The Chase

by Holly Hart

  I face the bed; and away from Kieran. I’ve got my back to him. I wait for him to press his body against mine. It’ll give me the excuse I need to throw him off; out of my suite.

  But Kieran doesn’t do as I expect. It’s becoming a habit of his.

  Kieran stands behind me, yes. However he’s a foot, or more, away. Far enough away that it feels like a chasm. “Are you sure you want to do this?” He asks, reaching out and tracing my side with two fingers. His touch feels glorious to my skin even though it is still covered by my silk dress. “I can leave…”

  I watch his reflection in the window. The curtains are open wide, Boston Common stretching out behind them, dotted with lamp lights.

  I shake my head. It’s the slightest of movements. I barely even make it out in the window. My mind is made up. I’m not going to do this because Kieran has seduced me, although he came close. I’m not doing this to piss off my brother. I’m doing this because I want to, and because I can.

  At least … that’s the line I’m feeding myself.

  “Untie me,” I whisper. The air-condition-cooled air kisses my skin where my dress lets it – both at the back and at the front. My nipples are hard, and I can’t tell whether it’s from the cool breeze, or because I’m anticipating Kieran’s touch.

  Kieran doesn’t ask twice. He takes a pace towards me, caresses my body from the crook of my shoulder, down both sides of my torso, and rests his hands on my hips. He leans in, so close to me that the heat of his breath warms my cheeks. “I thought you’d never ask,” he growls.

  I close my eyes.

  “You tell anyone this happened,” I say, holding my body tight and tense. “So help me God, I’ll put a bullet in your brain and your body in a ditch. Deal?”

  Kieran’s lips nibble my right ear. I can’t help but let out a little moan of satisfaction. His touch feels so good. I open my neck up, inviting him on. “I like it when you talk dirty,” he breathes.

  Kieran’s left-hand slides down the front of my body, until it settles just above my pelvis. His right rises, climbing up my naked back until it settles where my dress is tied together. He doesn’t hesitate before undoing the loose knot holding it together, and the paper-thin silk falls with a soft hiss, slickly sliding towards the floor. It catches at my hips, where Kieran’s hand holds it.

  I glance out of the window, suddenly conscious of where I am and what I’m doing. “The curtains…” I whisper.

  Kieran growls into my ear. The sound is primal, animalistic even: hungry. It fills me with a desire the like of which I’ve never experienced. It’s the last thing I remember with any clarity. “Let them watch.”

  He hooks both thumbs underneath the fabric pooled at my waist and pushes it towards the floor. My dress falls in a puddle at my feet. I’m not wearing a bra, not with this dress, so I stand in front of him in nothing but a pair of black, lacy panties. They aren’t my best, nor my worst. Just the kind of underwear you wear to a wedding when you don’t figure you’re going to get laid. I wait for Kieran’s hands to drop down, lower, and lower, until they meet my ass, and then between my legs, but as usual he does none of that.

  They climb instead, to my shoulders. He cups them, and spins me around, until we are face-to-face. I’m no more than a couple of inches from him when he kisses me for the first time. It’s not soft – it’s not a loving kiss – it’s a lover’s kiss. It is unbridled passion.

  I bite Kieran’s lip and he groans, and the sound drives me wild. He tastes manly: spicy, with hints of whiskey. It’s a taste that I don’t usually like. But if it tasted like this, I would drink it out of Kieran’s mouth every day.

  “This,” I say, pulling away and waving my hand up and down his side, “isn’t fair.” I’m panting, ever so slightly. Kieran’s touch is fanning the flames of desire inside me. I need to slow this down. I need to –.

  Kieran reaches up with one hand and tugs his bowtie loose. With the other, he frees me from my panties. I’m naked. He’s not.

  “How James Bond of you,” I smirk, dragging my tongue across my bottom lip in a slow, seductive way. “But that’s not what I was talking about…”

  “Two sets of hands are better than one,” Kieran replies, in that lilting, delicious, almost choral Irish accent of his.

  I know what he is saying. I do as I’m told. I’m not used to it, but it feels nice. My hands undo his belt, button and fly, and his dress pants fall like my silk to the floor. He throws his jacket aside, and kicks off his shoes. My fingers unbutton his shirt, which he shrugs off, and then he pushes me back onto the bed and we fall together.

