by A. Zavarelli
The question now is what we’re doing here.
Rory is back to his normal boyish personality when he turns in the seat and winks at me. He reaches for my hand and his is warm and big and calloused from fighting.
“Name?” he asks.
This is my opportunity. And here comes the breadcrumb. Rory can’t resist helping a woman in distress. So, I’m going to throw him a bone. I will give him a legitimate reason why I need to stick around for a while.
“The thing is…” I say quietly. “The name doesn’t matter.”
Rory doesn’t interrupt me. That’s the thing about him. He’s not like most guys. He actually listens to what I have to say. And whenever I talk, his eyes are on my face, not my body.
It’s unfamiliar, and it makes me uncomfortable. Exposed and raw. Full of curves and peaks that I want to stomp back down into the flat line where they belong.
“The game has lost appeal,” I continue. And this part is actually true. “It hasn’t been there for a while.”
Rory’s eyes are warm. Relieved. And the small sense of calm I had evaporates into annoyance. Of course, he’s happy. Trying to dictate the way I live my life. Just like the rest of them.
He has no right to judge me.
The fucking Mafioso trying to tell the hooker that her life is all wrong. It gets under my skin and lives there, but I don’t let him know it.
This little charade is going to be quick and rough, the way he likes it. He’s a perpetual bachelor. I’ve seen him at the fights. The women hanging off his arms. The life he lives is fast and hard. High octane.
Anything less wouldn’t give him the same satisfaction.
Men get bored easily. Monogamy isn’t natural to them. Fact.
Rory would get bored with me too, no matter what he tells himself. It’s only the chase that thrills him. And if I wasn’t fucking him over right now, he’d be fucking me over in only a few short months. No question about it.
Which gives me the fortitude I need to move forward with my lie.
“I want out,” I tell him. “I want to move on. But I just....”
I lay it on thick, turning to look out the window as I rub my hands over my dress.
“There’s just a few loose ends I need to take care of first. And I need your help with that.”
“Sweetheart, you know I’ll always look after ye. All ye ever had to do was say so.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, but the false tears I conjured up don’t feel so false anymore. I don’t recognize what’s happening inside of me right now.
Regardless, it’s what Rory needs to see. His fingers move over my face, gentle and full of worship.
“We’ll sort out the details later,” he promises. “But for now, it looks like ye could use a good dose of some fun.”
Fun? I don’t even know what that is. But I nod anyway. Placating him like I’m a normal girl who can go on normal dates. Or whatever.
Rory tells me to stay put and gets out to walk around the car like some sort of gentleman. He opens my door and helps me out of the car, wrapping an arm around my shoulder as we walk towards the back door.
But before we go into the club, he pauses to lean down and whisper in my ear.
“You will give me a name, sweetheart.”
Rory bypasses the bar and the dance area and takes me directly to the basement.
The space is loud and filled with Irish men and a hodgepodge of other sorts too. Various gambling pursuits abound throughout the room, and there’s a waitress running her ass off to serve drinks while the men drink and smoke.
The noise and the claustrophobic atmosphere stab at my temples and I’m smiling and I really don’t mean it. My senses are in overload. The thing about my brain is that it doesn’t deal well with so much stimuli. But I’ve had a lifetime of practice, so I shut it out and focus on the things that need doing. Like walking and breathing and observing and nodding when Rory introduces me to someone.
He leads me to a poker table with one spare chair and sits down, pulling me into his lap like I’m his trophy for the night. The other men at the table toss me fleeting glances, but don’t dare say anything.
This is a man’s game. And apparently, I’m here for decorative purposes. But after Rory meets each of their gazes, they stop looking at me and find other points of focus. It’s a change of pace if I ever had one and I relax a little as he orders a drink.
He asks what I want, and I tell the waitress myself.
There’s chatter around the table before the game starts, but Rory doesn’t participate. His face is in my neck and he’s breathing me in again and PDA isn’t a problem for him but it’s a problem for me. I tell him so, and his arm wraps around my waist and pulls me back against his chest.
“You play poker?” he asks.
“Don’t know how.”
He shifts beneath me, and he’s hard for me. Uncomfortable, no doubt. With my ass pressing against him and no relief.
There’s a part of me that likes that. That I’m torturing him. I’m feeling like myself again.
“I think you’ll like it,” he says. “The adrenaline rush without fucking up any unsuspecting lad.”
I glare at him and he flashes me his dimples. His signature move.
The dealer sits down and gathers our attention.
The table falls quiet as the cards are dealt and everyone morphs into a human statue. They don’t want to give anything away, Rory whispers in my ear, and I think that maybe I’d be good at this game.
I may not know how to play poker, but I know how to read faces. And some of these guys, quite frankly, suck.
For the first couple of rounds, I just observe. Rory whispers in my ear to explain the moves he makes with the cards and I learn a little as we go. But it’s the people I’m watching. And after about twenty minutes or so, I know that the bald man opposite of us is nervous as all get out.
It’s a gut instinct.
I whisper my theory into Rory’s ear as well. He glances at me, and then without question, trusts my judgment completely.
