The Beast of Boston

by JL Mac

  I close my eyes and grumble, hating that I feel so bad. “I—I’m sorry about that. And the bourbon. And the ties.” Beast raises a brow. “Also the cuff links,” I continue looking away from him for a moment. I glance back to him to see his eyes twinkling with amusement.

  “It’s all good, Ena. You only did thousands of dollars worth of damage,” he shrugs, smirking.

  “Does it hurt?” I jerk my chin toward his bare chest.

  “Only when I breathe,” he says with a stoic look in his eyes and suddenly I have the distinct feeling we aren’t discussing the damage I did with his letter opener. Without thinking, my feet move, closing the space between us. I look up into his eyes, my heart pounding out of control.

  “He’s a good man.”

  Lan’s words bounce around in my head and I decide I should reevaluate our conversation when the bourbon has left my system. I bring my fingertips to his chest and delicately trace the bruise I put there just above his heart.

  “Well, I am sorry,” I whisper and move to withdraw my hand. Beast catches my hand in his with his jaw clenched and his eyes closed he brings his lips to the inside of my wrist. He presses his mouth there and my chest aches as a soul deep feeling tells me I should believe Lan. I wish I could. I admit that a huge part of me wants so badly to believe that the man I can’t seem to shake out of my heart didn’t murder my father but he’d confessed to it himself—to my face.

  “I can’t,” I pant. “Please don’t,” I plead. “Don’t do this to me, again. It’s so much better when I hate you,” I whisper my admission.

  “What if I said we’re at an impasse then because it’s so much worse for me when you hate me,” he asks rhetorically, brushing his full lips over the sensitive spot on the inside of my wrist.

  “Let’s just have dinner,” I say swallowing hard as I turn back to the cooktop. Thankfully he rounds the kitchen island and takes a seat, silently observing me struggle to replicate my mom’s signature meal.

  I cook, copying Mom’s recipe by heart all while Lan’s words ricochet loosely in my head.

  “Do you love him, E? Even if he’s bad?”

  Chapter Fifty

  Beast

  I should hurt her. I should rub salt in the wounds I have already inflicted upon her. I should infect them with my special brand of poison and watch them weep. I should make it undeniable that while I enjoy partaking in everything her body has to offer, I in no way want her on any other level. I should make her feel cheap, disposable, dirty…

  I should do all of that but I can’t.

  Maybe that would be merciful in a twisted sort of way. I could supply her with the tinderbox that would feed the flames of rage and hatred toward me. I could make it easy for her to move on with her life if she were disgusted enough. Even if it kills me to hurt her, I could do it. Again. My pain, I don’t mind. It’s evidence that she had been mine at one point and the heart I assumed I did not possess had emerged from its secret home and revealed itself for her.

  Even if she had not known it was there, I knew it was there and it had only appeared after she had beckoned it. I don’t mind the hurt. I’m good at shouldering pain. It’s the one thing I had taken away from my formative years and the primary thing I had perfected in my later years. Pain. Taking it. Giving it.

  It’s Ena’s pain I don’t have the stomach for. It doubles me over and leaves me foaming at the mouth like a madman itching to maim and murder anyone and everyone who has ever hurt her. She doesn’t deserve any of my wrath and faux-hatred but it’s a bit late for that now. What’s worse, even though she has been hurt by my viciousness, I’m not sure I’d change things had I known in advance how everything would play out. Broken heart be damned, I fell for a woman I don’t deserve, Lan was rescued from the brink of unspeakable darkness and Orin discovered his daughter had not died. She was very much alive and at this very moment, sleeping on my couch. Her eyes are relaxed and free of the stress that so often causes her smooth brows to knit together.

  My gut instinct has led me astray next to never and rarely—if ever—do I ignore what it’s telling me. I mentally revisit my pattern of thought from earlier today and my gut is screaming at me to meet with Orin tomorrow about my latest hunch.

