by Shara Azod
“Leave,” he told the men who had been working to change this office from a Euro-trash nightmare to a workable office. “Send the first girl in,” he told Mickey after the mountain of a man had secured Magda in the chair. Where the hell had he gotten the rope? Mickey was a marvel, hand-picked by Shannon’s brother Fionn to have his back. They just couldn’t trust many that had been loyal to the old man, especially not Shannon. One wrong step could mean prison, and as far as he was concerned, his entire childhood had been that. He wasn’t going back. Mickey had actually grown up in the same projects as the brother in Lowell. Raised by an elderly, senile grandmother and not too bright, Mickey had followed the boys around like a faithful puppy until they finally took him under their wing. Not like a brother, but as one of the very few people they didn’t outright distrust.
While waiting for Mickey to bring in the first of the applicants, Shannon decided to take care for something he should have done as soon as he took over the houses. Speed-dialing Fionn, he resolved to make some permanent cuts in his employment that were long overdue.
“What?” Fionn answered on the first ring. Shannon and all his brothers were close like that.
“I need your assistance on a couple of jobs.”
“More than one? So, it’s a good day to die. What’s the job?”
“First one is Magda Magpie. I need her gone.” He knew he didn’t have to explain. Fionn had been waiting for his list of the Paddy faithful that needed to go.
“Can’t say I blame you. Bitch has had it coming for years. All I can say is, it’s about damned time.”
“Next one is a bit tricky. Bart Holten. He’s making a play for my girls. More at Basic Bitch and the Nunnery than anywhere else. Trying to offer them more money, but when they refuse—and they all refuse—he’s threatening them or their families. I don’t have to tell you the information I get from them is too valuable to lose. Besides, he’d likely have them all into drugs in order to control them and the flow of information. And I have a feeling this is all the old man’s doing. He’s testing me. And he wants that information channel for himself.” The very best information for anything was through the girls. He could channel deals to Conall, who was a fucking mastermind at business, information on the docs, local politics, or police and federal investigations to Kieran. And if there was someone who needed killing—well, then there was Fionn.
“You need him dead?” Fionn asked, probably not at all concerned one way or another.
“No. Not yet. But I want to send him a message. If that fails…” Shannon scrubbed a hand down the front of his face. Shit, this could get messy. But if Paddy was going to be taken down, his inside men needed to go first. Leave the old man weak, vulnerable. Then the four of them could move in for the kill.
“He have family who can be used for leverage?”
“Only one. Her name is LeeAnn Bates. He married her mother but didn’t give the girl his name. The fucker didn’t have enough sense to separate himself from her at the earliest opportunity. She lives with him in Beacon Hill.” One thing for sure, Fionn wouldn’t really hurt the girl, but his reputation was so deadly Bart would never know that. Unlike Paddy and his degenerate crew, the brothers didn’t run around hurting innocents…if it could be helped.
Fionn snorted through the phone. “I wonder why she refused to leave. Keeping Daddy’s money close, no doubt.”
“Probably. In any event, she was seen with one of my girls who frequents the Irish, trolling for clients and information. Don’t know exactly what she’s doing, but quite likely she’s reporting to her father.”
“So, I take it I’m to snag her? Hold her until we decide how to deal with…our little problem?” Fionn was probably not alone; in fact Shannon was willing to bet on it. Otherwise he would’ve just said it bluntly—until they got rid of their father.
“Nab her. I’ll let her father know we’ve got her. If he’s not a complete bastard, he’ll take the hint and back the fuck off. I’ll get my girl to bring her to the bar. Once at the Irish, you can take it from there.”
“And if he doesn’t back down?” Fionn pressed.
Shannon’s voice went cold. Deadly. Much like Fionn’s—too much like their old man’s. “Then take care of him.”
“Got it.”
There was a feminine gasp, followed by a moan that didn’t belong to his brother. Fionn was fucking; Shannon could tell by his brother’s breathing.
“Man, seriously? You need to give it a rest.” But Shannon knew he wouldn’t. Just like he needed pain, Fionn seemed to need to fuck. Hell, they all needed something. “I got to go. Talk to you later.” A grunt was the only reply Fionn gave before hanging up, but it was as good as gold. By the end of the week Magda Magpie would no longer be a problem. After allowing a few of his girls to overdose, it was probably better than she deserved.
Looking down he did a quick check of how many women he had to replace. Most of the women “applying” had heard about the openings via word of mouth, from girls already working at one of the houses. There were a few ads for “models” in weeklies that women looking to get into a house would read. Seventy-six in total. Fuck, this could take forever!
“The first one, Mr. O’Shea.” For fuck’s sake, Mickey had known him most of his life, but the minute Fionn had given him an official job it was Mr. O’Shea—for all four of them. No matter how often he told him otherwise, Mickey refused to use his first name.
Sighing, Shannon looked up…and damn near swallowed his tongue.
