Begging for Bad Boys

by Willow Winters

  I smile wryly. “And how is your little brother?”

  “Not that little anymore, but insane as always.” She takes a sip of her whiskey and shakes her head. “Man, Tommy, huh?

  “Yep.”

  She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “You okay?”

  I shrug.

  “What’s Mick got on you?” she says softly.

  “Nothing, it’s just—” I shake my head and shrug again “It is what it is. He’s got the fix for a problem I had, and this is the trade off.”

  “Must be one hell of a fix.”

  I nod, saying nothing. But Nora gets it. This is why we were such good friends.

  “Well, they say fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, you know. Those are really good odds.”

  I laugh, choking on my drink and wincing at the whiskey up my nose.

  Nora chuckles. “Sorry, but true.”

  “Yeah well, not arranged ones.”

  “It sounds so tawdry. An arranged marriage.”

  “Right except it’s not some hot prince or some gorgeous yet tragically broken billionaire. It’s Tommy Flaherty.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Honestly, why is he such a douche? You know he got Mindy Thayer pregnant like three years ago?”

  I make a face. “Wonderful. Do I have a new step-kid now too?”

  “Adoption, I think. Mindy sort of disappeared.”

  I groan, slumping onto her kitchen counter. “What am I doing?”

  “The only fix, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  She blows air through her lips as she grabs the bottle and tops us both off. “Well, then it is what it is I guess, right?” She nudges my glass closer to me. “Drink up. We’ll find you some hot arm candy to be your mistress, or whatever the guy version of that is.”

  “Mister?”

  “Sure.” She raises a brow at me as she brings her glass to her lips. “But I’m betting you’ve already got one in mind, don’t you?”

  I frown quickly. “What? No.”

  “No?” Nora grins at me.

  “Oh what?”

  “You saw him, right? I mean Damian told me he’s gonna be your bodyguard?”

  I purse my lips.

  “Right, and how’s that going to work out?”

  “Fine.” I shrug as casually as I can muster. “It’ll be fine.”

  “’Cause he does a fine job of guarding your body.”

  I roll my eyes, stifling the blush creeping into my face with a quick drink. “Ancient history. There’s nothing there, trust me. All that was years ago.”

  “Right, years ago, when you two were in lurrrvve.”

  I frown stiffly. “I was not in lurrrvve.”

  Nora holds my look over the rim of her glass. “Okay, I take it back.”

  “What?”

  “It’s probably good that you left before.”

  My jaw drops. “Hey!”

  “’Cause you are a terrible liar, and with all those Feds around back then?”

  She grins as I flip her off.

  “C’mon, Aela. You and Liam were like…it.”

  “We were young and stupid. It was just a thing.”

  “You gave it up to him.”

  I blush crimson. “Like I said, young and stupid.”

  “And now?”

  “Older, wiser?”

  “Says the girl who owes Mick Flaherty a favor so big she’s marrying his dipshit son to settle it?”

  I frown into my glass, and her look softens. “Sorry.”

  She nods at the bottle sitting on the counter, but I shake my head.

  “So it was fine seeing him?”

  “Yes, inspector.”

  “You want to ask me, don’t you?”

  I look up to see her grinning slyly at me.

  “Ask you what?”

  “About Liam. About how he’s been since you left.”

  “I do not,” I say stiffly, twirling the amber liquid in my glass.

  “Sure you do. Aela, it’s all over your face.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “So you’re not at all curious to know if he’s like, married, or has kids or any of that?”

  I bristle, bringing the glass to my lips and almost choking on the last big gulp of whiskey. I shake my head as my eyes burn slightly.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, he’s not. Married that is. No kids either.”

  The corners of my mouth turn up just a hair before I stop them cold.

  But of course, Nora spots it. She sighs, shaking her head. “Oh, yeah, this is going to be no trouble at all, is it?”

  This time, I reach for the bottle and top us both off as she laughs and shakes her head.

  “Welcome home, girl.”

  Chapter 8

  Aela

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Liam jerks his head around the corner as I step through the front door of my dad’s house.

  I scowl at him, tipsy on my feet and feeling my head spin slightly from the whiskey Nora and I downed playing catch up earlier.

  “What?”

  “What?” His brow knits as he steps into the light of the entryway. “You’re supposed to call me for rides.”

  “You driving for Uber these days?”

  Liam scowls. “You know this is my job, right?”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I hear it’s a great gig. People are making a ton driving cabs part time—”

  “Are you drunk?”

  My lips purse. “Is it your business?” I toss back.

  “Yes.”

  I roll my eyes as I brush past him into the kitchen.

  “You walked home drunk from a bar, alone, at night. That’s why Mick has me on you, you know.”

  “Well, la-dee-da.”

  For the record, I am drunk. Five drinks at Nora’s and I’m giggling and flushed red, the Irish in me coming out with a fist-shaking roar. Apparently, I’ve lost my sea legs when it comes to whiskey, being gone this long.

  But screw Liam, and to hell with the rules and having to call him for a ride, like I’m a child.

  “Give me that.”

  He snatches the beer out of my hand as I pull it from the fridge.

