His Captive

by Zahra Girard

  He chuckles. “Please, I’ve seen the way you look at me. I know you want it. Sorry to say, you’re not my type.”

  “Any of these kids your type?” I say, pointing to the college boys. Most of ‘em look like they’re from MIT or Harvard; a bunch of preppies out here slumming it. “I’ll bet one of ‘ems a twink that you could toss around.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Hardly. I prefer a bear, myself. Someone bigger, manly, with a bit of chest hair and a beard. Someone it’s fun to work up a sweat with. Like a biker.”

  I turn to the TV screen, my eyes hunting for a cheerleader. “You just gave me some uncomfortable visuals, brother.”

  He shrugs. “How do you think I feel, hearing about every time you’ve brought some chick home.”

  “Oh, come on, they’re hot. That makes it different,” I say.

  “Please. Hot to you. To me, they’re just another cheerleader. Or dancer,” he says. “I mean, do you ever step out of that type?”

  I nod. “You’re forgetting gymnasts. Remember that time a few years ago, when they held that gymnastics championship up in Cambridge? Those gals were bendy. It was beautiful. Like fucking a sexy version of gumby.”

  “I remember I had to bribe those security guards after you got caught in the women’s showers,” he says.

  “I was invited,” I say, indignantly.

  “Yeah?” he says. “By who?”

  “The entire women’s floor routine team. All of them. It was amazing. Almost spiritual,” I say.

  That was a good day.

  Riley takes a long drink of his beer. “You know, your dick’s going to get you in trouble some day.”

  “Trouble? I dated a stripper by that name,” I say. Well, it wasn’t really dating. We only left the bed that whole weekend to answer the door when we got a pizza delivered.

  But I know he’s right.

  I know what I have with Evelyn is risky, dangerous, and there’s a very high chance of turning out messy for both of us.

  Even then, I can’t walk away. She’s so different, so much more than just a bendy chick with a great ass.

  He shakes his head. “Seriously though, brother, there’s only so many dancers in Boston. And one of these days, it ain’t going to turn up roses.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m not dating a stripper right now.”

  Fuck me, it feels like sacrilege just saying that. Who am I?

  “Oh yeah?” Riley stares at me over his pint. “You’re dating someone new. Spill.”

  Anyone else, excepting my adopted sisters, I would tell to go fuck themselves. But this is Riley – I know his secrets, he knows mine. We’re brothers.

  “It’s new — brand new, just a few days old — but I’m dating a reporter.”

  “Jesus Fecking Christ, Connor.” Dark stout spills from the lip of Riley’s glass as he almost drops it. Almost. We’re Irish, we don’t waste like that.

  I bow my head a bit, trying to hide in my glass. “I know, I know. But she’s different. She’s hot and smart. I don’t get tired of talking with her. And when I’m with her, I’m not just thinking about the next time we’re gonna fuck; I’m actually enjoying the time together for what it is.”

  Riley looks at me like I’m crazy. “Right, and I’m glad for ya, Connor, but for fucks sake, are you crazy? If dad found out, he’d kill ya.”

  “Lochlan won’t find out, will he?” I give Riley a pointed look that isn’t just suggestive — it’s downright blatant. Threaten Evelyn, and I will kill you. “Don’t forget, I know your secrets too, brother.”

  “Right, but Connor, dad would just whip me bloody if he found out about me. You? He’d string you up by your tendons.”

  It sounds like an exaggeration, but it’s not. Twenty years ago, when some bookie named Fredo tried to cheat Lochlan out of his cut of that years Superbowl bets and skip town, Lochlan got to him. I never heard just what happened to the guy, except that he was found twenty miles outside of Boston in the woods in Framingham, upside down and tied to the branches of a tree by his Achilles tendons.

  No one ever tried to cheat Lochlan after that. Most bookies even paid extra, just to be safe.

  “I know, I know. But look, I have it under control.”

