Devil: The Doyles, A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  I’m deciding whether to turn on a lamp when I wake up enough to recognize the sound.

  Dear sweet Jesus, she’s touching herself.

  I keep absolutely still, just listening to her soft gasps turn into quick pants. She must think I’m asleep.

  How could any man sleep through that?

  She must be getting close now. I wouldn’t let her get off so quickly. I’d draw her out, keep her close to the edge for as long as possible until she’s completely undone, begging me to make her come.

  She’s trying to keep as quiet as possible, but I can tell she’s a screamer.

  Information I didn’t need to have. But I’ll add it to my fantasy playback for sure.

  As she comes, she lets out a desperate whisper.

  My name.

  Fuck.

  Power meeting power, darkness meeting light, strength meeting softness, Her breathing quiets, and moments later she settles into a quiet pattern of sleep.

  Glad one of us will be getting some rest.

  10

  Ruby

  The light hits my eyes, drawing me gently out of one of the more restful sleeps I’ve had. Blinking awake, I stretch, momentarily forgetting where I am.

  I suddenly remember Ronan, and what happened last night. More like what didn’t happen, and I pull the blanket up over my shoulders. The room is large, but I can see he isn’t here, his bedding gone from the floor, probably folded back up neatly in the trunk. I can’t believe it didn’t wake me up.

  I sag against the pillows. I should be embarrassed. I was absolutely wanton, like the ladies in the historical romances I like to read. Normally I’m always in control, in my job, in my life, so nothing turns me on like letting go and having someone else take the lead in bed.

  Someone big and strong.

  Someone like Ronan?

  That dangerous look in his eyes turned me on more than I’d like to admit. The way he’d so clearly stated his needs, his expectations, and his offers.

  I’d let my guard down because he’d been so gentle with me earlier in the orchard.

  I couldn’t forget that he was actually a wolf.

  But other men I’d dated had looked at me like I was crazy when I’d sheepishly asked them to try something a little rougher.

  Ronan obviously has no problem going dark side.

  Ugh.

  “Stop thinking about Ronan,” I say out loud to myself. Sure, he’d be an animal in bed, probably make me come multiple times, but at what cost? The smugness alone would be too high a price to pay.

  Okay so maybe not, but I couldn’t be in bed, literally or figuratively, with the eldest son of a mob boss and still be respected at my job.

  That thought pulls me out of my lust haze and out of bed. It’s 7:30 a.m. How did Ronan get up so early? There’s a note from him on the dresser.

  “Good morning, beautiful bride. I left for a run. Got a second key from Amelia. I’ll meet you back here at one.”

  I feel butterflies in my stomach, and then bristle at his use of bride.

  “You’re the one men want to fuck, Ruby,” I remind myself. “Not marry.”

  Ronan is obviously teasing me, proud as hell I’m sure at making me all hot and bothered.

  Easy enough to pretend like it never happened.

  I hope.

  Firm in that conviction, I shower and get ready to head to the police station. Time to get what we came here to do finished, so I can get out of this situation without making a serious mistake that’s not possible to come back from.

  I stare longingly at the tub, but there’s not time for a bath. I’m ready and out the door by eight.

  There isn’t a coffee shop in this town. Not even a Dunkin Donuts. I’m wishing I’d grabbed a cup before I left the bed-and-breakfast by the time I reach the police station.

  I walk into the brick building and am astonished to see the reception desk isn’t glassed in. It’s out in the middle of the lobby, with no safety precautions at all.

  This isn’t the big city, Williams.

  The officer on desk duty is a young woman. Figures. I walk up, smiling, and she comes over to greet me.

  “Good morning. Can I help you?”

  “Officer Byrd,” I say, looking at her name tag. “I’m Ruby…Doyle. My husband and I are in town visiting and I seem to have lost my wedding ring.”

  “Oh that’s terrible, ma’am,” she says, looking for some paperwork. “I can tell you that if it turns up someone will bring it to us. Folks are good like that here.”