When he’s forced to show his hand, I’m happy to see that I was correct.
The rest of the evening proceeds in similar fashion. We stay until two in the morning. Between Rory’s skill at the game and my tip offs, we rake in a shit load of cash. I’m exhausted and my eyes hurt when Rory drags me away from the table.
“We’re leaving already?” I ask.
Rory laughs and musses up my hair like I’m a child.
“Better to quit while we’re ahead, sweetheart. But don’t worry, we’ll come back. We make a good team.”
“I want to have a spot at the table,” I tell him. “My own spot.”
He smiles at me again and shakes his head. “No women allowed. Club rules.”
“Well that’s bullshit.”
“You can take it up with Lachlan,” he says.
“Or you could just take me somewhere that isn’t 1950.”
He pauses at the door to consider it.
“That’s not a bad idea.”
A wicked smile spreads across my face, and it has nothing to do with poker. I thought it would be a challenge, but here he is, laying the groundwork for me.
He’s just got no idea, it’s actually the worst idea ever.
9
RORY
SCARLETT’S TUCKED into my bed and Conor is here to look after her, so I head to the gym to meet up with the lads.
Crow and Mick are already in the ring, sparring while the other lads gab from the sidelines like a bunch of women.
I peel off my shirt and toss it aside before stepping into the opposite corner of the ring and cracking my neck.
“Anyone up for being loafed in the head this fine morning?”
“Someone’s awfully cheerful today,” Mick remarks. “Who put a smile on your dial?”
“A gentleman never kisses and tells.” I wink at him and Reaper joins me to throw some punches.
He never used to be much for sparrin
g, since he generally lacks the self-control to stop until someone’s dead, but he’s a lot calmer now that he’s taken up with his missus. He’s one of the best lads I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.
We don’t really go after it too hard this morning. Just some light sparring. Most of the lads are still nursing a hangover from last night’s shenanigans.
When I leave them to it, Crow follows me out the door to have a word with me before I head off.
“I could do with an extra man at the club for the drop tonight. Mack’s got it into her head that I need to be home early. So, can ye do it?”
“I’m planning to take my own missus out tonight,” I tell him. “Can’t Conor do it?”
Crow shifts his gaze to the street, his eyes moving up and down out of habit. But I know by the look on his face he’s got something to say. And I also have a feeling I’m not going to like it.
“Ye’re taking up with Scarlett now, is that it?”
“So what if I am?”
Crow might be the boss, but he sure as shite isn’t going to tell me who I can and can’t take up with.
“The thing is,” he says, “ye have to know she’s fecked in the head, Rory.”
I shrug. “Only makes it more fun. Ye know the crazy ones are wild.”
“This isn’t a bleeding joke.”
His face is solemn, and I don’t imagine he intends to let it go. I never take things too seriously anymore, and sometimes, that’s a problem for Crow. He’s as serious as they come.
“I know she’s Mack’s friend,” he continues. “And she seems loyal. To Mack. But to anyone else. I don’t know.”
“What are ye getting at?”
“Only that ye have a known weakness for women in distress, and I think she’s making a grand mockery of you at the moment.”
“Well if that’s the case, then it’s my situation to sort out,” I tell him.
“Does it not strike you as a wee bit odd that she’s so sweet on ye now when only two months ago she couldn’t even stand to look at ye?”
And there it is. Crow’s honesty.
If it were anyone else, I might lamp him in the head. Only I know Crow has my best interests at heart. It wasn’t so long ago that Mack was tricking and lying to him in search of her missing friend Talia. She came to him with bad intentions, and he didn’t trust women to begin with. She played him just as he suspected she might. And now they’re happily married with a kid and another on the way.
So I leave it alone because nothing I say will convince him otherwise until he sees it for himself.
“It’s nothing serious,” I tell him. “We’re just having a dose of fun together. No harm, no foul. You needn’t worry yourself about it, mate.”
He considers me a moment before giving me a nod. He still doesn’t fancy the notion, but he’s spoken his piece and he knows my mind is made up.
“I suppose I’ll see ye tomorrow then,” he says.
“I suppose you will.”
Today’s Saturday, which means I have one more thing on the agenda before I head home. Woman or not.
Every Saturday, without fail, I stop by to visit Niall.
He’s the former boss of the MacKenna Syndicate, forced into early retirement when his ticker started giving him trouble.
I ring the doorbell and his wife ushers me in as usual with a warm hug and offers a cuppa and a bit of cake. Normally, I’d take her up on it, but since Scarlett is waiting for me, I decline.
Niall’s in his office, reading. Thinner since I last saw him, and bored as shite, apparently. It pains me to see him this way. I know it pains him too. But he gestures me in with warm eyes, the same way he always does, and tells me to take a seat across from him.
I do. Niall holds up a finger while he finishes up the page he’s on and I lean back in my chair and kick my foot up onto the opposite thigh.
This man has been like a father to me. He changed my life and I will forever be in his debt.