  “Do you? Because, to me, it sounds like you’re letting your dick do all the thinking and, if you keep it up, it’s going to be the only head you got once dad finds out,” Riley says. But suddenly, it seems like his heart isn’t in on berating me. His eyes are off looking at something behind me.

  I turn. Just barely, just enough to see without letting anyone know I’m looking.

  Russians.

  Five of ‘em.

  Not just any Russians. I couldn’t care less about your average borscht-eating, tracksuit-wearing punk.

  These are the kind of guys that fuck with friends, with my blood.

  Riley and I share a look and he gives me a subtle nod.

  Be ready.

  Whatever argument we have is forgotten, cause few things bring a family together like a good fight.

  Not that we’re going to just go up to them and start blasting. This isn’t MacCailin territory, and this ain’t Russian territory, and we’re just here for some beers. So as long as they don’t start shit, there won’t be any problems.

  But I know they’re going to start shit. They always do.

  I’m barely halfway through my pint before they spot us and head over towards our table. These guys have a way of walking that is just slimy. And the rest of ‘em ain’t much to talk about either. They’re an inked-up mishmash of leather, nylon, and they smell like vodka and cigarettes.

  Frankly, it’s disgusting. You’d never catch any self-respecting Irish gangster going out looking like that.

  One of ‘em — a guy who looks slimier than the others — steps forward as his other guys take up places around our table.

  I keep loose even though my gut reaction is to tense up and let fists and bullets fly.

  “I heard a rumor about you,” the Russian says, his eyes on Riley and a crooked smile on his face.

  I see a few gold teeth in mouth.

  Riley chuckles. “Yeah, sorry about that. Your mother forgot the safe word.”

  The Russian cranes his neck from side to side, and I can hear a wet ‘pop’ from where I’m sitting. He takes his cell phone out of his pocket and starts fiddling around with it.

  “It was a really interesting rumor. One I had to follow up on. So I had one of my friends here go looking around at some dirty clubs way out near Medford. Want to know what he saw?”

  Riley’s fists clench and his knuckles bulge white against his skin. I know what the Russian’s about to say. We both do.

  And no one fucks with my brother like that.

  The Russian flips his phone around so the both of us can see it. It’s not a great picture: it’s dark, the light’s a bit fuzzy, but even so it’s pretty clear it’s Riley and another older man, hand in hand.

  “I wonder what would happen if your father saw this? How do you think he’d react knowing his son is a cock-sucking faggot?”

  No one talks to my brother like that.

  I’m on my feet in a blink, kicking my chair backwards into one of the Russian fuckers while I bring my glass cracking into the head Russian’s face.

  Glass shatters, skin tears, blood sprays.

  He screams, falling backwards, hands clutching at the crimson mess where his eyeballs used to be.

  I don’t stop to admire my handiwork. These guys have guns and there’s no room for hesitation.

  Riley’s on his feet almost as quick as me, and he’s got a white-knuckle lock on one of the other guy’s throats.

  I spin, cracking my fist into another Russian fucker’s face. Again, and again, and he falls to the ground, and I do not stop.

  There’s two left and one has his gun out.

  I launch myself at him, trusting Riley to take care of the other.

  My body collides with my target’s and his gun goes
off — once, twice — and I hear shouting from the college kids sitting over by the bar. They must’ve peeled their eyes away from the TV screen and finally realized what’s going on.

  I take my target down.

  I’m practically sitting on his chest, my knees pinning his arms flat against the hardwood floor.

  He’s helpless.

  I rain fists down on him, putting every bit of rage into each punch.

  I don’t stop until I feel his jaw crack.

  “Connor, we need to go.”

  Riley’s voice, then hands, pull me away from my victim.

  I take a breath and check the scene. Five Russians down, either dead or maimed.

  A job well done, if you ask me.

  I dig through their pockets, taking each and every cell phone.

  The fuck if I’ll let them mess with my family.

  Then I see what Riley’s shouting about.