  For now, I sit back on the couch opposite Ena and watch her sleep. There’s something remarkably soothing about watching her chest rise and fall in an even, steady rhythm. I take mental snapshots, tucking them away so when the danger has abated and she decides to return to Seattle, which she will, I’ll still have her here in my head at least. I drain another glass of whiskey and set it aside for Frieda to clear tomorrow. I get to my feet and as gently as possible I snake my arms under Ena’s body, hating that she’d lost weight because of me, but aware that there is no help for it. I sigh, holding her close to my chest as I climb the stairs and take her to her room. I would love to lay her down in my bed but that doesn’t exactly help the situation so reluctant as ever, I tuck her in and turn toward the door with my mind focused on a cold shower. Her soft hand curls around mine before I can make my escape. I stall and turn toward her. Even in the low light of this room I can still see her intense eyes searching mine as though she can somehow spot my secrets. Maybe she can. Maybe if that were possible, she would already know I want her to be mine. She would know that I hate myself for hurting her.

  “Carrick,” she says shaking her head dismally. I clench my jaw, working my teeth against themselves.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you going to let me go after the dust settles with the Russians?”

  “Yeah.”

  She nods but climbs to her knees on the bed coming close to me. It’s no simple task but I remain perfectly still, watching her look from my eyes to my chest then back. She lowers her mouth to my chest and presses one lingering, pillow-soft kiss against the spot she’d gotten me with the letter opener. Her lips withdraw and she passes her thumb over the skin there. She freezes when she sees it… my newest tattoo, directly over my heart. She snaps her head up to me, recognition registering.

  “What’s this?” she murmurs touching the spot where I had a familiar wine-red, oblong heart inked right over my existing tattoos.

  I don’t move. I don’t speak. I barely breathe, truly worried that if I open my mouth, truths I can’t take back will spill out. “That’s my birthmark,” she says tracing the edges of the ink. My heart ratchets up to an alarming pace. I force myself to back away and retreat to my own bedroom. I don’t have to turn to confirm that she’s right where I left her, watching me walk away from her, yet again.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Ena

  Carrick wasn’t here when I woke up but a current of uncertainty and the lingering scent of him was, and it’s torturous. My fingers rub at the back of my neck where my birthmark is. Why would he tattoo my birthmark on his chest? He either gets some sort of depraved gratification from it or… or… I don’t know. I feel like everything I thought I knew is up for debate. I sent Lan a text first thing this morning, asking that she see about getting Murphy to volunteer his apartment for a meeting place and to convince Beast to set me free if only to visit Lan there for a few hours. I need out of Carrick’s orbit at least for a while or I’ll lose all sense of direction.

  This is a temporary mess. I will be back in Seattle in no time.

  The thought does nothing to placate me.

  I half expected Carrick to send me a harsh text or barge in and remind me that he’s in charge and his orders stand until he says otherwise but that hadn’t happened. He didn’t call or text. He didn’t barge in and throw his weight around. Murphy had simply shown up to the penthouse and waited in silence for me to finish getting ready.

  Normally Murphy’s silence doesn’t bug me because I know it’s just how he is but right now a knot of anxiety has me wishing he’d make conversation for once in his life but he reveals nothing as he drives me over to his place. “So are you and Beast working at the club today or…” I lead. Murphy keeps his eyes trained on
the road and ignores my question. “Is he going to be back at his place late tonight?”

  “Don’t know. Ask him.”

  A manic giggle bursts out of me and I squeeze my eyes shut as my shoulders shake. I peek over at Murphy whose response is little more than a quick sidelong glance my way. “I would call or text to ask him—a variety of things but he b—blocked my phone number,” I howl with laughter.

  His lips stay sealed and he hardly acknowledges me in the passenger’s seat as we enter his parking garage. He slips out and approaches a black SUV. The window rolls down and he speaks with the man I recognize as Rick, one of High Knoll’s own and then Murphy rounds his car and opens my door. Once I’m at the elevator ,I wave and watch as he folds himself back into his Benz and drives away, leaving Rick to stand guard over his place from the parking garage though the building is extremely secure and heavily monitored by camera surveillance I have spotted in every corner.

