“What are you doing? You need to give your post-fight interviews.”
He invaded my space as he walked forward, trapping me between the motorcycle and his slippery body.
“I don’t need to do anything, Princess. I just won twenty-five MILLION dollars.”
His joy was infectious, and I bit my lip.
“Don’t forget the Fub contract,” I whispered silkily.
“You didn’t tell me how much that was for, anyway.” Connor ran his battered fingers through my hair and leaned down. “Why is that?”
“We’re still in negotiations. Well, Jeff is.”
“Is that right? And just where was that number the last time you heard.”
I’d been wanting to tell Connor this all week. Giddiness bubbled through me, and I licked my lips. I crooked my finger. “Come closer.”
He came closer.
My mouth hovered against his cheek. “Well, they want to give you a massive endorsement.”
“Uh huh.”
“They see MMA as an untapped market. They want to make you the Michael Jordan, Floyd Merriweather, and Tiger Woods of the sport.”
Connor grew still.
“Initially they want to sign you for a two-year deal, but if you can make Connor McGrath the same powerhouse as Michael Jordan, there’s no end date.”
I knew what he was waiting to hear, and I wanted to see his face when I told him.
“Right now, the deal is at sixty-million a year. Knowing Jeff, though, he can negotiate for more than the one-hundred-and-twenty million they are offering you.”
Connor stared at me with his mouth open. I’d rendered him speechless.
I caressed his bruised face. “You did it.”
His hand tightened in my hair, and his eyes searched mine. “It’s not enough.”
I blinked up at him. Was he kidding me? He was about to land one of the largest endorsement deals that wasn’t from Nike! “What do you—,”
Connor silenced me with his finger. “I realized something, right before I was about to fight. Yeah, the money's nice, but I want more than that. I want you, and me, and a patch of land. I feckin’ love you, Crystal, and the money means nothing if you’re not here with me.”
Lord, this man could make me swoon. Tears gathered like southern storm clouds in my eyes. I didn’t blink them away as I leaned into Connor. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to say.”
His cocky smile almost made me punch him. “What’s that, Princess?”
I grinned and pulled myself close. “I feckin’ love you,” I whispered, trying my hand at his Irish brogue and failing miserably.
Then, I laughed before falling once more into his addicting kiss.
THE END
Also By Mickey Miller:
Blackwell After Dark - Small Town Romances
Ballers Romance Series:
Standalones:
Mickey Miller books cowritten with Holly Dodd:
Dirty CEO
Also by Holly Dodd:
Giving It Up
Pin Me Down
Theirs to Take
Kiss Me Now
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1
Chapter 1
Never take home a boy who goes to a bar on a Tuesday. That was my mom’s old saying, anyway. Because a man who frequents a bar even on a Tuesday night has a ninety percent likelihood of being up to no good.
On a late spring night, Kelly’s Tavern was popping and every guy under eighty was shooting me their version of come-fuck-me eyes as I tended bar. The lights were dim, the music low, and a buzz of voices filled the air.
Most people drank their faces off during college all the way through their graduation. After that, it was time to get serious, put their head down, get a “real job,” and take life seriously.
For me, it was exactly the opposite. I spent not four, but six years at Notre Dame studying my ass off to get a Master’s degree in Accounting—only to shuffle back into the blue-collar heart of the South Side of Chicago, tending my family’s bar, and fending off the nightly squad of men who flirted with me. I doubted they’d be so quick with their banter and phone numbers if they knew who my family was.
For now, all I could do was smile to myself at an irony that only I found funny. I held a hand on the tap and watched the Guinness take on a foamy tan color as it slid into the slanted glass. Hey, at least my smile would get me some tips tonight.
