The bruising.
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
It’s too late, though. Her walls are up again; I have only myself to blame. I put one hand on her shoulder and stroke another through her hair. She shivers. Has a man ever touched her gently? Affectionately?
Don’t overthink this, Finn. You have work to do.
I cook dinner again. Sasha must be starving—I know I am. It’s just a simple pesto pasta this time with a breaded chicken. She watches me cook and I like how she looks at me when I do.
I’ve never been the settling down type, but if I were, I imagine I’d cook fun dinners with my partner and dine over long conversations about art, literature, politics: all of the things my father pretends to take an interest in for show. But he’s too soulless to truly care about culture.
I put the plates down and smile at Sasha. She’s taking everything in, observing. I’ve pushed her enough on the union today. Anymore and she might just up and leave. Take her chances. I need a little more time with her to help her see her way out of all this. The right way out, by taking me up on my offer.
“So where is your family from, originally?” I ask.
“Chelsea. Massachusetts, that is,” she says. “But before then, most of my relatives came from Scotland. Saunders is a Celtic version a pet name for Alexander, I guess. It means defender of men.”
She rolls her eyes at the last part.
She’s thinking of her father’s unworthiness, no doubt.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Given your work, that’s very apt.”
She blinks a few times, surprised. She recovers after a moment and asks me what Carney means.
“Victorious, or war-like.”
She lets out a real, genuine laugh. It has a musical sound.
“Very on the nose,” I admit. “Did your family ever make haggis? I haven’t tried it, but I hear if it’s made well it can be quite delicious.”
“No,” she says, playing with her pasta and smiling at me. God she’s pretty when she smiles. “No haggis. My Grandma Goldie—she was from Scotland originally—she said you might as well just put pepper in your oats and save yourself the trouble. The neeps and tatties we had though. Grandma Goldie always made sure we kept Burns Night.” Her smile falls. “We haven’t really done it since she died, though.”
Neeps and tatties. Turnips and potatoes. Those I don’t have, but I do have Scotch Whisky and a book of Robert Burns’ poetry.
“Well, technically you’re supposed to celebrate on his birthday.”
“The twenty-fifth of January,” she says.
I know, but I don’t say so.
“It’s not for a few days, but I don’t think he’d mind an early party.”
I pull out the whisky and pour us each a glass.
We give him a little toast and take a sip of the liquor.
“Do you have any favorites of his poems?” I ask.
She takes another swig of the liquor and closes her eyes.
“John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like the rave,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your prosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.”
I’m transfixed watching her recite the rest of the poem. Jo is slang for sweetheart, and the poem is in the voice of a woman proclaiming her love for her aging husband. There’s, naturally, a filthy version, but I’m glad it’s the clean one I’m hearing from Sasha.
She finishes and opens her eyes. “I always wanted to believe that you could grow old with someone and still love them.”
I bet. The innocent vulnerability in her eyes right now is hard to stomach. I put my fork down. And when did Sasha find time to memorize poetry? What other mysteries does this woman hold?
“What about you?” she asks. “To a Louse, maybe?”
And then comes the fire.
That one’s about Robert Burns seeing a louse on a fancy lady’s bonnet at church and noting that lice don’t observe class distinctions. I can’t help but laugh.
“Will you be disappointed if I go with A Red, Red Rose?”
Her cheeks are red from the whisky. I could tell her that Salvador Dali said that the first person to compare the cheeks of a beautiful woman to a rose was obviously a poet; the first to repeat it was possibly an idiot. And which am I in this moment? Instead I watch her lovely face as I recite the love poem to her.
“That was my Grandma’s favorite,” she says, when I finish. “My mother would say it’s overdone, but I love it too.”
The dreamy look in her eyes is almost enough to make me forget why she’s here. Suddenly I wish she were here for another reason. The knot in my stomach rises and forms a lump in my throat as an image flashes unbidden into my mind: a warm summer day, a picnic, her head in my lap as I share my favorite stories with her. Something far too simple and far too beautiful for me.
It’s painful to let it go, though. I swallow the lump and smile.
“It’s a good one. I’d sing Auld Lang Syne, but you’ve been through enough.” I can’t stop myself from touching her hair. She giggles.
“I’ll do it if you promise not to laugh?”
“I would never laugh at something so serious,” I reply. God, I’m not even drunk. But I feel drunk right now.
She throws back more of the whisky and clears her throat before going into the song. Her voice is sweet. Not the refined perfection of Siobhan’s, but lovely and understated, like her. Fucking Christ I need to get a grip. This isn’t a date night. This woman could ruin everything I’ve worked so hard for.
But I’ll be damned if I don’t want to kiss her.
And what could that hurt, really? She finishes singing, and I lean across the table and press my lips to hers.
She freezes for a moment but then leans into me, opening her mouth with a little sigh. I slide my tongue inside, caressing hers. She lets out a soft moan and it goes right to my cock.
