Knockout: The Doyles A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Page 2

  He tenses, going rigid at the contact. My heart is racing, and it’s hard to take slow, steady breaths. But I won’t let him see the effect that he’s having on me.

  Damn. Even when he’s griping and throwing my evening plans off the rails, goddamn, he’s appealing. Every part of my mind says no, but every part of my body screams yes when I’m in proximity to this man.

  Pulling all the way back in my seat, I slam the car in reverse, and zip down the ramp toward the exit. In my peripheral vision, it’s clear Owen’s bracing himself.

  “Molly,” he starts, his voice a deep rumble.

  He doesn’t finish, because I flash my badge to let the parking attendant know I don’t need to pay and pull out onto the surface streets where I really hit the gas.

  We weave through city streets, and onto the Mass Turnpike to head toward his place in Dorchester. His grandparents’ old house. Even though it’s been years since I’ve been there, I know the way. Next to me, he keeps shifting and clutching for the “oh shit” handle. There’s hardly even any traffic this late.

  “Stop being dramatic, Doyle,” I say, pulling three lanes right and taking the exit to his place at a speed that’s not, strictly speaking, necessary. It takes everything I’ve got, but my voice doesn’t shake with the emotion that’s rolling through my body right now.

  I know I’m pushing all of his buttons, but I don’t care. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been alone with Owen. My stomach flutters at the thought. No wonder I’m nervous. That last time didn’t exactly end well.

  He turns toward me and I can feel his eyes on my face.

  “It’s good to see you, Molly.” His voice is lower, quieter, deeper. I want steal a glance at his face, to see his expression. But I’m afraid at what I’ll find there and what might come pouring out in response.

  I keep my eyes on the road, and fall back into what I know best: biting Irish humor.

  I start to make a joke about how little he’s seeing right now, but something stops me. “Yeah. You too, Owen.”

  “Wasn’t expecting to see you at one of my fights. Not ever.”

  “Being there doesn’t mean I approve.” My voice sounds harsh, even harsher that I intend.

  “Look, I know this is about Danny,” he starts. My heart twists just at the mention of my brother’s name.

  I cut him off. “It’s not about Danny, Owen. It’s about you. Your life, your choices, how they affect the people around you.”

  That quiets him down. I continue, “Look, my brother made one bad call as a young boxer and now he’s paying the price. One severe concussion is all it takes to take everything – everything - away.”

  My voice almost breaks. “Owen, Danny had such a bright future. A beautiful girlfriend, big plans. Then one punch and it’s all gone. Doctors’ visits, giving up his dreams, giving up everything. That’s all it takes, and I just don’t want that for you.”

  The tears sting my eyes, the ones that always well up when I think about my brother’s lost potential and how he’s paying for a decision to take one boxing match that he wasn’t equipped to win.

  Sure, Owen’s this big guy that’s always responding with his fists – but he’s smart too. He’s always there for his dad and his brothers. I’ve always imagined him with a wife and kids, maybe his own business. The fact that I’ve often wished myself into that wife role – wondered what it would be like – isn’t the point right now, and it probably never will be.

  He doesn’t look at me like that. And even if he did, I could never make a life with a man like Owen. I couldn’t live with the fear every time he went to do his job.

  “Molly.” His deep voice has its own note of sorrow. I don’t want to listen to this, not tonight.

  “Hey, Owen, it’s okay. Honestly, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. Who am I? Just Sean’s little sister. I don’t even rank as far as your choices go.”

  “Molly, you do matter to me,” he reaches out a hand and touches mine for the briefest second, before pulling it away like I’m on fire. Little does he know that a slow burn is uncoiling inside me.

  “It’s just complicated.”

  Yes, it’s complicated all right. Everything I do, every way I move forward – thinking I’m getting past these feelings. Then one night, less than a couple of hours with him, and I’m right back to feeling insecure. Conflicted and yet so fucking attracted.