“The goddamn Italian Mob is at it again.” Pops sat at the elbow of the bar, his face half covered by a newspaper. He wasn’t too old to change and get his news like a modern man—on a tablet or his phone—but he enjoyed the tactile feeling of paper crinkling between his fingers. Since I’d been a little kid he’d perfected his nightly ritual. He sat on the same stool, in the same spot, chewing on an unlit cigar, and snatching up gossip from the Tribune. Though for the moment he sat silently, often he was worse than the women at the hair salon, gossiping about everything under the sun, even if no one was listening to him. And those girls knew how to gossip. He liked being in the corner of the room where he could both face the door and keep an eye on me: his only daughter and the baby of the family. Seeing as I was well past the drinking age, how long would I be the “baby” in his eyes?
“Fucking shootout at the LaRosa Sausage place down on Cermak yesterday night. Another one.” He shook his graying head slightly and slapped the newspaper down. “Something needs to be done about these violent gangsters. They’re goddamn animals.”
I kept my features relaxed as he went into his usual rant about the Italians. As the Guinness settled, it changed from a dark tan hue to black. The deep color had me thinking of a man I used to know, his eyes so dark and smoldering they appeared black in some light. Every time I returned to Chicago, be it for holiday breaks or summer vacation, my mind always went back to him. I couldn’t help it. He had been my first guy friend who wasn’t family, and my first crush. Vince LaRosa, a son of the family Pops’ disparaged. We had grown up together, from grade school to high school until his family came into some money. I’d never admit my crush on him, or my want for more—dating an Italian was strictly forbidden by my family. Still, my thoughts wandered and had me curious about how life was treating him. If the family was to be believed, Vince was now the CEO of Chicago, a fact I found hard to come to terms with.
Him and his whiskey-brown eyes, olive skin, and a slow smile. He’d been sexy when were younger. Did he grow into a hot-ass man, or had he peaked in high school? I curtailed my thoughts. Having the hots for “the enemy” wasn’t an ideal situation.
I held my neutral smile, knowing it provided exactly zero insight into what I was thinking. The Irish are, by nature, good at concealing their emotions. I’d learned over the years to mask my thoughts in a vague, content-but-not-ecstatic expression. Add in four nosy fucking brothers sniffing out trouble like bloodhounds, and I’d had to perfect the art of a poker face. My pale, freckled skin and auburn red hair afforded me an added level of innocence, even if it was just an illusion. My temper was as volatile as any of the men in my family.
“Pops, here’s a drink to cheer you up,” I set the full pint glass on the coaster in front of him. “This one’s on the house,” I winked.
He laughed a little and smiled from the cheek, his wrinkles prominent. “Now you know I can’t allow that.” He pulled out a ten-dollar bill and stuffed it into the tip jar. It was a ridiculous ritual that Pops and I went through since I had first taken my place at the till when I turned eighteen, and every time I had been back in town since. He would tip me although this was his bar and all the profits found their way to our family.
I shook my head at him, but didn’t argue. I had plans for that money, it was going to help me head west, even if Pops didn’t know it yet.
Another hand flagged me down, and I worked my way to the end of the
bar, finally stopping to mix a drink for my brother.
Yes, Kelly’s Tavern—my namesake—was a regular family affair tonight. I was lucky that only one of the pain-in-the-asses was here.
“Kelly! Damn, you are so good behind the bar,” My brother Tommy said as I made him a whiskey old fashioned. “It’s good to finally have you back. The family really needs you here.”
My heart fluttered at Tommy’s words. It was nice to be missed and wanted. Still, I kept my poker face. The way the violence had been escalating lately, I knew I couldn’t live in Chicago forever. I needed a fresh start. And for me, that was California. The land of sunshine and golden dreams. I’d considered New York, but honestly, I was tired of the snow, and the possibility of gang wars. New York and Jersey had as much of a corruption problem when it came to the Irish and the Italians as Chicago did.
To my brothers and father, I was the perfect daughter with a Master’s in Accounting, who would take over the family business. Not only was the tavern my namesake, but it was my birthright, as well. If only it were just handling the money the tavern made, instead of dealing with all the insidiousness being in the “family business” entailed. Drugs, guns, racketeering; my future was on the wrong side of the law. Inside, though, a growing part of me wanted to escape and find a way to put my theater minor to use. Pops didn’t even know I’d taken theater. Outside of my immediate circle of friends, there’d only been one who had known I was a closet thespian.