Fuck. I want her. I want to make her come again, this time around my cock. But she’s a little drunk, and I want her first time to be memorable. Still, doesn’t mean I have to stop just yet. I kiss her thoroughly, enjoying the warm, honeyed taste of the whisky on her tongue as I wrap my hands in her hair.
She lets out a small gasp and I pull away, reluctantly, caressing her cheek. I need to stop thinking with my dick. Seducing her is part of the plan. Feeling whatever it is I’m feeling right now is not.
“That was lovely,” I say. “Robert Burns would be very happy, I think.”
She licks her lips again, those innocent eyes asking a million questions. Ones I can’t answer. She won’t give them voice, though, and I’m grateful.
I start cleaning up the kitchen, and she comes over to help.
“I’ve got this,” I say. “I don’t want you walking on that ankle.” The swelling hasn’t gone down much. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll take her to my family’s doctor.
And then I’ll take her home.
If she hasn’t come around by then, I’ll try something different. Show her an alternative to her small, painful life. I have at least until the gala to convince her, one way or the other.
But in the end I need her to kill this union. Callan and I have plans in motion that rely on the casino succeeding and my father being content. I can’t let anyone, even someone like Sasha, get in the way of it.
9
Sasha
Another sleepless night. Even without nightmares, there’s no way I can quiet my brain tonight. I didn’t expect my plan to distract Finn with a fake petition card to fail so spectacularly, and I certainly didn’t expect to enjoy the predatory way those big hands of his touched me.
I wish I had someone I could talk to about it, but no way in hell I’m telling Jamilah this.
Finn is so confusing. His concern for my brother seems genuine. I’m not as good at reading people
as he is by far, but something in his tone changed when he talked about him.
And that scholarship offer.
If he’s telling the truth, it’ll be a huge weight off my shoulders.
But if he’s not?
I throw away any shred of integrity, for nothing.
I’m supposed to be working for the collective good, not my good.
It’s a classic play—divide and conquer. We talk about it in headquarters all the time. Certain people will be targeted and offered the world if they’ll only make the smart decision. The easy decision.
One or two people win, and everyone else loses.
Like my mother lost.
No. I can’t do it. I won’t do it. But I’ll tell him I’ll think about it. I’ll think about it whether I want to or not. I’ll think about it every time my father hurls a beer can at me or slaps me for buying the wrong brand of frozen pizza. I’ll think about it every time I clean the toilet covered in his piss. I’ll think about it every time my leg aches. Every time I wake up screaming in a house where I’m not safe.
He’ll know I’m not lying.
I wash my clothes in the sink again. I won’t be the smelly poor kid. Never again.
Ugh. I can’t stop thinking about how good it felt when Finn touched me. And then our strange, oddly romantic dinner, and that kiss at the end?
A cruel part of my brain reminds me that this is probably another tactic he’s using to get his way. That no one could be attracted to me physically. Especially not someone like Finn. He’s arrogant, sure, but handsome and intelligent. He’s fighting for his family. It’s for all the wrong reasons, but maybe it’s hard for him to see another way out. Maybe that’s something I can help him with.
I need to be careful, though. Undermining his intelligence set him off in a big way.
A tingle of desire courses through my body. I leave my clothes to dry and climb into his bed. The sheets and comforter are silky soft, but smell like him—warm, oaky, masculine. I’m being silly, but I wonder what it’d be like to have a man sleep next to me—one who would protect me from my bad dreams and the people that caused them. Someone who valued me for more than the things I did for him.
Finn is not that man, but I still think of him kissing me and let my hand wander between my legs. I’m wearing the shirt he loaned me, but I couldn’t put on his ex’s yoga pants again. I just couldn’t.
His deep, throaty question floats through my mind.
How often do you touch yourself?
I close my eyes and fantasize about a different life. One with that imaginary man who can’t keep his hands off me, but not in the bad way I’m used to. I stroke myself, exploring what feels good as I picture someone else’s hands doing it. My orgasm catches me by surprise, and I let out a little gasp. It was different than the one with Finn—less intense, smaller, but nice.
I wish it wasn’t his face I saw when I came, though. And I wish it wasn’t his hands I imagined touching me.
How long does he expect me to stay here? It’s all so surreal. Technically I’m being held against my will, but it’s mostly my fear at what would happen if I left that’s keeping me here. Honestly, I could get up and leave right now if I wanted to.
But Finn’s warning about P.J. and his father coming after me and my brother scares me. Am I safer here? I’m not so sure about that. But I’m conflicted. I’m not going to give up on the union, but how can I keep James Carney from coming after Benjamin? Would Finn at least give me that?
And if he did, what would he expect in return?
The next morning, we drink coffee together and it’s so bizarre. Does he know I thought about him and touched myself last night? This man has an uncanny ability to know everything.
“What’re you thinking about?”
Jesus. Right on cue.
“You’re blushing,” he says, giving me a lopsided smile.
He’s wearing a gray t-shirt and black and gray pajama pants that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Even in loungewear, fresh out of bed, he’s outrageously attractive.