  Maybe the regular folks, but not some of the people in this building.

  Then again, a lost wedding ring is nothing in comparison to all that drug money.

  “That’s good to hear,” I say, faking relief. “It’s not super expensive, but it has a lot of sentimental value.”

  “That’s better anyway, isn’t it?” Officer Byrd replies. God, she’s such a baby. Maybe twenty-two years old, fresh out of the academy. Her blonde hair is in a neat bun at the back of her head, her eyes bright and her disposition sunny.

  Was I ever that young?

  “I think so,” I say, nodding. She hands me a missing property form and I fill it out. “I want to live in a town like this someday. Is there a lot of crime? Or mostly just trouble from the brewery?”

  She laughs. “No, ma’am. Not a lot of crime. Usually just crabby neighbors fighting over poorly trimmed lawns. And the brewery? Nothing going on there at all. The local teens were disappointed when it became clear how serious the owners were about carding.”

  Officer Byrd was one of those local teens not too long ago I’d imagine.

  “That’s great,” I say, handing the form to her. “It’s always good when business owners are involved in the upkeep of the town that supports them.”

  “It brought in a lot of jobs,” Officer Byrd says with a nod, filing the form. “Folks were worried when it came in about ten years ago, but they’ve been wonderful neighbors.”

  “My husband and I are going to check it out later. Any highlights we shouldn’t miss?”

  Before she can answer, the door swings open and a man nearly as round as he is tall comes in. His face is soft, a large curtain of flesh connecting his chin to his neck. His eyes are small and hard, though. He’s the chief by his uniform, and by the way Officer Byrd straightens up.

  “Sir,” she says. There’s an edge to her voice. Fear maybe? It’s not respect. I want to put myself between this man and this young woman.

  “Stand down, Officer Byrd.” He rakes his eyes over me and pushes his lips into a facsimile of a smile. “

  Why hello there,” he says. “I hope everything is okay?”

  “She lost her ring, chief,” Officer Byrd replies. “We were just filing a report.”

  “You don’t think it was stolen, do you?” he asks. His voice is oily. He takes his hat off and runs a hand through his thinning brown hair.

  “No,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I think it fell off when my husband and I were out for a walk. I was hoping someone found it.”

  He tucks his hat under his arm, appraising me. I imagine being involved in covering up drug smuggling makes one suspicious.

  “Well if it turns up we’ll contact you,” there’s an obvious pause while he waits for my name.

  “Mrs. Doyle,” I reply, the sound a little foreign but not unwelcome on my lips.

  It’s a common enough last name. Better than using my own. We should’ve come up with something better, but it’s too late now.

  “Of course,” he says. The corners of his mouth look like they’re being held up by strings. “Anything else we can help you with today?”

  I shoot a glance at Officer Byrd. I don’t want to leave her alone with this creep, even though I know she could be in on the scheme. I don’t really have a choice, though.

  “No, thank you. Officer Byrd, you’ve been super helpful.”

  “She’s going to make us proud,” the chief says. “Six months in and I can tell tha
t already. I always know which of my officers are going to cut it and which won’t.”

  If I didn’t know what I did I’d be wondering what the hell “not cutting it” in this Podunk town meant.

  “Well, good luck. I hope I’ll hear from you about that ring, but if I find it first I’ll be in touch.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The nervousness has melted from Officer Byrd with the chief’s praise. I feel sick to my stomach and head out before I punch the chief in the face and blow our cover.

  The breakfast at the B&B is free, but I’m more likely to hear gossip at Clyde’s so I head in that direction. The place is empty. Clyde and a cook seem to be the only ones staffing the restaurant, so I settle in at the counter and ask for coffee.

  He pours me a cup, nodding sagely. “Amelia and Wally are nice people, but their coffee is no good.”

  Not knowing otherwise, I nod in agreement, thanking him. “How long have you been in the restaurant business?” I ask, taking a sip.