Niall taught me everything I know. From the time I was only a wee lad, working in his shop as a grocery delivery boy. And then, at the age of thirteen, when my whole world tipped upside down, he gave me a bit of solid ground to stand on.
Out of habit, I adjust the silver watch on my wrist. The one that stopped at ten forty-three over twenty years ago.
That was when I became a man.
And when Niall brought me into this life.
He taught me how to hustle. He taught me how to fight. And he taught me how to manage the anger that I couldn’t seem to get a handle on.
And possibly the greatest thing he’s ever done for me was to never mention that night again. To never speak of the things he did for me. The thing that I did. And the reason I owe him my loyalty and my life.
I have nothing but respect for the man. And for my brothers. Each and every one he vetted himself. I will always do battle for them.
Niall sets down his book and adjusts his glasses, peering at me over the rims.
“Where’s my whiskey?”
I pull the pint out of my jacket and slide it across the desk like a drug lord, both of our eyes darting towards the door. If his missus finds out I’ve been sneaking him whiskey, she’ll have both our nuts.
Niall cracks open the bottle without pretense and takes a swig before shoving it into his bottom desk drawer.
“The good stuff,” he says. “Ye’re a good lad.”
“How goes the battle?” I ask.
“Good as can be expected, I suppose,” he answers. “The missus has got me eating all sorts of cardboard she claims to be food. Oatmeal and dry toast and the like.”
“She’s only looking out for ye.”
He nods and leans back in his chair, his face contemplative.
“I spoke to your mammy this week past.”
“Oh?” This is news to me. “I only spoke to her on Sunday, she didn’t mention it.”
“She says she’s worried about ye,” Niall tells me. “That you’ll never settle down and give her some grandbabies. She charged me with the task of finding a good woman for ye.”
We both have a laugh at the idea, and then I relax a little.
“Ye needn’t worry,” I say. “I’m quite capable of finding me own ladies.”
“Aye, ye are,” Niall answers. “Your problem is picking just the one of them to play house with.”
I don’t know why I say the next words. Given that I only just told Crow this morning that things between me and Scarlett aren’t serious. And they aren’t. But maybe I’d like them to be. Maybe I could see them heading in that direction.
“Well don’t tell mammy to go picking out any china patterns just yet,” I say, “but I think I’ve found a keeper.”
He’s surprised by my admission, but there is relief in his smile.
“She’ll be quite happy to hear that. She had herself convinced that you were so wrecked over the whole deal with your father that it put you off of marriage for life.”
I shift in the chair and drop my gaze to his desk. Niall never mentions my father, and for good reason. It isn’t a topic that we revisit.
Only the once.
Only when I needed his body disposed of and Niall took care of it. He’s never brought it up. Until now. And it isn’t a topic I’m particularly keen on.
“The thing is, lad,” he says, “if I’ve learned anything since my ticker started giving out on me, it’s this. You’ve got to let go of the past to move on. To live in the present. And while I trust a mammy’s instincts, I’ve had the same notions about ye meself for a while now.”
“What are ye getting at?” I ask.
He nods to the watch on my wrist. “Isn’t it about time ye take that thing off, lad?”
I tap the cracked glass and shake my head. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a watch.”
“I disagree,” Niall says. “That watch- and the guilt you carry around with it- have been weighing ye down too long. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about ye Rory,
it’s this. Just when ye’re about to get yourself something good, ye go and sabotage it.”
The room falls quiet, and I can’t find the words to argue with him. Even if I did have them, I wouldn’t. I’ve always trusted Niall’s judgment. His advice. But right now, I don’t want to believe the things he’s saying are true.
“Ye say you’ve got yourself a good woman.” Niall leans forward and plants his elbows on the desk, his eyes boring into me. “So don’t go and feck it all up the way ye always do.”
10
SCARLETT
I’M no good for you. You only get one warning.
Rory is quiet when he gets home.
Broody and different and surprised to see me still here.
He shouldn’t be since he saddled Conor with the task of making sure I didn’t run off on him.
I’d considered leaving. About every two seconds.
I considered telling Conor and Royce and Rory and everyone else to go fuck themselves and fucking off out of this city myself. But where would I go? Boston is my home.
And I’m done running.
That was a one-time deal. And I have no intention of doing it again.
Rory is observant. More than most men. He notices the tension in my body. The questions in my eyes. The doubt that always lingers there whenever he’s around.
He stalks across the room and pulls me against him. I let him. And I let him cup my face in his hands and look into my eyes and lower his mouth to mine.
He smells like sunshine and ocean air and he tastes like hunger.
I’ve never been with a man of my own free will. Not once.
No boyfriends. One night stands. No dates.
Who has time for that?
I wasn’t missing out on anything. I never wanted for more.
But when Rory pulls my body against his, shielding me from the outside world, there’s a curiosity inside of me that wasn’t there before.
Could I want him in this way? With his clean scent and his sunshine skin and his hard body. He’d have to be on the bottom, because I’m always in control. Which means I would have to do all the work, and I don’t know if I like that idea. It’s not like I’m a stranger to hard work, but there has to be a reward at the end, and I don’t know if there is one in this case.