  I knock three times and open the door. It’s unlocked, as Murphy had said it would be. “It’s me,” I announce from the front door.

  “Yeah, in here,” Lan shouts from the kitchen. The door closes heavily and the mechanical sound of the deadbolt engaging has me looking over my shoulder. I follow the heavenly aroma and come to a stop at the edge of the kitchen. “Fresh from the oven,” mom brags holding out a cookie sheet of hot chocolate chip cookies. I gasp at the sight of her and wrap my arms around her shoulders, causing her to nearly drop the pan of cookies. She laughs her familiar laugh that warms me through and through and already some of the tension living in my shoulders evaporates. “Here,” she waves the tray in front of me again and I snag a cookie, hissing through my teeth and tossing it from palm to palm. A distant memory teases at the edge of my mind, noticing the parallels here. The day I came home to Mom and Dad for the first time, she had plied me with cookies to coax me through a very surreal, difficult time in my life. “I—uh—what are you doing at Murphy’s place?” I ask dubiously, side-eyeing Lan for some guidance here. “Oh, I’ve been over a few times with Lan. Murphy is… nice,” Mom praises, hesitantly. “I owe him a lot,” she adds under her breath focusing on the bowl of dough she’s dropping by the spoonful onto another cookie sheet. I half expect her to be shocked that I am home from Seattle but she says nothing and every single cell in my body goes on high alert because something is clearly off.

  “Oh. That’s good to hear.” I say clinically with the distinct feeling that we are all three skirting around things waiting to be said. I munch on two cookies, watching Mom work studiously to make a platter full of them. I wander through Murphy’s place, approaching the couch, I sit and wait for Lan to say something but she doesn’t. She merely looks at me through her long lashes with those vibrant blue eyes and vacant expression. It’s oddly beautiful on her. “What’s that about?” I whisper thumbing toward the kitchen.

  “I told her you were coming home,” Lan explains.

  “Hmm,” I hum with raised brows and waning patience. We sit in silence for a long time, my knee bouncing up and down nervously.

  “Lan, I’m sick of this gnawing feeling that I don’t know what’s going on here. Spit it out. Whatever you know, say it. I’m not asking.”

  “I think I can help explain,” Mom says hesitantly from the doorway with a grimace on her face. She takes a seat on the couch beside me. I swivel my eyes to Lan. She crosses one leg over the other and settles further into the couch opposite me. Staged like some mystery intervention I scoff in disbelief and look between the two of them. Mom bites the inside of her cheek for a moment before speaking. “There are some … things… you should know and I think it’s time.”

  “What things?”

  “Your Dad and I, we always knew that one day you might want to know about your biological parents and where you came from.” My heart speeds in my chest and my mouth dries. “Dad wrote this letter to help explain in case he missed the chance to do it in person,” she says with an unsteady voice as she produces a folded envelope from her back pocket. “So, read it when you’re ready and call me when you feel up to it,” she says, giving me a brief trembling hug. “Ena, we love you so much,” she says in my ear, shuddering then she gets up and hurries away. Murphy’s front door opens and shuts quietly and my eyes zero in on Lan.

  “Did you know about this?” I ask waving the letter.

  “Not until yesterday and I haven’t read it but I think I know what it says,” she purses her lips and sighs getting to her feet.

  “Lan why does this make me feel like everything is about to change?” I ask cautiously.

  “Because it is,” she says brushing her hand over my shoulder as she leaves me staring a hole through a letter from the grave. I ride all the way back to Carrick’s penthouse with Murphy, my eyes locked on the side of my bag where I stuffed the envelope showcasing my dad’s handwriting inside. Maybe I will leave it, hide it away in a box and open it one day when I am old and gray and whatever he has said won’t matter much. The penthouse is empty and I roam the place for some semblance of peace and solitude. That lands me on the terrace looking over the harbor. Lights twinkle against the dark of night and I decide that this letter is like removing a bandage. Do it fast. Before backing out, with shaking hands I run my finger beneath the flap of the envelope and withdraw the sheaf of paper folded within. With a deep breath, I take the plunge into what I can tell will have me grieving for my father all over again for days and weeks to come.

