For a second, I wonder if he had been having an affair with the red-headed stripper and was using me to make a point that their relationship was over.
But before I can feel weird about being introduced to his ex, I remember this isSeamus Fitzpatrick, and he would simply tell a woman that things were over between them. If she didn’t take no for an answer, she’d probably show up in about ten years rotting in a shallow grave. The reminder of who my husband really is has me fighting back a shudder.
Using the excuse of not being able to reach my drink, I stand, snagging my glass and moving to the empty chair at the table, between Connor and Paddy. Before I sit, I glance back at Seamus to see if he’s annoyed I moved, but he has spread his legs out, looking like he hasn’t noticed I’m gone. Biting my lip, I spin the chair, so I can face the stage and watch the show, taking my seat.
One, my golden bracelet. Two, my gardenia perfume. Three, my old work clothes help me feel like this is just a job. Four, my wedding ring. Five, the taste of red wine on my tongue.
“It looks like you made your point, Fitzy,” Connor laughs. As I glance over, he tips his head at the other patrons in the room. Glancing around, I can see they are all watching me. But as soon as I look their way, they hastily avert their eyes.
Ah. The little show Seamus just put on wasn’t for my benefit or even Tahlie’s. It was to show every other male in the room that I belonged to Seamus Fitzpatrick, so back the fuck off. I suppose that sending a little message to Tahlie was an added bonus for me, but definitely not Seamus’s intention.
Seamus and the others talk amongst themselves for the next two sets while I am ignored and watch the women work the room, marveling at how agile and bendy they are.
Leaving his empty whiskey tumbler on the table, Seamus stands, and I automatically do too. I catch the smirk on his lips. He liked that I did that.
“I’ve got to get back to work, lads.” He nods to the men still seated at the table. “Paddy, Connor.”
Moving around the table to me, his fingers tangle in my hair as he kisses me.
“I want ye naked in bed when I get home tonight,” he murmurs huskily against my mouth.
I nod, suddenly feeling all breathy. I think my automatic obedience without him asking for it was a massive turn-on for him. Certainly, he’s talking all Irish, like he does when he wants to be buried inside me.
His lips and hands disappear off me as he strides back through the side door without so much as a glance in my direction. Back to his office.
Paddy and Connor rise to flank me as we leave the private bar, walking through the main bar, which is much rowdier now, and into the parking lot.
It must be Connor’s car because it is different from the SUV Paddy and I came in earlier. This is a sleek black BMW sedan. I could drool over this car all night.
Paddy shoves me none too gently into the buttery leather backseat while Connor slides into the driver’s seat. Once Paddy is in the car, we pull out of the parking lot, driving toward West Roxbury.
I settle back, letting the comfortable leather seat cocoon me. We’re only about fifteen minutes into the half-hour drive when I’m jerked out of my reverie as the vehicle jolts and skids sideways, the screeching sound of crumpling metal and yelling filling my ears.
I’m hurled sideways, throwing my hand up to stop my head from slamming into the window beside me. My seatbelt stretches taut before I am knocked back into my seat, my chest burning, and a loud scream fills the car.
We stop skidding with a hiss and a pop, the car settling with the sound of breaking glass. I blink at Paddy, twisting in his seat in front of me. His mouth is moving, and he’s yelling, but I can’t hear him over the screaming.
After a moment, I realize the sound is coming from me. Sucking in a breath, I manage to tamp down on it, and I can finally hear Paddy.
“Stop yer fecking screaming!” he’s howling.
Now I have shut up, he falls silent too. Connor is swearing, and my head is ringing, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. We must have been hit on the driver’s side at the back. They both seem okay in the front seats, but the door opposite me is suddenly much closer than it should be.
Paddy shoves his shoulder into his door, expelling a grunt, forcing it open with another screech. He squeezes out, disappearing from view. I watch Connor awkwardly maneuvers his long legs from beneath the steering wheel, crawling across the center console with difficulty and out Paddy’s door.
I undo my belt, turning as my door opens. Paddy appears, his eyes flickering over me, his fingers closing around my right hand. He jerks me out of the crumpled car, and I whimper in pain.
“Feck,” he mutters, and when he speaks again, his tone is more gentle than it has ever been with me. “Just cradle it. Here, like this.”
Paddy manipulates my hand, so I’m cradling my right wrist with my left hand, and looking down, I whimper again. My pinky and ring fingers on my right hand are broken. Fuckingow! No wonder it hurt when he grabbed my hand.
“Stay down,” Paddy hisses at me, drawing his gun, “and stay behind me. Close.”
I nod, pressing my lips together as the pain from my broken fingers seeps through me as some of the shock recedes. Connor also has his gun out, and he’s hanging up his phone.
“Backup is on the way,” he mutters to Paddy, who nods.
They peer over the top of the car right as machine-gun fire rings out. Cursing, they both duck back down, returning fire. Fucking hell. This is not how I imagined tonight going.