  “Oh I wouldn’t call this the restaurant business,” he says, mopping the counter with a less than clean rag. “But I’ve owned this place for about twenty years now.”

  “That’s impressive,” I say. “Keeping a restaurant open isn’t easy.”

  “Don’t I know it. I almost closed, but then that brewery opened and drew in a lot more people. Still small town, but with the tourists it’s enough to keep us going.”

  “Everyone must have been relieved when it came to town.”

  He raises one hairy eyebrow. It’s like a big black caterpillar. A stark contrast to his bald head.

  “I suppose.” He nods at the menu. “Want something to eat? I imagine that man of yours eats you out of house and home.”

  Eats you out. I wish.

  Stupid traitorous brain.

  “Yeah. He’s always hungry.”

  “What’ll it be, then?”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  “Smart lady. Blueberry pancakes. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He leaves for a few minutes and then returns.

  “So what was here before the brewery, Clyde? I’m sorry, can I call you Clyde?”

  “It’s my name,” he deadpans. “Nothing much. Just a few farms. One place that used to be known throughout New England for its apples. You can still see the big farm house up by the old orchard.”

  I hadn’t seen it when Ronan and I had been walking yesterday, but it was probably on the other side of the hill. “I’m Ruby.”

  It feels silly, but I want to be polite. “The brewery. You didn’t seem super enthused about it?”

  He notices my coffee is half empty and refills the cup.

  “Most of the town was thrilled. Lots of good reason to be thrilled.”

  “I was just over at the police station.”

  His eyes shoot up.

  “Lost my ring,” I say, holding up my left hand. “Officer Byrd says they’re good neighbors?”

  “Jeanna’s a great kid.” Clyde’s voice warms significantly as he says it. “And she’s right. They are.”

  I don’t want to push my luck, but there’s something here. I try another tack.

  “Clyde. Officer Byrd, Jeanna, well she seemed a little uncomfortable around Chief Flesch. I didn’t want to intrude. I’m sure she can take care of herself.”

  I leave off there and wait.

  “He say something?” Clyde asks. His voice is calm but his whole posture changes. He’s defensive.

  “Just that she was going to make him proud. Maybe I’m reading too much into it.”

  “Jeanna already makes us proud. She’s smart. She’s going to go places. Get the hell out of here.”

  “I can see she has a good head on her shoulders,” I venture. “But it’s hard being the new girl in a male-dominated field.”

  “Going to go check on those pancakes,” Clyde says, disappearing behind the service wall. He returns moments later and places a plate in front of me. The pancakes look and smell amazing. A small cup of syrup is nestled next to them.

  “You seem like a kind woman,” Clyde says. “I appreciate your concern about Jeanna.”

  Clyde seems like a man who appreciates honesty.

  I tilt my head slightly. “But?”

  “Not a good idea to ask so many questions around here. Especially not ones about Chief Flesch.” Clyde’s eyes dart to the door.

  I don’t turn around, but I can see Chief Flesch reflected in the stainless-steel backing of the service wall.

  Hanging around and waiting to see what he can sniff out then.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. Or Jeanna.”

  “No trouble,” he says. “Eat those pancakes before they get cold. And I hope you find your ring, Mrs. Ruby. Keep close to that big man of yours.”

  “I will,” I say, more for his comfort than for mine. He seems visibly relieved and walks off to make more coffee. I finish the pancakes, which are fucking delicious, and leave some money on the counter. It’s only 10 a.m., and I don’t have to meet Ronan until much later.

  Maybe I’ll walk up to the church and take a look around.

  It looks like a postcard.

  It’s a big boxy wooden building with a huge steeple. It’s painted white, and a plaque above the big black door reads “First Congregational Church, circa 1880.” I tug on the brass door handle, but it’s locked. I wander around the side of the building and find a second, more subtle, entrance.

