as gorgeous as it is.
Naked and breathtaking, she’s standing there as bare as the day she was born.
That, Connor Halloran, is why you’re doing what you’re doing.
“I thought you might want some,” I say, holding out a mug.
“Please,” she says.
She comes closer and I’m so caught up in looking at her that it takes me a minute to realize that I’m still holding tight to the coffee mug. And it’s empty.
Pour her some, or give her the mug so she can help herself, ya fucking moron, I chide myself.
I pour and hand it to her.
“Thank you. Look, we’re going
to have a few stops to make on the way to work, ok?” She says.
I don’t like this.
“Such as?”
“My place — I need some of my clothes, for one thing. Unless you think I can do my job in a going-out dress.”
I shrug. “What about your outfit last night. From the birthday party. I liked that.”
“You mean the shirt you ripped in half and the too-tight jeans?”
“It looks nice on you. Still would. Why don’t you try it on again?”
She rolls her eyes. “Seriously. And I need to get my laptop, too. Then we’ll go to my work.”
“Fine,” I say. There’s a bit of resentment in my voice, but it’s fair. What was supposed to be a quick trip in to her work to help her keep her job is quickly turning into parading her all around town. Might as well paint a target on her forehead and hang up a sign.
“Look, Connor, you can trust me. Just like I’m trusting you. That’s how these things work — you give a little, you get a little.”
I still have my doubts. But I drive her around anyway.
And she surprises me.
We’re in and out of her apartment — a dingy little studio way across the river in Somerville — in thirty minutes. Which is faster than I expected, and then we’re back in my car, fighting our way through Boston’s morning traffic on her way to her job at the Boston Times.
I find us some street parking right in front of her building — probably one of the rarest things in Boston. It’s a good portent if I’ve ever seen one.
“I’ll be quick,” she says, almost jumping out of my car the second we come to a stop. “I just need to check in with a few people, get some work files, and do the requisite amount of groveling with my boss, Greg, so that I can keep my job.”
“You want me to talk to him?” I say.
She looks at me, then to the spot underneath my jacket where I keep one of my guns. “Trust me, I know the guy, there’s no way you wouldn’t shoot him if you met him.”
“That bad?”
“I think, in a past life, Greg was an ogre. And this reincarnation is his punishment for everything bad he did. He’s an asshole.”
“Well, stay out of trouble, Whiskey Gal. I know how you can get.”
“Oh? How’s that?” Those eyes taunt me to say more.
“You’re the type of woman that has the mix of guts and craziness, that she’ll have no hesitation about starting an argument with a hitman like me while alone with him in an elevator.”
“I just wanted to go to work and make sure people know I’m alive,” she says, exasperated.
“And look how that turned out.”
“I’d say it turned out pretty well, wouldn’t you?” she says.
Then, she winks.
I can feel my jaw dropping.
She smiles and shuts the car door behind her.
I watch every step of her walk to into the office building. I’d always thought hypnosis was a crock of shit, but then I saw her hips.
I settle in and wait.
About an hour in, my phone buzzes at me.
It’s Riley.
Dad’s proud of ya for closing up that leak with city hall. It actually put him in a good mood. I think. He frowned a lot less, at least. Anyways, Davin and Liam got their panties in a knot about it. You up for a celebratory pint sometime?
That gives me pause.
Lochlan bought it.
Evelyn’s free. Safe.
She can go back to her job, her life, and as long as she keeps quiet about what she knows, she’ll be fine.
And I’ll probably never see her again. She wouldn’t want to spend time with a killer like me.
I’m not ready to let her go.
I know I need to tell her at some point.
But not now. Not today.
Not until she’s mine.
Chapter Seventeen
Connor
She doesn’t make me wait much longer.
Which is good because being away from her makes me itchy. But being around her? That makes me calm, peaceful, and happy in a way that I’ve never felt before. I’m not just getting my rocks off with her, like it’s been with every other woman.
Evelyn is special.
I want to wake up next to her on a Sunday morning, and do something I could never tell my friends about — like go for a walk in the park, or have a picnic, or whatever the hell people in normal relationships do.
Those little things we do will be my dark secrets.
Evelyn’s safe. That still dominates my thoughts.
Now I just need to spend some more time with her — a few days, a week, maybe — get closer to her, and then I’ll break the news. Then she can go back to life, with me a part of it.
I’m bursting inside, and I can hardly wait to toss back a few pints with Riley to celebrate.