I decide that’s a better angle than confessing my silly schoolgirl fantasies about a man who is so far out of my league, oh, and who also is the son of the man who had me nearly killed.
Jesus, Sasha. Remember that part?
“I’m just embarrassed,” I say. “I look and feel ridiculous, especially next to you.”
He frowns. “You don’t look ridiculous.”
“Come on, Finn,” I sigh. “This is absurd. I’m bad-side-of-the tracks trash wearing shit you probably wouldn’t even burn for fuel and I’m so out of place here.”
He props his hand up on his chin. “You’re not trash, Sasha.”
God I’m going to start crying. I can’t with this man.
“I can’t give you what you want.” The tears pooling in my eyes course down my face. This is strategically a huge mistake, but I don’t know what else to say. I don’t have anything to fight the Carneys with other than my integrity. I can’t give that up. “I’m sorry, Finn. I wish I could take what you’re offering, and you’re right; I’m probably stupid not to. I’ll end up being one of the bodies dredged out of the Mystic when your family finally cleans it. But I can’t give up someone else because I’m afraid.” I put my face in my hands and cry.
I hear Finn leave the table and I fold over, placing my arms on the table and resting my head in them. When I finally get a hold of myself, I see that Finn’s left a box of tissues next to me. The expensive ones, naturally. I try to clean my face as best I can, but I’m red and blotchy. Just another reminder of how different I am from Finn’s cool refinement—I must look so repulsive.
I move to the couch and tuck my knees under my chin, holding on to my sore ankle.
I don’t get up when Finn sits down next to me.
“I wish you would let me help you,” he says.
“Come on,” I sigh. “None of this is for me. You want me to sell someone out to keep your father off your back.” I look up at him. “I don’t know what he has over you, Finn, but is it worth it?”
He flinches. His emotions always reveal themselves in small flashes.
“You don’t understand,” he says, evenly. “And that’s not your fault. But I’m telling you that if you continue your work, continue to defy my father, he’s going to hurt you. And not just you. Your brother too. And eventually, when he finds out who started this, and he will, he’ll hurt that person too. If we stop the unionization now, I’ll do my best to improve staff conditions so they won’t need a union.”
I tilt my head. Jesus, he means it.
“I believe that you would try,” I say. “But when it comes down to it, you’re going to do your father’s bidding, whatever the cost. And if he tells you to fire someone for asking for a raise, you will. The staff need protection from a unit not under your father’s direct control.”
I’m not foolish enough to think James Carney couldn’t infiltrate the union in another way, but there’s a better chance of improvement with the union than without it.
He’s staring straight ahead. I find myself oddly compelled to touch him, but I’m too scared to do it. He’s probably furious with me. For defying him, but also for pointing out how he’s under his father’s thumb.
“I don’t approve of what my father does.” His voice is quiet. “I didn’t know he’d hurt you so badly. And I was disgusted when I found out. I admire your integrity, Sasha, I really do. But you’re making a mistake by fighting him like this.”
Like this? I wonder what that means.
“You’ve never had the chance to do anything but fight,” he continues. “And I don’t want your life to end that way.”
“I don’t either,” I admit. “I’m tired of the constant struggle. I’m tired of having such a small, difficult life. But there are things I’ll sacrifice and things I won’t. And I refuse to sacrifice the people I care about to make my life better.”
Something that looks like pain crosses his eyes, jus
t another flash.
“Okay,” he says. “In that case, it doesn’t make sense for me to try to convince you otherwise. I’ll take you home.”
Strangely I feel like crying again.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t want to make things harder for you either.”
His face is an unreadable mask and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing.
He puts a heavy hand on my leg.
“I was hoping we could work something out,” he says, “but I don’t need you to protect me, Sasha. You need to worry more about yourself and less about other people. I don’t mean that you should become a selfish loser like your father, but I wonder if you work so hard on keeping other people happy because you’re afraid of being alone with your own pain.”
I recoil like he’s hit me. He pats my leg and stands up.
“I’m going to take you to my family’s doctor first,” he says. “I don’t want your injury getting worse, and the least we can do is cover the cost of x-rays.”
I’m so thrown off. That’s it? He basically traps me in his apartment for two days and then it’s to the doctor, and then home when I don’t agree to his terms? I want to believe he’s different from his father, but I’m having a hard time with this. Sure, he wasn’t the one who brought me here—P.J. had made it very clear that James Carney wanted Finn to ‘deal with me.’ But it’s hard to believe Finn would just give up on his father’s orders if it means consequences for him. I’m missing something here, but I don’t know what it is.
He leaves me so confused. It’s better that I take my chances away from him.
Finn helps me down to his ridiculous car. A Range Rover. Neat. I have no idea how much one of those costs, but I bet it’d cover a year or two of tuition.
The doctor’s office is in a small building up on Beacon Hill. At least the SUV won’t seem out of place here. There are stairs, though. I’m so tired of stairs.
Finn sees me struggle and carries me up the few steps. My body buzzes when he puts his hands on me, and I wish it wouldn’t.
I hate how much I want him to touch me.
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