  Kieran’s fingers probe my wetness, and I throw my head back and arch my spine. My hips press out, and Kieran drives his fingers inside me. I let out a cry of desire. I’ve needed this for – hell, I don’t know how long. When you’re the princess in a gilded castle, you don’t get to screw the help. It’s not the “done” thing. This has been building for so long: for far too long.

  Little stars are already breaking out behind my vision. I shake my head, my fingers freeing Kieran’s cock from his boxer shorts. “No,” I groan. “Don’t play with me. I need to feel you inside me, now.”

  Kieran growls – it’s a low, throaty sound. Not words, just desire. He’s gone a moment, then he’s back sans boxer shorts. He presses his cock inside me, and I gasp as it fills me up. It’s bigger than I expected. I barely got to touch it before he pushed it into me, and I certainly had no time to appreciate its perfection. It feels like it fits. It feels perfect.

  “Remember,” I whisper, biting my lip to stay in at least a semblance of control. My fingernails dig into Kieran’s back hard enough to leave scars. “You don’t tell a soul about this.”

  Kieran dips his head toward mine. He stares into my eyes. “Not a word,” his chest rumbles, and then his lips graze mine.

  Not a word.

  Chapter Four

  Kieran

  Two weeks later…

  I towel my hair hard, wringing every last drop of water from it. Even through the scent of shampoo, and the thick, wet fabric currently assaulting my hair, I recognize the smell of ma’s house. It’s one of those places I’ll never forget – ingrained deeply into my soul. I’ll keep coming back as long as I live.

  I squash the towel into a thick, clumsy ball and toss it, basketball style, into a wash basket in the corner. Then I drag on a pair of jeans.

  I pause for a second to take a look around. Our old bedroom has barely changed. The same posters still decorate the walls: Jurassic Park, even freaking Good Fellas! I kind of wish ma would swap out the bed: my 6-foot-two frame doesn’t fit so well in a bed made for a twelve-year-old. I roll out my neck, pausing to press my fingers into a particularly troublesome spot.

  I glance at my gun. It’s lying on the same bedside table Declan and I shared as kids. I guess some people would have a problem with that, but I don’t hang around with those people. I leave it there. I’ve got two people on the door. Besides, ain’t nobody picking a fight with the Byrne family home. Not unless they want to leave in a body bag, that is.

  The stairs squeak as I take them two at a time. Ma’s voice hits me the second my feet touch the wooden floor. “Kieran, you wan’ a spot of breakfast?”

  Ma’s at the stove, wearing the same flower print apron she’s worn every day since I can remember. I go over to her, and encircle her with my arms. If I thought my bedroom smelled familiar, ma’s the real deal. She’s what makes this place smell like home.

  “You know it, ma.”

  I settle down at the dining table. Without even thinking about it, I navigate around da’s old seat at the head of the table. He might be gone, but his spirit lives on. I grab a mug and pour myself a splash of steaming coffee.

  “You doing anything today, ma?” I ask. I like to keep the old lady company: especially these days; especially now she’s in this old house all alone. But Mary Byrne is a mighty strong woman. She ain’t the type to let a loss get her down. Not even when that loss is
the man she spent her whole life with.

  Ma speaks loud over the clatter of pots and pans. “I’m keeping by,” she says. “I’ve got bridge later, with the girls. Do you want to –?”

  “No, ma’,” I grin. “Every time I come to that damn church hall with you, half a dozen old women pinch my cheeks like I’m still ten years old. Ye just imagine what would happen if people on the street saw tha’, now!”

  The toaster spring flies upwards with a clatter, and bacon and eggs appear from nowhere on a plate. I stand up to get it, but ma’ shoos me back down.

  “You’re a good boy, ye know that, Kieran?” Ma’ says, patting me on the head. She’s not a lady who lets her emotions show, so I know this means a heck of a lot. “You’re always coming to visit yer old mother like this.”

  I speak over a huge mouthful that’s popping with salt and butter: just the way I like it. Ma’ never did subscribe to all this healthy food crap you see on the news. Carrot sticks and yogurt dip ain’t any way to start your morning, not when you’ve got heads to bash across South Boston all day.