That was no whore standing beside Mickey; he saw that immediately. But she wasn’t an innocent either. The woman standing in front of the desk was… Fuck, he had no idea how to describe her. Women like her rarely ventured into the parts of South Boston Shannon haunted. The way she stood told him she wasn’t afraid of him. That was either foolish, or he was dealing with someone used to living on the dark side. Bitch of it was, he couldn’t tell which. Generally people either shook in their boots looking at him or they sized him up, searching for a weakness. This woman did neither. Her almond-shaped brown eyes stared straight at him, not flinching, there was no calculating gleam. There was nothing he could read, and he didn’t like that. A brand new emotion began to creep into his soul, one that hovered on the edge of his conscious mind.
What the fuck?
“Name.”
“I’m called…Ebony.”
Bullshit. But that voice was way too unintentionally sexy for his dick not to take notice. Not that her lush hourglass figure didn’t have him hard enough already. And she was fully clothed. That thick sweater dress of hers clung, but it was far from indecent. And it wasn’t cheap either.
What the ever-loving fuck?
“Sweetheart, you’re delightfully dark, but not dark enough to be an Ebony. Wanna try again?” Years of practice kept him from revealing anything he was thinking or feeling. Honestly, he could give a shit what a woman called herself—it wasn’t like he was going to be filing fucking W-2s. But artifice in this woman was unacceptable. Fuck if he knew why.
“Skye,” she retorted without missing a beat.
“I don’t think so.” Why was he fucking with her? Why the hell was he so reluctant to move forward to any of the questions he had carefully planned?
“Fine—it’s Sunshine.”
It was nice watching her thick lips move, her tongue peeking out every so often too wet her bottom lip. Shit, he was throbbing now. And there wasn’t so much of a blush staining the creamy-looking, chocolate-cinnamon-colored cheekbones. Who the hell was this woman?
“Why Sunshine?” Something told him he was going to regret asking that, but damn if bantering with her wasn’t fun. And Shannon wasn’t a fun type of guy.
“Because my pussy’s so good, if you throw it up in the air it turns into sunshine,” she responded with a straight face.
A line straight out of an old eighties movie. That was funny. Shannon couldn’t help laughing out loud, which caused both Mickey and the Magpie to stare at him as if he
“That’s sweet, sugar, but I’ll be the judge of that.” He only said that to see her reaction. No way he could fuck all the applicants. Wouldn’t want to, though Fionn might be up for it. Maybe he should call him… “Take off your dress, let’s see what you’re working with.”
That was something he was planning to ask all the applicants. If a woman was skittish taking off her clothes in front of him, who would be doing the hiring, she wasn’t ready to be a full-fledged whore. He might use them at a strip club though. Now he was just asking to see what she would do. Damned if she didn’t pull the curve-hugging sweater dress up over her head as if it were nothing.
The emerald lingerie she wore underneath seemed painted on. Not the cheap shit either—those panties cost a pretty penny. Who the fuck was she? What kind of woman who wasn’t a whore stood there proudly in her fancy skivvies all proud and defiant like that? And sweet Holy Christ she was wearing thigh-high leather boots with four-inch heels. That would put her height at about five feet two, perfect for a Sugar Baby. He would put her age somewhere around the early to mid-twenties, but one could never be sure with Black chicks. That made the ideal for a shit-ton of fantasies, they could play it either way.
But Shannon couldn’t see this woman—Sunshine for now—in any house. That wasn’t true. He just didn’t want to see it.
“You’re not a whore,” he pushed. “Why would you want to suddenly become one?”
Something flickered in her eye, a brief flash of fear, gone so quick Shannon couldn’t be sure it had been there at all. “Necessity,” she bit out, her face closed to all emotion. Now that was a look Shannon had seen often. It was there whenever he looked at one of his brothers, or in the mirror.
That hadn’t been only fear he’d seen, but determination also. This was a woman on a mission, but what? And what did becoming a working girl at an O’Shea brothel have to do with it?
“Fine, come show me what you got.”
He hadn’t meant to say that, which was more than unusual, it was un-fucking heard of. He never said anything he didn’t mean. But he wasn’t about to take it back. Maybe it was from sheer Irish stubbornness, but really he wanted her. Had since he laid eyes on her.
“What do you mean?” Eyes wide, she nervously licked her lips. Now I gets a reaction, he though watching her closely.
“You are applying to be a prostitute, a high-priced one, but a pro all the same. All I’m asking you to do is prove to me you can do the job you’re applying for.” He thought he had her. He thought she’d back down, go scurrying back to wherever she came from—only he’d have someone follow so he could find out what he wanted to know.
Instead, she walked around the desk, swiveled his chair, and dropped to her knees.
Fuck!
Chapter Two
The last thing Shay had expected to do was to fuck Shannon O’Shea when she had come in for an interview. Of course she had prepared herself to become a hooker for a short time. Just long enough to earn the money she needed. Of course she’d been familiar with the way Old Man O’Shea ran his businesses, and she knew this was the safest place she could hide until she could get the hell out of Massachusetts. It was the only way she’d be safe. She’d been unprepared to learn that the Irish boss’s sons were taking over his enterprises, so things were vastly different in South Boston. She’d been particularly unprepared for Shannon O’Shea.
Downstairs those from South Boston who were trying to get into one of the houses were whispering none too quietly among themselves about how good looking all the O’Shea brothers were. Shay dismissed it. What the women of South Boston found attractive, she generally didn’t. Until she’d walked into the office.