Pops would have a damn aneurysm if he knew. But there were some things a father just didn’t need to know about his daughter.
Things like that time I made out with Vince under the bleachers my sophomore year of high school. That little session was definitely going to the grave with me.
An actual paying customer called for me on the other side of the bar, jarring me out of my daydream. This was how most of my nights went. Running back and forth, slinging shots, cocktails, and brews. I was about to work my way over to him when the lull of the crowd quieted, and a few heads turned toward the entrance.
Naturally, I paused and looked too.
A deliciously tall, dark, olive-skinned man stood at the entrance flashing his ID to our bouncer, Frankie. Frankie looked like he was about to pop off the stool he’d been sitting on and go for the stranger’s throat.
Pops and my brother both stared down the man who had entered. If looks could kill, damn, the pub would be a crime scene right about now. I instantly recognized those eyes as they shifted past Frankie’s shoulder and latched onto me. They belonged to the same man that I’d just been thinking about.
Why Vince LaRosa—now known as the CEO of Chicago, the damn boss of the Chicago Outfit—chose to come into our bar was anybody’s guess. Vince was more out of place here than Jack Daniel’s at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. And not just because of his clothing. He wore a two-piece suit with no tie. I’m no fashionista, I honestly couldn’t tell the difference between Gucci and Armani, but my gut told me his light blue shirt, dark blue pants, and custom-tailored suit coat cost him well into the five figures. The business he had inherited from his father was rumored to have made him a billionaire. He sat atop Chicago’s most eligible bachelor’s list. And at this very moment, he was crossing enemy lines without a care. I hoped he was packing heat. Between Pops, Tommy, and Frankie, they could pump him full of lead easily. They wouldn’t. Not because it was wrong, but because they didn’t want the hassle of cops and repair bills. Bullet holes were costly to fix and cops were expensive to pay off.
I popped my hip against the bar. Nobody was in desperate need of a drink. Mostly because everyone was caught in pantomime, pretending to sip their drinks while watching Vince. The tension in the air bore down on all of us, at least those who knew the history, and created a knot between my shoulder blades. I really, really didn’t want anyone to get shot during my first month home.
Pops ground his teeth. My brother had all but flown to his side when Vince appeared.
Pops grabbed him by the shoulder. “That man is not allowed in this bar. Tommy, will you please show him the way out.”
Tommy hiked his jeans up, and strode over to the entrance and snatched the ID out of Frankie’s hand. He didn’t even look at the piece of plastic. Vince was well above the legal drinking age, being two years old than me, but they wanted to hassle him, and maybe make him rethink about coming in. “Hate to tell you, but this ID looks fake to me, Frankie.”
Frankie’s gaze shifted to Tommy and then back to Vince again. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I was thinking it seemed fake,” he said, going along with Tommy’s lie. “Sorry buddy, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You know, policy and all.”
Vince’s rock solid expression didn’t change at all. He looked calm. Which was rather unnerving considering he was walking into the lion’s den. He didn’t move an inch. Frankie swallowed a little harder than he normally did, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Who was the more serious threat? Vince, or the two men in jeans, black shirts and boots flanking him. Okay, maybe I was a terrible daughter, but I was a little amused at their reaction. I took out a rag and swiped at a few bottles, getting as close as I could to the action taking place while keeping my head down.
Vince’s expression changed. His mouth quirked at one edge. “Frankie. Tommy. It doesn’t have to be this way. I just wanted to stop by here, have a pint, maybe play some poker downstairs.”
“We don’t want no trouble either. Which is why you can just as well get a pint down the road at Santino’s,” Tommy said, referring to the Italian pub down the road. They had a “recreational parlor” in the basement, too. If Vince wanted to play poker, that’s where he should have gone. Not here, riling up Pops and Tommy.