  The silence continues, and then he says very suddenly, “How did you end up there tonight?”

  “I switched EMT companies a few months ago and they picked up the contract. Covering the fight on a Saturday night pays big overtime.” That’s not the whole story, but he doesn’t have to know.

  His shoulders drop a little, like maybe that isn’t the answer he wants. “Yeah, overtime is good.”

  He changes conversational directions fast, in a way that you don’t necessarily anticipate from a guy like Owen. “Sean says you got your own place. Is it safe?”

  “Is it safe not to live with my parents? Yes, Owen, I’m twenty-five.”

  That’s so Owen. Not ‘how do you like it,’ but ‘is it safe?’

  “Yeah,” he suddenly sounds really tired. He runs a hand across the five o’clock shadow on his jaw and just the sound of it sends a shiver down my spine. For a fleeting second, I let myself imagine its roughness against my cheek.

  Then he adds, “But you’re not in the best neighborhood, Molly.”

  “How do you know?”

  He gives me side-eye. “It’s what Sean said. He worries about you.”

  I want to be indignant, say something snarky. Get annoyed. But I’m not surprised. “Sean drives by at least once every shift. I’m probably safer than Beacon Hill.”

  He laughs and the mood lightens.

  Finally, we turn onto the quiet street where his house is. It’s not fancy, but it’s big enough and I know he owns it outright. I’d love to own any place, even a condo, but that’s not in the cards anytime soon in Boston on an EMT salary.

  We roll to a stop and he gets out. I open my own door, determined to give him his things and get out of there. But then I look at his face, and see all his fidgeting has reopened one of the cuts on his face.

  “Owen, you’re bleeding.”

  “I’m fine,” he says quickly, touching fingers to his face that come away red.

  “Come on, take me inside and I’ll fix you up before I head out.”

  He hesitates, but then nods and leads the way up the cobblestone walk. I hit the lock button on my car and follow him through the door into the dark front room. He flips on the lights, illuminating the front hall.

  It looks almost exactly the same as when his grandparents were here, although I’m surprised to see he’s got a really nice stove and new cabinets and floors. He upgraded, but kept the essential charm of the place.

  He hands me a Diet Coke and then says, “Give me five minutes.”

  I start to say he could have offered me a beer, but it’s Owen. I’m lucky he didn’t try to mix me a fucking Shirley Temple.

  He heads to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. The shower goes on, and I look around, taking in the pictures of Owen’s family. His parents on their wedding day. His grandparents. Him and his brothers. Owen, Sean, and their friends. A picture of Sean, Owen, and me on my graduation day. I freeze when I see it, my heart almost stopping as my mouth goes dry. I don’t even remember that photo being taken.

  A couple of minutes later, the door to the small downstairs bathroom swings open and Owen emerges wearing dark shorts slung low on his hips and a dark t-shirt that clings to his wet body. His dark hair looks like he just ran a hand through it, and he’s holding a wad of wet bandages in his hand. He looks a little guilty.

  “I know, but I needed to shower and since you were here.”

  “It’s fine. Sit down.”

  He stops at the refrigerator and pulls out a beer. “Do you want another soda?”

  My laugh is tight. “I’ll skip the s
oda, but you can definitely get me one of whatever you’re drinking.”

  He hesitates, but relents when I add, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Sean.”

  He slides the beer over to me and then sits on the edge of the kitchen table. I wait a couple of seconds to make sure it’ll hold him. But it’s fine and I can see from his ease that it’s not the first time he’s sat on this table, probably for the same thing. Maybe for other things? Now, there’s a thought to mull over, later.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  His beer stops in mid-air. “Molly.”

  “So I can tape your ribs again, Owen.” Each word is punctuated by a little stop.

  “Yeah. Of course, right.” He pulls the shirt over his head in one motion, his face hardening with a wince of pain. Catching sight of his muscles and the bruises blooming out around his body, and the extensive tattoos that make a canvas of his body, takes me by surprise. My mouth goes a little dry. I lick my lips.