“Back to your place?” Evelyn says, as she lowers herself into her seat. There’s a little smile on her face, that suggest she’s not just saying that for innocent reasons.
I could get used to hearing that.
“Sure thing, Whiskey Gal,” I say, firing the car to life.
I drive us home, the whole time I’m lost in my thoughts about how good it feels to be around her.
This is the first time I’ve wanted a woman to stay around. Usually, we fuck, she leaves, and I might call her if I need to get my dick wet. There’s a long list of names in my phone that I keep around for just that purpose.
But Evelyn’s different.
I want her around. I want to keep her around.
And not just for fucking — though that plays major part in it, I can’t deny — but because I know there’s something special about her. Getting confirmation from the moms at Ryan’s party — my adopted group of big sisters — is just further proof.
It blows my mind. I might have an actual fucking relationship.
I heft up Evelyn’s things — the laptop, the extra clothes and her work papers — and carry them for her.
The elevator doors shut on us.
“I’ve got to head out for a bit. Family business,” I say.
She shrugs. “Sure. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy. What time will you be back?”
“Later this afternoon. Just meeting a friend for a bit of work and a pint. Speaking of which… I’d like to see your article when I get back,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “What for? Do you suddenly have an interest in empty, pap articles?”
“You mean the test they do on your lady parts?” I say.
I’m suddenly way less enthusiastic about reading her stuff.
She shakes her head. “No, it’s a word that means… Just forget it. It’s going to be an article about dogs or cats or something else completely devoid of any importance, since all my other leads would get me killed by some incredibly handsome Irish hitman.”
“I still want to see your article, lass. I trust you, it’s just that, every woman I’ve been with has just been some variation of the ‘dancer’ type. Not the kind you can have a conversation with. I just want to see what it is you do, cause it sounds interesting.”
She raises an eyebrow, and even though she’s trying to be all defensive about it, she’s just making herself look hotter.
“I have to send it in by four. If you’re back by then, you can see it. And I promise you, it’s going to be boring. Unless you really, really love cats. In which case, we need to have a talk.”
I smile at her. “Couldn’t you tell? There’s no bigger fan of pussy than me.”
She punches my shoulder. “Is that all you think about?”
“No,” I say. “Sometimes I think about how beautiful you look when you’re trying to pretend you’re angry. Like right now. You get this fire in your eyes and you purse you’re lips… It’s sexy as hell. Sometimes I think about your ass. And your tits. And your hips. The list goes on and on, really.”
Sighing, she shakes her head. “Well, remember, four o’clock. And, seriously, it’s just going t
o be some dumb article…”
“Don’t care. I’m going to read it. Even if I have to head out and buy the newspaper to see it.”
She settles on my couch, flips open her laptop and gives me a stern look. But I see a smile on her face that she’s trying to suppress. “Anyways, get out of here. I have work to do.”
“Me too,” I say.
Then, I set myself up for going out: I grab a second pistol from my room and shove a few clips of ammo in my jacket pockets.
“See you at four,” I say to Evelyn as I come up behind her on the couch and plant a kiss on her cheek.
“Before four,” she reminds me. “So you better not get into too much trouble, or you’ll miss it.”
I grin. “Not bloody likely, lass.”
* * * * *
“Have another,” Riley says, putting down what I think is pint number six in front of me.
Though to be honest, I’ve lost count.
Dark, malty, frothy stout fills my mouth before I even stop to think that maybe I’m getting a little too drunk for one o’clock on a Sunday afternoon.
Nah.
We’re in a small pub — the Pelican’s Roost — on the border of Fenway and Brookline. It’s not MacCailin territory. It’s not any gang’s territory. This close to Fenway, it’s Red Sox territory and nobody else’s.
The bar’s the right kind of dive: it’s dark, there’s cheap beer, pool tables, and food so greasy it’s almost as lethal as I am. Smoking’s still allowed, even though the city’s officially banned it.
We’re mostly alone, aside from a cluster of college kids pounding vodka and red bulls and yelling at some basketball game on one of the bar’s TV screens.
It isn’t the Celtics playing. I ain’t interested.
We come here often, Riley and I. Not this pub in particular, but this area.
It’s away from the fighting, the turf wars, the bloody business of running Boston.
It’s where my best friend — hell, my brother — and I can just relax.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Riley? Because you know, no matter how drunk I get, I don’t swing that way,” I say.
