You’re real fucking maudlin tonight, aren’t you?One sight of Liam and Ana with their kid, and you’re feeling like it’s all for nothing.Most times, I don’t care. I have a good life, even if it’s a lonely one sometimes. I’ve got a place of my own that suffices, a bike and a car to work on in my free time, and money in the bank. I’m not rich, but I never have to count pennies or think before I buy what I want—mostly because my tastes don’t run expensive. Still, even then, that’s not something my parents could ever have said. I might not have married and filled that old house with little Flanagans, but I’ve done better than they did, and isn’t that what parents always want for their kids? For them to do a little better than what came before?
I might be even more well off, soon enough. My upcoming trip to Mexico worms its way into my head as I park my bike and walk up the flights of stairs to my apartment, letting myself in and popping open a beer. It’s nearly light out, but I won’t sleep for a while with how cluttered my head is. I’ve had insomnia from time to time as an adult, but lately, it’s gotten a hell of a lot worse.
I’m glad to get the hell out of Boston for a bit,I think as I sink down onto my couch. I’ve always loved this city, Liam, working for him, and everything I have here, but now I need some space from it all. And all because of Saoirse.
Even my own apartment isn’t a haven anymore. I sit on this couch and think of the first night she came here, of sinking my hands into her red hair and feeling her lean into me, kissing her as she told me what our future together could be. I’d told her I didn’t want marriage or kids, and I’d meant it. But I’d also told her I could be happy living half a life with her, and I hadn’t meant for it to be a lie, but it’d turned out that it was.
Seems like when I fall in love with a girl,reallyfall in love with her, I can’t be happy with anything other than her being mine completely. Certainly not sharing her with Connor bloody McGregor, knowing he’d always come first.
She’s everywhere in this fucking apartment now, too. My bed, where I can’t seem to get rid of her fucking perfume even after washing the sheets a dozen times. I know it’s not there anymore, but I still can’t seem to stop smelling it—soft, fragrant, sensual, just like her. Where I came so fucking close to getting to make love to her, but she pulled back every time. Because ofhim.Connor. Her husband. The man who had a right to her when I never did.
I can’t even make a bloody fucking meal without standing in my kitchen and hearing our last fight, when she told me she couldn’t do it. That maybe in another life, she could have loved me, could have left with me the way I’d set my pride aside and begged her to do, but not this one.
In this one, she’s his, no matter what fucked-up arrangement he’d made with her or the fact that he’d bloody told her from the start that he didn’t want to love her. And he’d won her in the end anyway, with apologies and whatever else she saw in him.
Now she’s pregnant with his baby, on the verge of giving birth within the next month or two. Since that night when we “broke up”—can you even break up with someone you were never really with?—it’s been hell to be here in Boston, working for the Kings, seeing them together, seeing her getting more and more pregnant by the day with Connor’s child. Something I didn’t even want, with her or anyone, but that somehow feels like a loss anyway. A frequent reminder that all the things Ididwant with her, he has. That all those perfect, gasping little noises she made with me, she makes with him instead. The ways she responded to my touch, the things she said–
Fucking hell.I push the thoughts back, shove them somewhere dark and deep into a box and lock the lid. They’ll surface again, but for now, at least I need some fucking peace. It’s bad enough that I haven’t been able to sleep with anyone else since Saoirse—never mind that I couldn’t bring myself to touch another woman through the months between London and her rejection of me. I hadn’t wanted anyone else, and now that she’s cut me loose, I still can’t seem to muster a hard-on for anything but the memory of her, soft and pale and red hair everywhere in my bed.
Which throws a wrench in my jerking-off habits, too. I used to have no problem enjoying a night alone with myself and a well-loved video when I didn’t feel like going out to find a date, but now all I can think about is that hot, ill-advised night when Saoirse got drunk after her bachelorette party and started sexting me—I think that’s what the kids are calling it these days—and I joined in. Now even my hand around my dick makes me think about jerking off for her, the best orgasm I’ve ever given myself, knowing she was rubbing herself to an orgasm at the same time, looking at pictures of me, thinking about me.
In summary, she got under my skin good and proper, and now I’m fucked up in the head, something that I managed to avoid into my thirties when it came to women. All because I fell in love with the wrong one for me.
So I’m eager to put some distance between us and all the reminders of her. Maybe a few weeks in Mexico, with some good tequila and girls far enough from home that I won’t think of her, will set me right. Maybe I’ll be able to come home and see her holding little Connor Jr. in her arms and not feel like my heart and soul are being ripped out at the same time.
It’s ironic, really. After nearly starting a war over love and lust, everyone in the three big families are getting along now. I’m the only one who still feels like I’m in fucking hell.
The beer isn’t enough. I drain it and toss it in the recycling, going to the cabinet for something stronger. A good whiskey, Jameson Black, on the rocks. Two fingers thrown back in a shot, its hot, sharp burn dulling the pain in my chest. If I drink enough of it, maybe I won’t dream about her tonight.
But I do. I always fucking do. Hot, restless dreams full of clenching need and grasping desire always stop before we can finish what we started. I wake up with my cock rock-hard and aching and no real desire to relieve it, because I don’t want to see her face when I come. I don’t want to think about the way she took my face in her hands and said that maybe, just maybe, she could love me.
Instead, I get up, chasing my erection away with a cold shower to wash away the bleary sleep, and get dressed. Black jeans, a grey t-shirt, motorcycle boots, and my well-loved fleece-lined jacket. My bag is already packed—I’m flying commercial, so I’m taking an Uber to the airport, despite my distaste for being driven around by someone else.
“Business or pleasure?” the driver asks as I get in, wool beanie pulled down over my ears against the cold. It’s meant to be a friendly conversation starter, but as exhausted and sexually frustrated as I am, I’m not feeling much like small talk.
“Business,” I tell him curtly, tossing my bag in the cramped backseat and following it. My legs are too long for the compact car, but I resign myself to get used to it. The flight probably won’t be much more comfortable. I’ve been on a private jet now enough to notice the difference. Still, the one Connor and Liam have use of is in Dublin right now, taking Connor to a meeting, and I would have opted for commercial anyway. Since Connor became one-half of the Irish Kings’ throne, I’ve become less inclined to avail myself of the perks.
Of course, if I pull this job off successfully, some of those perks will become mine.
“Boss couldn’t even pay for your ride to the airport, huh?” The driver clicks his tongue in commiseration. “It’s rough out there for us working folks.”
“He probably would have given me a ride if I’d asked. But his kid was born last night. Wouldn’t be much of a friend if I asked for a lift under those circumstances.” I shrug. “It’s no big deal.”
“Kid, huh? Who you work for? Anyone I might know?”
“The head of the Irish Kings.” I give him a toothy smile and watch his face pale slightly. The car goes dead silent, and I lean back, enjoying the sudden quiet.
It’s not often I use what I do to my advantage or even let anyone know about it. Part of working for the mob—any mob—is keeping that shit to yourself until necessary. But this morning, with an aching head, aching heart, and aching dick—it seems necessary, just for a few minutes of quiet.
By tonight, I’ll be in Mexico. I’ll have a few weeks to use that time and distance to purge myself of Saoirse, put our ill-fated, ill-advised little affair out of my head, and move on. Just like everyone has been telling me it’s beyond time to do.
I just hope it’s that fucking simple.
5
ISABELLA
For the next weeks, stay away from my office. Stay in your room unless told otherwise, or the gardens. Do not even leave the house without your mother or José.