  Grabbing a roll of tape, I get to work. My hands graze his skin, still hot from the shower. My eyes are locked on his chest, rather than his face – which isn’t much better as I imagine running my tongue over that chest. Damn it. I will my hands not to shake as I work as fast as I can.

  I just finish his ribs when he says, “Molly, I really appreciate this.”

  His voice is thick, a little husky.

  “No problem, Owen. It’s my job.”

  His head drops down, as he stares at the floor. Damn it again. We keep missing each other, just saying the wrong thing. Someone has to extend an olive branch here.

  “But I’d do it anyways. If you ever need medical care, call me anytime. I’d never want to think you were hurting, Owen, even if it was from a fight. Ok?”

  One beat goes by, then two. “Thank you.”

  Grabbing bandages and more disinfectant, I start working on his face. Almost done and then I can get out of here. I steadfastly stare at the cuts, and not his captivating dark blue eyes above them. His eyes are so damned arresting.

  I pull away, when he catches my hand in his. He’s very gentle, so gentle that there’s barely any pressure to his touch at all.

  “Molly,” he says before his voice trails off. I don’t know what he’ll do or say.

  Then he grazes his lips over the back of my hand. My pulse hammers in my throat, and my face starts to turn red from the flush that’s creeping up from my chest north to my hairline. Fuck. I want his lips on more than just my hand.

  I wait for one breath, and then two, but he doesn’t let my hand go and so I look up and meet his eyes. You could lose yourself in those eyes if you’re not careful, O’Brien. That’s not a road you are walking.

  I steel myself to pull away, when he leans in and rests his forehead on mine. His eyes are closed, and he exhales a breath I didn’t know he was holding. The hot feel of his skin against mine. The power of his huge form.

  It’s almost too much for me to bear.

  “Molly, I’ve gotten so many things wrong with you,” he stops and starts again.

  I should end this, get out of here while I can, before the awkwardness between us gets so bad we can never go back. Go back to what? Whatever this is, I guess.

  “That day, at the barbeque,” he says, and my heart stills.

  My face flames even more scarlet, but not from desire. This time from shame. A couple of years ago, Owen had been at one of my family’s summer parties. A few too many drinks and we had ended up kissing – well, maybe a bit more than kissing – behind my parents’ house. I took a chance, leaned into my looser inhibitions, just to see if there really was chemistry there. My brother Sean came this close to interrupting us, and Owen broke it off, apologizing and saying that the whole thing was a mistake.

  Fuck him and his mistakes. It was the best kiss of my life. But I’ve never felt worse than I did in that moment, watching him back away from what we shared. However brief it was. When you want something long enough, losing even a fleeting chance hurts more than you’d ever know.

  But I guess we are back there: with Owen and his guilt and Molly and her unrequited feelings.

  His eyes are a little unfocused, and he just stares at my hand in his.

  “Owen? I think you had better get yourself to bed,” I say, not sure how to extract myself.

  His eyes snap up to mine, and from the intensity there, it’s clear that he thinks that’s an offer. The pupils of his eyes dilate, his nostrils flare. If what I’m feeling against my leg is any indication, all systems are a go. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to lean right into that opening.

  “Alone.”

  Suddenly, I’m channeling my best Sunday school nun voice, but it’s as much to keep myself from responding as it is to keep him in line.

  He drops my hand, and quickly runs his palms over his face.

  “Molly, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me there.” The last thing I want is for him to start apologizing again, or regretting even the flash of desire that I see in his eyes. Grabbing my bag, I head for the door, and pull it open.

  Before I step outside into the cold December air, I turn back and catch him staring after me.

  “Owen.” So many mixed emotions play over his face. Desire, focused intensity, regret, maybe a touch of wistfulness.

  “Look, I don’t want you to apologize, and I also don’t want there to be any mistake. I like you. I always have. But I won’t be a shameful secret, and I won’t be made to feel bad about what I want.”