  “Jesus, what?”

  “What is you’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

  I bark out a laugh. “Are you serious right now? Liam, I’m twenty-four years old.”

  “Tomorrow, you need to sit down with Tommy—” I notice he hisses the name out. “And Eamon O’Brian.”

  “Who?

  “Emissary, from the Kings. You’ve actually met him, I think, when you were really young. He’s visiting from Dublin.”

  I frown. “For what?”

  “It’s for the legitimacy thing. Eamon reports directly, and you and Tommy do the fuckin’ song and dance tomorrow about how you can’t wait to get married and all that garbage.”

  “Ever the romantic, Liam.”

  “You’d know.”

  I freeze, my eyes flashing to his before we both break away.

  “I seriously need to sit down with an emissary from Dublin and lie through my teeth about this whole thing?”

  “That’s essentially the plan.”

  “Well in that case, I am going to need that beer.” I snatch it from his hand and twist off the bottle cap. I sip it, staring at him, and he shakes his head, rolling his eyes.

  “Stubborn as fuck still, I see.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “You’re not.”

  My eyes snap to his, and he holds them there, the silence filling the kitchen until he reaches out and plucks the beer from my hand. He sips it, and my pulse jumps as I watch his lips touch the bottle, his neck moving with the swallow — the way his eyes never leave mine as he does.

  I convince myself to look away.

  “You’re coming tomorrow I take it?”

  He nods.

  “So you’re going to be there while I sit and tell this Eamon guy all the little det
ails about how in love with Tommy Flaherty I am and how I just can’t wait to marry him?”

  Liam’s jaw tightens.

  I’m being a bitch. I’m playing with fire, and trying to push it.

  And I don’t really know why.

  “I mean, I wonder how real he’ll need us to be?”

  He looks away.

  “Will I have to kiss Tommy?”

  “No,” Liam says icily.

  I shiver at the ferocity in his response.

  “I suppose at some point I’ll have to sleep with him in order to—”

  “The fuck you will,” he growls, and I gasp as he pushes me back against the cold metal of the refrigerator.

  Something comes alive inside me.

  This is something I’ve been wanting in him. This is the anger and the rage, lashing back. This is the part of him that ignites something in me, even after six years away from him.

  “There you are,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “There’s Liam.”

  His eyes flare, his face inches from mine. “Don’t go there, Aela.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “I know you could have tried to stop me.”

  It comes out before I can shut it away.

  “What?”

  “Back then.”

  I need to stop talking, but the words just keep coming out — words I’ve only ever said to myself, alone, about half a million times.

  “You could have fought a little harder, you know.”

  His jaw clenches. “You don’t understand.”

  “I do, Liam,” I spit. “I get that I was a little plaything for you, and something for you to have fun with. I get that all I really ever was to you was something you could brag to your buddies about.” My voice is getting louder now — more biting. “Did it make you feel like a real man, banging the boss’s daughter like—”

  I gasp as he presses against me, hard. His hand slides into my hair, twisting it in his fingers.

  “That is not what you were.”

  “Then why didn’t you fight!?” I scream.

  Silence drapes the kitchen.

  And I want him to say something. I want him to do something — anything. I want him to yell back, or break something, or show me the fight I know he’s got inside. I want him to snap.

  Some fucked up part of me wants him to take me right there — hard, just like he used to.

  But it’s gone, and that fire in his eyes suddenly dims as he looks away.

  His hand slips from my hair, and he steps back.

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  Liam shakes his head as he grabs the beer from my hand. “Go to bed, Aela. You’re drunk.”

  “And you’re a coward, like you always were.”

  His face clouds, his lips pulling back from his teeth before he shakes his head.

  And the fire’s gone.

  “Goodnight, Aela.”

  He leaves, and all the warmth in the room leaves with him.

  Chapter 9

  Liam

  The car is quiet as we drive down Dorchester Avenue towards The Burren — the Irish bar where we’re meeting Eamon O’Brian. I’m quiet cause I’m still pissed. She’s quiet cause she’s hungover as shit.

  Good.

  “Here,” I reach into the center console and pass her some Tylenol.

  She nods, taking it. “Thanks,” she mumbles. “Look, about last night—”

  “Forget it.”

  “I was a bitch.”

  “You were drunk.”

  “That’s not an excuse.”

  “No, it’s a reason.”

  She grins, but immediately winces. “Sorry anyways.” She turns to look out the side window. “You don’t have to come in, you know. To this dumb meeting, I mean.”

  “I do, actually.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be, it’s my job.”

  “No, I mean, sorry you have to like, watch all of this, with Tommy I mean.”

  “It’s fine.”

  It’s not.

  It’s a simmering hell. It’s a lingering, twisting knife in my gut every time I think about Aela with that tool. But I’ve got no right to that anymore, and I know that. I gave that up years ago when I shoved her away. Duty, loyalty, and the Oath of the Saints.

  The desire to see her get away from all this — to see her escape this place and the hell that was slowly burning it down back then — it overtook the desire to hold onto her as tight as I could and never let go.