  Ena,

  This is the tenth version of this letter and I still find it difficult to say exactly what I need to say in the way that I want to say it. I envy the way you somehow always spit out exactly what you mean when you mean to say it. First, let me begin by saying please know that this letter was necessary but I hate to think of the circumstances under which it finds you. If I were alive, know that I would have told you if and when the time came. You were caught sneaking in this house last night and I was hard on you. I know you are a good girl and don’t run around with the boys or party and rebel like a normal teenager. Still, I lashed out because I’m scared to admit that you are well on your way to adulthood and there are things you should know about yourself. Last night, seeing you sneak in, I felt incapable of shielding you from what’s out there, beyond the four walls of this house and though I can’t always control you or who comes and goes in your life I can raise you the best I can. I can try to give you all the tools you need to take on life—no matter where it takes you and no matter who with. One day you will be a grown woman, maybe fall in love with some undeserving jerk and maybe you’ll make us grandparents—I hope you do. You will be a fierce mom. It seems like yesterday I scooped up a severely traumatized, starving redheaded girl from a coat closet and made a promise right then that I would always do everything in my power to do right by you. You deserved it then and you deserve it now. You deserve love and honesty. This is me keeping that promise.

  You have always been wired a certain way. Brave and bold and unflinching, but also willing to do bad things in the name of evening the score. You are strong and fair and clever. Wise beyond your years and more courageous than most men I know. Fiercely loyal and willing to do anything in the interest of those you care for. Unafraid of violence and the outward ripple it causes. You are a fighter and have never backed down from anything. I have always admired that about you. I remember our discussion about whether people are the way they are because of nature or nurture. I recall telling you I felt it’s both and I stick by that. Our raising plays a big role but sometimes I think our genetics play a bigger role. To me, your genetics are proof of that.

  After your adoption was final and Robert Bonner was released from county jail for drug possession I visited him and despite being an officer, I took a page from your book Ena and while I am not proud of what I did, beating him felt amazing and I don’t regret it. Initially, I only wanted answers from him. My anger got the best of me and well… he got a few bruises out of the visit and I got more information than I ever could have barga
ined for. I confronted him about where you came from and how you came to be in his care. This is so hard.

  Ena, you are not an orphan. You never were. You are the missing daughter of Orin and Nancy McCrae. If the name sounds familiar it is because Orin McCrae heads up High Knoll—one of the most infamous crime organizations in the United States. Despite knowing, I should have immediately reported it, I didn’t. I broke the law when I knew what I should have done. I chose instead to keep my daughter right were she was, safe and sound and none the wiser. You had already been through so much and the idea that more danger and violence could somehow find its way to you made making my vow to keep quiet so easy to do. If you are angry, I understand. In fact, I expect the daughter I know—my daughter—to be livid with me but please know that your mom and I, we fell in love with you and to us, you are ours and always will be. Like the lack of remorse I felt for the ass-kicking I gave Robert Bonner, I don’t regret keeping you to myself. My three words today don’t change a bit:

  Always. My. Girl.

  I love you forever,

  Daddy.

  I clutch the letter to my chest and struggle to wrap my mind around what I just read. A feeling of numbness coils around my head and heart. I tuck the paper neatly back into the envelope, fold it in half and slide it into my back pocket. I face the lights over the harbor, my mind swirling. My legs grow numb from standing and I go to my room, sitting on the bed, staring out at the water and the glittering Boston lights.

  “How long have you been sitting there?” His smooth deep voice has me meeting his eyes in the reflection of the bedroom windows.

  I tilt my head toward Carrick. “Oh. I’m not sure.”

  Hours.

  “Are you all right?” He steps closer, those knowing gray eyes penetrating.