  This one is unlocked, so I go inside. It’s one big rectangle, with the altar up front. A crystal chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, and balconies line the second floor, supported by thick columns that interrupt the lines of pews on the main floor. The wood creaks as I walk up toward the altar, touching the wood of the pews as I go by. Everything is painted white except for the floor. It’s simple, but beautiful.

  When I get to the front, a loud voice calls out ‘hello’ from where I came in. It feels like I’ve been caught doing something bad, but this is a church, and there’s no reason why I can’t be here.

  Is there?

  “Hi,” I say, turning toward the source of the voice. It’s a man in his thirties, dressed in khakis and a white button-down shirt. “This is a beautiful church.”

  He’s in front of me now. Blandly handsome. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m afraid we only have services on Sundays, but sometimes we rent the space for concerts.”

  “Good acoustics?” I offer.

  “Not the best, but not terrible either. I’m Peter.”

  Of course his name is Peter.

  “Ruby,” I say, reaching out to shake his hand. “I’m visiting with my husband.”

  Just in case Father Peter or whatever he goes by gets any ideas. Not that I want Ronan getting any ideas either. “Are you the leader here?”

  “Yes, though in our tradition we have a priesthood of believers. The members decide our forms of worship and governance together. I just provide some guidance.”

  “Very democratic.” Also sounds like it’d make getting shit done impossible. But I don’t say that.

  “Do you know who built this?” I ask, sweeping a hand toward the back of the church.

  “Some of the founding families of Prescott. But most of those folks have long since died out or moved on. Now we mostly serve tourists and a handful of locals.”

  “How can you afford to stay open?” I ask. “Heating this place in the winter can’t be cheap.”

  Peter laughs. “No, you’re right. We rely on donations, but we also get support from our fellow Congregationalist churches, as well as from the brewery. Have you been there yet?”

  “I have not, but I’ve heard good things about it.”

  “It keeps this town afloat.”

  “Afloat in beer?” I joke.

  He laughs again, but the sound is bitter this time. “Jesus was a fan of wine. Nothing wrong with that. Everything in moderation.”

  As he speaks, he moves closer in my direct
ion.

  His eyes are on me with an intensity that’s off. It’s off for the context, it’s off for the conversation, and it’s off for the image of the man that he’s trying to project.

  Does that include drugs? I find myself trusting Peter less.

  Another long, pointed stare. I was going to ask him about the farmhouse but decide against it. I’ll google that shit later.

  Something’s seriously not right about this man.

  “I’m a fan of wine, myself.” Everything in my body tells me to get the fuck out of here. It’d seemed so beautiful when I walked in, but something about this man is setting off my carefully honed alarm bells.

  It’s like all the air’s been sucked out of the building.

  Like I stumbled in and saw the rot beneath some carefully crafted veneer.

  At the thought of the bad apples, I want very much to be back in the B&B and away from this man.

  Time to go. “It was lovely meeting you, Peter. I have to go meet my husband. Excuse me.”

  Quickly I make my way toward the exit. As I leave, I grab a flyer from a table next to the door. Peter’s gaze is burning in the back of my skull the whole time.

  “The spirit is not with Peter,” I say, crossing myself out of very old habit.

  It’s a fight to contain the urge to run back to the bed-and-breakfast, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I look at the flyer and see Peter’s smiling face on it.

  Reverend Peter O’Dooley.

  Okay then.

  One mystery solved.

  I make it back to the bed-and-breakfast, thrilled to find Toby lazing on the front porch. We spend some quality time together while I consider everything I’ve seen.

  I’m up in our room doing some research when Ronan returns.

  He’s been out for a few hours, and I know he wasn’t running all that time.

  But I also don’t need the blow by the blow.

  And it’s clear that Ronan isn’t a man that would respond well to nagging.

  My breath catches in my throat when I see him, big and fucking devastatingly handsome as ever. He’s wearing jeans and a tight black t-shirt.

  Rein that shit in, girl.

  “Hey,” he says, a giant smile sweeping across his face. He tosses his leather jacket on the dresser. “You look beautiful. Are you ready to go?”