The man sitting behind the desk wasn’t a businessman—he was a predator. She recognized that about him right off. Those green eyes weren’t looking at a person’s appearance; he was attempting to gauge your soul. Shay was willing to bet most of the time he was right on the money too. But then, she wasn’t so easily read. Still, she knew he saw far more than she’d ever intended. And she’d trained herself for this. It wasn’t an easy thing to work on your back for money, but hell, the way she saw it her life was worth it. There was no time to be picky or turn her nose up at an opportunity to stay hidden until she was good and ready.
But damn, Shannon O’Shea was fine as all get out. Even sitting she could tell he was hella tall, thick ropes of muscles bulging out of the simple T-shirt he wore. It was freezing outside and dude was wearing a simple black V-neck t-shirt, showcasing the vivid tats up and down those thick arms. The Southie accent wasn’t as thick as she would’ve guessed, but the deep voice had plenty of Boston coloring its words.
Then he informed her he would be taking her for a test drive. Shit. Although she’d pushed back all of her consciousness’s objections to what she was doing, she wasn’t so sure she could stay mentally removed from this man. Just looking at him made her unaccountably wet, needy and down for anything. And he sat there looking completely unaffected. Not that she was all that, but she knew she was a slice of that, and in most cases that was more than enough. But this man sat, not moving a muscle, not giving any indication to being even a little turned on. And she couldn’t for the life of her see anything behind the mask of nothing he wore like a second skin. Not even those vibrant emerald eyes held a clue. They were like the gems they stole their color from—beautiful but otherwise cold, almost lifeless.
Had she seriously just escaped a wolf to run headlong into the den of a lion? The last thing she needed was to be trapped here after escaping a prison of sorts. But there was no point in dithering, not when she needed this job. It was perfect. Room and board—she would never have to leave. She had to do whatever it took to stay as long as she needed to. So she didn’t hesitate to approach him.
But as soon as he turned the swivel chair to her direction, her eyes dropped to his lap and saw he wasn’t as unaffected as she thought. Holy hell, that was one hell of an erection. Damn it if her mouth didn’t start watering as soon as reached forward. But his hands suddenly encircled her wrists in a death grip right before she could touch the belt on his jeans. It hurt, the punishing grip he had on her, but in a strange way it felt good. Comforting in a way. An illusion she couldn’t afford to believe, but for just a second, she wasn’t as scared as she had been.
Bewildered, she looked up and lost her breath. Had she believed his eyes to be cold? That was pure green fire blazing down on her now. The thick slash of his lips, which had seemed cruel to her moments before, now looked so inviting she had to bite her own bottom lip to keep from leaning forward for a kiss.
“I changed my mind.” Damn, but the man had the male purr down to a science. Her pussy clenched as he released one wrist to trail a single finger down the side of her face. Pulling her to her feet, he turned her around and sat her on his lap. Directly on that rather impressive erection. Yep, all that was him, all right. The thin, skimpy panties she wore didn’t stop her from feeling the heat of his dick through his jeans. He’d nestled himself right in her crack, and damn if her ass didn’t cradle him as if it had been made for just that purpose. “You can assist me in the interviews. Then we can see if perhaps you might be suited for a more exclusive position.”
The last thing she needed to do at the promise murmured low in her ear was lean back against the solid, extensive frame, but that’s exactly what she did. And since there was no disguising her shivers, she didn’t bother.
“Cold, honey?” Fuck, no, that endearment was not sexy as shit. It did nothing. If only she could convince her body of that. She could feel her wetness leeching into the material of her underwear; soon it would reach his jeans. There was no way she could answer, but it turned out she didn’t have to. He circled her body in large arms and pulled her close. “Here, we can share body heat.” Asshole, he knew damn well she hadn’t been shaking because she was cold. But before she could work herself up to be good and pissed off, he pressed two thick fingers directly against her clit. Goddamn. “Mickey, next girl.” To her he lowered his voice and whispered into her ear, “You tell me whether or not to hire the next applicant, okay, sugar?”
Right, like she could think with those fingers pressing down on her most sensitive bundle of nerves. And it felt so damn good! When was the last time she’d been with a man? Funny, with the chaos her life had become lately she couldn’t recall.
The silent giant who had led her down the corridor to the office stood and gaped for a few seconds, but Shannon ignored him, taking the folder with the name she’d given when she “applied” on to the side. She had no idea what was inside, but the next one held a woman’s picture, brief bio information, age, weight and ethnicity. Bubbles, as the next woman was calling herself, had been a dancer at Bunny’s in the South End. Impressive. The woman wrote she was interested in the Ritz. As soon as the woman entered the office Shay knew that wasn’t going to happen.
Either that picture in the file had been heavily doctored or Bubbles had run into some hard luck. Like the severe life-altering kind. It wasn’t that she was torn up exactly, but she appeared a good ten years older than twenty-five, the pale gold hair in the folder had turned brassy, almost too yellow, and there were heavy bags under her eyes. To make matters worse, the schoolgirl outfit she wore hung off her too-thin frame and was either dingy from incorrectly washing it, or not very clean.
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