  “Ma’, I’m no fool. I know you do the best breakfast in town.”

  She sits down opposite me, fixing me with a stare I remember well from my childhood. “Sore head, is it?”

  I shrug nonchalantly. “Lad’s gotta have some fun.”

  Ma’ shakes her head disapprovingly, but she can’t help the smile that tickles her lips. She never was very good at holding any anger: not towards us boys. Now, to anyone that tried to hurt us … that was another matter entirely. Then she could be like a bat out of hell.

  “Never did Seamus no harm,” Ma’ shrugs. “Just be sure it doesn’t get in the way of business, now.”

  I glance up at her. My expression is flat. I’m deadly serious. “I never have.”

  Ma’ smiles at me. “Ignore me, Kieran. Ye wan’ a piece of advice, now?”

  I shrug.

  “Never grow old. Gives ye too much time fer worrying.”

  “I’ll do my best, ma’.”

  “There’s one thing ye could do to put an old woman’s mind at rest.”

  I look down at my plate. I stifle a groan, and mop up the last of the egg yolk with my toast. I know exactly where this is going.

  “Don’t say it, ma’…”

  The problem is, nobody ever told Mary Byrne what to do and got away with it. She’s got those old lady ears where she doesn’t hear anything she doesn’t want to. How are you supposed to deal with that?

  “Yer brother Declan, now, he went and found himself a nice lady. Isn’t it about time –?”

  “Ma’…” I say with a tone of warning in my voice. “Leave it be, will ye?”

  I chew my lip. The truth is – not like I would ever tell ma’ this – I haven’t been with a woman in two weeks. Not since Declan's wedding. Not since Sofia Morello. It’s not like I haven’t had chances. Every bar I walk into, some girl tries throwing herself at me. Any other time, I would have let them.

  But right now?

  “How’s about I ask the ladies,” Ma says with a wicked grin on her face. She knows exactly what game she’s playing. “Find ye a nice young woman: a nice Irish girl.”

  I tip my head back and groan out loud. Behind my closed eyes, all I can see is Sofia’s fierce, hard glare staring back at me. I don’t know what it is about the Morello girl, but she’s burrowed her way under my skin.

  It’s something about the way Sofia acted around me: cool, like she wasn’t falling for my charms. It felt like she was using me the way I usually use women. I don’t know whether I love it, or hate it.

  “I told ye, ma’: yer not to talk about me at yer bridge nights. I got enough trouble as it is, without running into old women try’ina set me up with their granddaughters at the store.”

  Ma spreads her hands wide. “I’m gettin’ old, Kieran. Maybe I’m wantin’ to see grandkids before it is too late, now.”

  I bellow a laugh. “You’re going to be waiting a long time then, ma’. Less Declan’s old lady pops a few more out now he’s hitched, that is. Don’t ye try anything funny, now – ye hear? I tell ye: if old Elizabeth O’Hanrahan corners me about that daughter of hers again, this’ll be the last time I’m coming over for breakfast…”

  “Come now, Kieran,” Ma’ says, with a face of stone. “Rosa’s a nice young lady, so she is.”

  “Nice young lady, maybe,” I allow, “but she’s got a face like an iron skillet. Do ye really want your first gran’baby looking like that, now?”

  Ma’s face relents. I know she’ll never admit it, but she’s got pride in our family. Byrne blood is strong blood. I’m going to make sure it stays that way: even if, right now, that’s not an entirely selfless decision. I mean, Rosa O’Hanrahan might be a nice lady, but she sure as shit ain’t gonna stir my blood. I like my women curvy, and she’s flat as a board.

  Hell, there ain’t no ladies stirring my blood at all these days; not since Sofia. I’m burning up inside.

  A rap on the front door knocks me back to my senses. It’s a good thing, too. I can’t be having these thoughts: not in this house; not around me Ma. I grab the table to stand up, but Ma’ shoos me down. “Be still, won’t ye. I’ll get it. Seamus always used to make his men come to him. It makes a leader more powerful, that way.”

  “Da’ was a smart man,” I say, my face wrinkling with a sad smile. “But I’m no leader. This is Declan’s chair, and it’s goddamn heavy. I’m counting down the hours till he gets back from this honeymoon, so I am.”