  He opens his mouth, and his eyes bore into mine. But I don’t wait to hear what he’s going to say.

  “You decide you want to do this right?” I interrupt before he has the chance to offer some bullshit excuse. “You give me a call.”

  I slam the door shut behind me.

  “Until then, knock yourself out,” I say. But I’m the only one listening.

  3

  Owen

  Christ, everything hurts. The haze of sleep clears slowly as my body begins its slow injury roll-call. Fucked-up leg? Present. Fucked-up ribs? Here. I reluctantly relax into the pain thrumming in my head, willing my eyes to open.

  “Could be a lot worse,” I grunt to no one in particular. I can open them both. Not all the way, but mostly. “Thanks, Molly.”

  Molly. Fuck. Just saying her name makes my body react. My dick gets my brain to replay our R-rated make-out session from the O’Briens’ barbecue from the very beginning.

  It’s a hot summer day, and every family in neighborhood is packed into the O’Briens’ yard.

  “Humans like to think they’re so superior to other animals,” Molly says, waving a beer bottle in my face, “but we’re not.”

  I’m working hard not to notice how well the tank top she’s wearing hugs her curves. When the hell had she gotten all those curves?

  She points the mouth of the bottle at my black eye. It’s mostly healed, but the yellow and purple bruises stick around awhile.

  I know she’s talking about fighting. She’s got good reasons to hate it, even years after her brother’s accident. But it still bothers me. I don’t want her to be disappointed in me. For some reason, I hate the way that feels. Time to change the subject.

  Definitely had too much to drink, because I’m blurting out the first thing that comes into my head. “I read somewhere that if you hold eye contact for more than fifteen seconds with someone that you either end up fucking or fighting.”

  Jesus. Shouldn’t have said fuck in front of Sean’s little sister. We all curse like sailors, including Molly, but it still feels wrong.

  “Is that right?” Molly puts her beer bottle down on the spikey grass and moves in close to my body. Unbelievably close. She tilts her face up at me. I can see the starbursts of freckles over her nose. Her long, dark red curls feels like silk where they graze my arm. We lock eyes. What does she think she’s playing at?

  “One…”

  “Molly, come on.”

  “Two…”

  My brain tells me to
walk away, but my dick has other ideas. No way I’m letting her win this.

  “Three…”

  She smirks up at me, and then parts her full lips, brushing them with the tip of her pink tongue.

  Christ.

  Before I can stop myself, I reach out and pull her firmly against my body. She wraps her slender, freckled arms around my neck and we kiss, almost violently, teeth and tongues clashing. It’s not enough. My hand slides under her ass and squeezes through her thin shorts, hiking her up so her legs are around my waist. She sucks in a breath and the power of that connection goes straight to my cock. Her fingernails dig into my shoulders. It’s so fucking good.

  “Owen,” she moans against my lips.

  “Owen! We need you for wiffleball.”

  Sean’s voice drifts around the corner and it’s like a punch to the nuts. I nearly drop Molly, and fumble to set her down without hurting her. What the fuck was I thinking? Sean’s baby sister. Fucking Christ.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say softly, trying to hide the evidence of my hard-on. She’s standing there watching me, and I make myself look at her. I owe her that.

  Her face is bright red and her eyes are shiny. I know Molly, and she’ll never let me see her cry. She’s tough as nails. But the look of hurt and betrayal is something I’ll never forget. In that moment, I would have given anything not to disappoint her.

  God knows I’ve been trying to forget the whole thing since it happened. If Sean ever found out, he’d kill me.

  He’s my oldest and best friend, as much family to me as my own brothers. The only time that had ever been in jeopardy was over a girl in high school. We’d made each other a promise that a woman would never come between us. It’s been a hell of a long time since high school, but that promise had kept my priorities straight. But goddamn it, if my body doesn’t react to that woman every time I think about her, hear her name, or see her.