  Two college kids by the bar, down. One moving, flopping around on the floor in a big pool of blood like he’s a fish out of water. The other, not moving at all.

  Fucking hell.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Evelyn

  I wait as long as I can.

  The article’s done, the words are sitting there, glowing on my laptop screen, and all I need to do is hit ‘send’.

  It’s so saccharine that I feel like an insulin shot after finishing it, and normally I’d be embarrassed to put my name on it — much less send it in to be published — but I want Connor to see it before I send it in.

  I know it’s a dumb thing to feel. He’s my captor. My kidnapper. He’s a killer. But there’s more to him than that. And having him take an interest in what I do, even when it’s a pulpy article like the one I just wrote, makes me feel appreciated. Special.

  It’s not something I normally feel from my job.

  And the fact that it’s coming from him — a man that makes me feel such intense emotions that it frightens me – makes it even more special.

  Connor Halloran stirs me up in so many ways, physically and emotionally. My body aches for him and my mind craves him.

  But I’ve been here waiting most of the afternoon and time’s ticked as close to the deadline as I can get without getting fired.

  I hit send.

  Then, I wait.

  I almost feel embarrassed, sitting on the couch, waiting for him to get home. I’m supposed to be a hardworking, smart, independent female journalist, not some co-dependent approval-seeking woman.

  I tell myself I’m waiting because I’m technically still his hostage. It makes me feel a little less embarrassed.

  When the front door finally opens, I sit up at attention.

  Connor smiles, sheepishly. “I know you said four, but me and the boys got a little wrapped up in something. Sorry, lass.”

  “That’s fine,” I say, blurting out the words almost before he’s finished talking. “I sent the article off a bit ago. It’s just meaningless stuff, nothing important, but you can still read it, if you want.”

  “I’d love to,” he says, sitting down right next to me on the couch.

  It’s then I notice his hands. The knuckles are bruised, swollen, and a few are split and bloody.

  “What happened?” I ask, unable to take my eyes off his wounds.

  Connor chuckles. “Nothing much, really. Riley and I got to drinking, got a little stupid, and then I lost a bet.”

  “A bet?”

  He nods, then shrugs. “He bet me I couldn’t punch through a board, like they do in those fucking movies. I took him up on it. I won. Sorta.”

  He flexes his hand and winces.

  “Let’s not dwell on the whole ‘dumb things you do after too many pints’ stuff. I want to see your article,” he says.

  I hand him my laptop and spend the entire time while he’s reading it sitting on pins and needles and anxiously watching his face.

  I’m more nervous watching him read it than I’ve ever been handing in an article to my editor, Greg.

  I just worked my contacts to find out about some animal shelter out in Brookline that’s raising money to train service dogs for returning vets.

  It’s not the best thing I’ve written — heck, I can’t even write the story I want, unless I want the mob to kill me — but at least it’s for a good cause.

  He finishes, then looks at me for a long moment. “It’s important to you, isn’t it? Writing, I mean.”

  I shrug. “Well, it helps my family, it pays the bills…”

  He shakes his head. “No, no. There’s plenty of jobs a smart woman like you could do that pay the bills. Hell, I’ve heard waitresses make about as much as journalists who’re starting out.”

  “They make more, actually,” I say.

  Which is a sad fact. On the pay scale of life, I’m dangling from the bottom rungs.

  He looks at me like he’s looking into me. “So I’m guessing there’s some other reason you put up with an asshat like your editor, Greg, and why you were at The Angel’s Share the other night, following up on a story that you probably knew would land you in a lot of fucking hot water.”

  I’m quiet a moment. Edgy, even, because Connor’s just looking at me, into me, waiting for me to say something. I know he’s right. I put up with all the shit because I keep hoping that, someday, while I’m working for the Boston Times or some other paper, I’ll have my name attached to something that’ll make a real difference beyond just ‘paying the bills’.

  “It is important to me,” I say, quietly.