  The old lady fixes me with a glare. “Don’ talk yourself down so, Kieran. You’re stronger than you think.”

  I let Ma think what she wants. I know that when Declan’s back from Thailand, or Cambodia, or wherever the heck he got to with Casey, I’m going to throw this job back into his capable hands, and run as fast as I can to the nearest bar. I never knew that being the head of the family was so much work. I don’t know why the hell anyone would want it.

  “Boss,” a deep voice grunts. I push my empty plate aside, and Ma whisks it away. I give her a smile of thanks.

  “I’ll leave ye boys to talk, now,” she smiles, and walks out into the hallway, closing the wooden door behind her. Ma’s old-fashioned like that. She thinks that business is a man’s game. I’m not so sure. The way Sofia acts, I figure she’s the rightful power behind the Morello family. She’s a cold lady, that’s for damn sure. I bet ice runs in her veins. I saw the way her bodyguard jumped when she clicked her fingers. She’s the one the Morello soldiers respect – at least, the smart ones.

  I stand up and shake Pat’s hand. “Sorry, Pat. I was lost in my head. You’re looking ten years younger.”

  Pat’s handshake could kill an ox. He’s a brute of a man – well into his sixties, with long white hair that might tumble down to his shoulders if he let it, instead tucked into a tight knot. Pat wore a man bun long before the hairstyle had a name.

  Pat’s still wearing a long gray overcoat. He’s got a collection of them – all different colors, all a size too big. I know better than to relieve da’s old right-hand man of his coat. He’s got a sawn-off shotgun hooked to either breast.

  Like I said, he’s a brute. But he’s our brute.

  He thumps his chest and laughs out loud. The metal shotguns clink together. “Yer a terrible liar, anyone ever tell you that, Kieran my boy?”

  I sit back down. “It’s been said. So, Pat, how can I help you?” I ask.

  When it’s clear that Pat isn’t going to sit, I gesture at one of the chairs on the other side of the table. “Sit, will ye? Yer making me nervous.”

  “I’m fine standing, Kieran,” Pat bellows. His voice would make a serviceable foghorn. I have to resist clapping my palms to my ears.

  “Sit, Pat,” I say. This time, Pat does as I ask without questioning. In this house, spoken by a family member, our word is law. It doesn’t matter the size of the task. If we say jump, our men ask how high. It’s kind of like how I acted around Sofia…

&nbs
p; Get that girl out of your head, Kieran, I will myself. It’s easier said than done. Two weeks of longing, of desire building, of seeing her every time I close my eyes.

  “How’s business?” I ask, sinking a mouthful of coffee. It’s cold, but I swallow it anyway.

  “Nothing I can’t handle. We caught some Templars down by Moakley Park: taught ‘em a lesson they won’t be forgetting no time soon. Oh, and one of the boys got ‘is head cracked in outside –.”

  “Where? Who is it?” I ask. If there’s one thing da’ always taught us, it was to look after our men first and foremost. Without them, we are nothing.

  “Like I said, Kieran, it ain’t nothing ye need trouble yerself over.” Pat replies, resting his hands on his belly. I look at him side-eyed. I wonder if he still sees me as the little kid who tripped over his toes. Times change: people grow up.

  “Try me,” I say. He straightens up. Pat’s old-school: he knows what that tone means. He nods, and I’m not sure if I’m imagining things, but I reckon I see a flash of recognition in his eyes. Like maybe he’s seeing a bit of Seamus in me.

  “T’was Danny Murphy: down at the arse end of Dorchester Street. He was jumped coming out of a bar last night – three sheets te th’wind. Never saw who did it.”

  “How is he?” I ask.

  “He’ll have a sore head this morning, tha’s fer damn sure,” Patrick laughs. “…but nothing serious. He’ll survive. Maybe he’ll learn to look both goddamn ways.”

  “Who did it, Pat?” I ask, massaging my temples.

  I don’t know why, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this. People don’t jump Byrne soldiers – not in South Boston. They know what happens when people fuck with the family. You’d have to be a brave man, looking to make his mark – or hungry, very, very hungry.

  Pat shrugs.

  “Did they take his wallet?” I ask, chewing my lip. It’s probably nothing, but I’m not willing to take that chance. Not while Declan’s left the family under my care.