  Those are the reasons for pushing her away back then. And I know in a way it’d be easy to just say that. I could clear some of the shit surrounding us if I just told her.

  But I also know we’re past that point. We’re long past the part where I explain myself, and she forgives me, and we get the bullshit Hollywood happy ever after.

  Happy ever afters don’t exist in Southie, believe me.

  Telling her all that shit would do nothing now but break us both all over again. And Aela might be back here, but she’s not back here for me.

  Not that that can happen anyways, for every conceivable reason.

  We drive in silence until she breaks it.

  “Congrats, by the way, on being made lieutenant.”

  I glance at her and she shrugs. “Nora told me. How’s it feel, finally making it?”

  “With Mick?” I shrug. “Fine.”

  “With my dad?”

  “Oh, I was a captain with your dad.”

  Her brow arches. “You were?”

  I nod. “Mick took us all down a peg when he took over, to even the playing field.”

  “That’s a nice name for demotion.”

  “No shit.”

  She’s quiet, and I glance over to see her chewing her lip thoughtfully. “How was my dad?” She looks at me. “You know, before—”

  “He was good.” I mull over the words, looking straight ahead as we pull off the main road and pass under the Red Line tracks. “Talked about you a lot, always showing us pictures you sent of school or wherever it is you were.”

  She says nothing as she turns and looks out the window again.

  And I want to say more. I want to tell her how he hated the fact that he’d had his hand forced into sending her away to safety. I want to tell her how Jack was never the same after losing both his daughters, essentially.

  I want to tell her a lot more, actually, but then we’re pulling into the parking lot of The Burren. And sitting right out front, leaning against his white BMW, is Tommy fucking Flaherty.

  I shut off the car with a sigh.

  “Show time,” Aela mutters, reaching for the door.

  “Ay! Aela!”

  You know how I said the movies like to glorify Southie life? Well, Tommy looks like fucking central casting from one of those movies. He’s got the leather jacket, the track pants, the Red Sox baseball hat on backwards. It’s like a frat brother and a shitty “Boston criminal” character from a C-list movie got mixed up in a puddle of douchebag.

  That’s Tommy Flaherty.

  He gets up from leaning against the hood of his car as we step out of mine, and part of me smirks at the way Aela’s eyes narrow at him.

  “Hello, Tommy.”

  He makes this ridiculous “pew-pew” sound, his fingers pointed like six-shooters as he strides over. He immediately goes in for a kiss, and I grin as Aela hisses out a swear with a sour look on her face and pushes him away.

  Now this I actually have no problem watching.

  “Aww, no kiss?”

  Aela gives him a look. “Let’s get something straight. We both know what this is, Tommy, right? So how about no games? Please?”

  “Shit, not even a kiss?”

  “I don’t plan on hugging.”

  He scowls. “Well, but after the marriage, you’ll be puttin’ out, right?”

  This guy really is like this. This is seriously how he talks. I thought he wa
s a moron before. With him set to marry Aela, however fake, I want to bury him.

  Aela looks at him blankly and slowly shakes her head side to side. “No, Tommy, I will not be.”

  He shrugs, doing what I’m sure he thinks is his most “cavalier” look.

  “Well, I might have to go find it on the side. Just sayin’. Fair warning.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be heartbroken,” she says flatly.

  “Aww, c’mon we—”

  “We should get in there,” I interrupt gruffly.

  As much as I could watch Mick’s idiot kid make an ass of himself all day in front of Aela, I want to get this shit over with. And this is the important part — convincing Eamon.

  “Just so we’re clear, you both understand this is serious, right?” I say, looking right at Tommy.

  He socks a fist into his open palm and nods at me with a “mean” look on his face. “Let’s fucking do this.”

  I turn and roll my eyes as I open the door to the bar.

  It’s dim and empty inside The Burren, and Jonathan behind the bar nods and jerks his head towards the back.

  Eamon rises as we step into the back-seating area — middle-aged, silver-haired, and dressed in a tweed suit that you’d really only ever see in a true Irish pub in the middle of Belfast fifty years ago. He smiles in a kindly way as he nods at Aela.

  “Aelish,” he nods, using the formal Gaelic long version of her name. “You’re looking lovely, lass. It’s been a long while since you and I met, you know.”

  Eamon’s sort of a guardian type. He’s like a distant cousin or great uncle who shows up at birthdays and graduations and family shit like that.

  A distant cousin or great uncle who carries a Glock and a direct line to the Kings back in Dublin.

  “Roarke,” he gives me a nod as he firmly shakes my hand, before turning to Tommy.

  “Ahh, Tommy, my boy. Let’s all sit, shall we? Drink?”

  I glance sideways at Aela to see green coloring her face.

  “Hell yeah,” Tommy says with that same laughably macho tone from outside.

  Eamon nods at Jonathan as we all take seats at the dark booth, me on the outside, next to Eamon and right across from Aela.

  “So, you’re getting married.”

  Aela swallows and looks away as she nods. “Mhmm,” she mutters absently.

  “Yep!” Tommy grins as he throws an arm over her shoulder, the move making my hand close into a fist on the table.