“Come now, you know the best high stakes poker in the city is here,” Vince spoke evenly and calmly, his voice a rich baritone that caused goosebumps to rise on my skin. Damn. He’d grown up nicely. I was trying not to stare, but it was difficult when his broad shoulders were magnets for my gaze.
I figured it wasn’t easy for him to appear so blasé. Tommy was six-foot-four and a known fighter. He’d been scrappy while growing up but added bulk to his frame when he began dipping into some MMA fighting classes alongside our cousin, Connor, who went pro. Frankie was a hair shorter but not by much. As a former lineman in college, he’d kept his physique sharp by regular boxing bouts.
Vince, in contrast, was whip chord slim. Topping out at maybe six-foot-one. With his custom-tailored suit, he looked like he belonged in the VIP section of some ritzy downtown pub. Still, we had all heard the stories about any fight Vince had been in. One punch from him was all it took to put an opponent in the hospital with a concussion and broken jaw. If I had to bet on who would win between Frankie and Vince, I’d put my money on Vince.
All three men clenched their jaws, staring each other down like goats on a mountain. I mentally sighed. It was likely I would be cleaning up blood before the night was over. I had to stop this before they butted heads.
“Let the man have one fucking pint, for Christ’s sake,” I interjected.
Vince’s eyes flashed to mine, and for a split second, he broke my neutral smile. The heat in his gaze made me want to back pedal. Just to put a safe distance between myself and him. I’d hoped to break the tension. And in a way, I had. But there was a different kind of energy now building between us when his gaze locked on mine. One that made me think of dark nights, and ravaging kisses. Vince and I began crossing that line in high school. But we’d never gone as far as I wanted.
“One drink,” Tommy growled. “One drink, and one round of poker downstairs. And you get one bodyguard in here with you. The other waits outside. Fair?”
Vince’s half-smile returned. He gave a curt nod of his head to Tommy. “Fair.”
He stalked toward the bar, completely at odds with his urban chic. For all his finery, he moved like a fighter, a predator sizing up his prey. The crowd parted for him and his single bodyguard. Somehow, I didn’t think
he would need a bodyguard, not if he wanted to do damage.
He leaned against the bar. “I’ll have a Green Spot, neat.”
I examined the man. That was top-shelf whiskey. One hundred percent Irish shipped over from the motherland. Of course, we had it. We were an Irish pub, after all. But it didn’t come cheap, and I wasn’t sure Pops would tolerate a dago—his word, not mine—drinking his special whiskey. If I wanted to keep the tenuous peace and ensure I wasn’t mopping up blood tonight, I would have to serve him something else.
I didn’t budge, which was slightly difficult with Vince staring me down with those dark eyes of his. “What are you doing here? Really.”
His smile turned shark-like. “What, a man can’t come into a pub and have a drink? Last time I checked we live in a free country.”
I snorted. “Men like you don’t come here without a purpose.”
A small hope unfurled inside me, stupid thing that it was. Had he come in to see me? It was a ridiculous thought. After our almost-relationship in high school and his abrupt move, I hadn’t seen Vince face to face until now,
I turned around and stretched to the top shelf of the bar, having to get on my tippy toes to reach the bottle of whiskey with a blue label. Macallan was still top shelf and would have to do. I didn’t want Pops reaching for the twelve gauge beneath the bar because I gave Vince his Green Spot.
“This is the best you’re gonna get,” I said, pouring him a glass. “Does your, uh, friend want anything?” I motioned to his bodyguard with a nod.
“Sal doesn’t drink. Just me.”
I could feel Pops’ and my brother’s watchful eyes, and probably ears, on me as I handed Vince his drink.
“So, how’s the family sausage business been lately?” I spoke through pursed lips, stifling back a chuckle. Me and my dirty mind had always been lewdly curious about Vince’s…sausage. And if he would really live up to his second nickname as the “Big Sausage,” or if that name was simply a façade, much like his business operations.
Fantasy Island Page 18