  Connor nods, and slides his phone out of his pocket, and starts dialing.

  I watch, confused, while he holds the phone to his ear and, with his other hand, fishes his wallet out of his pocket.

  A voice answers. There’s some indistinct murmuring.

  “Hello,” Connor says, his voice sounding way more professional and refined than usual. “I heard that your organization was having a fundraiser and I’d like to make a donation.”

  I can only watch, stunned, as the conversation goes on.

  He’s doing this for me.

  “How much would I like to donate? Well, how much until you hit your goal?” Connor says.

  There’s so more murmuring.

  Connor nods, and pulls a credit card out of his pocket and squints at it. “I’d like to donate that amount. You take credit card, right? Uh-huh. My name? James O’Malley.”

  He reads the numbers over the phone and I feel a flush coming over me. I remember writing that the fundraiser was looking for at least ten thousand dollars. Yet, here Connor is just leaping right in, taking it all on without a second thought. Just because it’s something I care about.

  He finishes reading the credit card numbers and, even though I can hardly hear them, I can just tell that the person on the other end of the line is practically fumbling over themselves in gratitude.

  Connor’s about to hang up, when he stops. “Oh, one more thing: when you guys put out your notice about the fundraiser being a success, can you say it was because of an article in The Boston Times? That’s where I heard about it.”

  There’s some more mumbled gratitude from the other person on phone, and then Connor ends the call.

  He looks at me, point blank, sincere. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

  I don’t know what to say. Even if I did, I don’t think I could say it. All I can do right now is look at him and stare like some mute. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth with stupefaction.

  He smiles and crooks his head down and puts his lips to mine.

  I know he intended it to be a quick kiss, something short and sweet, but I’ll be damned if if he’s getting away that easily.

  I reach up, hold him by the back of the head, and — though I can’t use my tongue for talking — I sure as hell can use it for something else.

  He’s breathless and just as speechless as I am when I finally let him go.

  We sit next to each other holding hands and trying to fin
d our voices. For the first time in a long time, I feel good about what I do for a living. I feel like I’m important, like I’ve made a difference. And it’s all because of him.

  He smiles at me and runs his fingertips along my cheek.

  “Shall we celebrate?”

  I know he means celebrate the article and the fundraiser being a success. But what I want to celebrate is finding him: a man who has so upended my expectations that my head is still spinning.

  He’s beyond dangerous — he’s blatantly lethal — but he’s got heart, he truly cares, and he’s a man I can trust.

  I’ve never felt like this about a man. He makes my heart pound and makes me feel so alive it’s frightening.

  And the journalist inside me — the questioning realist — is just as terrified as the love-struck part of me.

  Because I know that, when the other shoe drops, I’m going to find out what it’s really like to be afraid.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Evelyn

  I’ve never been in a place like this.

  It’s decadent, opulent, refined.

  When Connor said we were going to celebrate, I figured we’d go somewhere simple. Someplace where your meal comes in a plastic tray and with a glass of dark beer on the side to wash it down.

  But then he put on a suit like the one he wore the other night at The Angel’s Share. Custom made, tailored to tell the world that he has money and attitude and you fuck with him at your peril.

  Then he told me we’d have to stop by my place first, so I could put on a dress.

  I spent an hour and a half getting ready.

  Then, he took me here.

  My eyes are wide just trying to take in every decadent detail.

  Bistro de Medici. I’ve heard of this restaurant, everyone in town has — The Boston Times did a huge writeup on them a month back after they earned their second Michelin star.

  They’re booked for months. Everyone knows that.

  But we get in the door, and Connor, his arm looped with mine, takes us right to the maitre d’.

  “Table for two,” is all he says.

  The man looks unsure, until Connor slides his suit jacket back just a little to reach into his pocket. The dim light of the restaurant glimmers on the gun, and then on the silver of Connor’s money clip. He places a handful of bills in the maitre d’s hand.