Knockout: The Doyles A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Read online

  “Stop right there or I’ll mace you, asshole.” The whole thing happens in the span of one or two seconds.

  He might have been starting to speak, but it’s too late.

  Fear clenches my gut as I raise the canister, aim it at where his face should be, and unleash the contents. There’s a hissing sound and then silence for one, two, three beats. The huge man jerks back, equally large hands moving up to grab his face. My free hand is already digging around in my bag to grab my cell phone and call the cops.

  Then I hear it, a rolling mix of uttered verbal pain, and foul swears in a familiar voice that has my hand freezing halfway to my face.

  Are those profanities interwoven with someone saying, “Jesus wept, Molly, why?”

  Holy shit. I just maced Owen Doyle.

  “Owen,” my voice is a question and I take a tentative step in his direction. He starts to back up, but then fights to hold his ground.

  His voice comes out stronger and clearer now, even as he’s doubled over, clutching his face. “What in the hell, Molly?”

  He looks up and his eyes are blazing, partly in anger and partly from the hot-red rims forming. Tears involuntarily leak from one side, and he raises a hand to swipe at them again.

  “Owen, don’t!” I bark, closing the distance between us as fast as I can. Shit, I’ve got to get him inside and wash the pepper spray out of his eyes.

  I grab his hands and peer up into his face. His eyes are red, but that’s when I notice that he’s got a massive contusion on his head and probably needs stitches.

  In other words, he’s apparently had a bad night, and my pepper spray is the least of his worries.

  Dropping his hands, I walk the few steps to the outside faucet and turn it on. The water’s icy, but running. He knows what I want him to do, and follows me to splash the water in his eyes, hissing in pain as the cold water makes contact.

  He straightens up to his full height, and clears his throat before continuing.

  “Why?” he asks again. He doesn’t sounds angry now, just confused.

  I stop then, positioning myself firmly in front of him and look up into his face. The hard line of his firm jaw isn’t lost on me, even though he clenches it in pain.

  “I’m so sorry, Owen. I didn’t know who you were. It was dark and it was late. I told you to stop, and warned you I’d mace you, but you kept coming at me.”

  “Shit, Molly. I’m sorry.” Regret passes over his face. To be fair, he’s probably regretting a few things right about now.

  “Listen, not too long ago, some guys on this street grabbed me.” The words are barely out when his body immediately goes stiff and his hands curl up into fists. I rush on to add, “I’m fine, it was all fine. But I carry mace now and I don’t hesitate to shoot.”

  His shoulders drop as I say everything was fine, and he ducks his head before continuing.

  “Yeah, got that.”

  We stand there regarding each other for a minute, and he finally, at the very least, cracks a hint of a smile. It’s like a touch of sunlight brightening his whole face, and I try to ignore the little flips my stomach gives.

  Maybe I can get the story here without anyone losing their temper?

  “It’s not that I don’t want to stand out here with you in the freezing cold, Owen, but we really need to rinse your eyes with saline. How about you come upstairs and tell me what brought you here today?” Every inflection of my voice is steady, even. Not betraying how my heart is still pounding, part in fear and part in the anticipation of having this man so close.

  My hand is only shaking a little as I turn the key in the lock. “Did you have a fight?”

  There’s a long pause, before he answers.

  “No, no, nothing like that. But – you said if I needed medical attention you could help.” He shrugs and gestures toward his face, that smile spreading into a full grin. He’s in pain, but he’s in good spirits, so I’ll take it.

  Unlocking the door to the shared entry, I motion for him to follow me in and as we go up the stairs, I see Owen stop to glance at the names on the mailboxes.

  “I’m up here,” I keep climbing the stairs as I call down over my shoulder.

  But he has taken out his phone and is squinting to compare something to what he sees on one of mailboxes.

  “Owen!” I’m getting exasperated.

  Whatever’s on his mind, he decides to table it. I unlock my front door and then invite him in. Owen’s eyes go around the whole place, taking in every door and every window. He’s probably assessing every cheap piece of IKEA furniture, every window I don’t have curtains for.

  I walk him over to my kitchen sink and pull saline solution from my medical bag to give his eyes a better rinse. When we’re done, he looks at me, water dripping down the hard lines of his handsome face.

  I am suddenly very aware that I’m alone with this man in my private space. Time to take control before I do something I regret.

  “Have a seat.”

  I point toward the huge recliner in front of the TV. A hand-me-down from Sean. Coming out of the kitchen a minute later, I hand him a beer and a bottle of water, because if I were him, I’d need both about now. Our knees touch when I sit down on the coffee table in front of him.

  My house, my rules.

  “You want to tell me what happened?”

  He shifts uncomfortably, his eyes lingering at the point where our knees graze each other.

  “Molly, is there any chance you can just fix me up? I’m cut pretty bad over here.”

  I take a sip from my beer and then watch him for a long minute over the rim.

  “I see that, Owen. We’ll get to that – maybe – but first, I want to know what the hell you’ve been up to. You’re no thug. Why are you out fighting in Boston in the middle of the goddamn night?”

  Even to my own ears, I sound like my mother. Aileen O’Brien suffers no fools. She is a first-class interrogator, having raised six sons, and I learned at the feet of the best.

  Owen regards me, trying to decide what and how much to tell me.

  I’ve almost had it, almost ready to tell him to fuck off. I don’t care how big and strong he looks tonight, and how right he looks in my living room recliner. Or how the hot coil of desire weaves its way from my stomach to my fiery center every time our eyes make contact or I hear his deep voice.

  I need him to be straight with me, or I can’t do this.

  I’ll kick him out again. I’ve done it before. Finally, he exhales a bone-weary sigh and puts down the bottle. He crosses his hands over his legs and leans forward until our faces are almost touching. My mouth goes dry and I focus on keeping my breathing steady.

  “It’s a long story. My dad isn’t doing well,” he begins. His voice is tight.

  I nod, a sinking feeling taking hold in my stomach. Sean mentioned that.

  “Molly, they just gave him a few months to live,” his voice breaks a little on the edge.

  I didn’t know how serious things were.

  I’ve never seen Owen cry, but I know how close he is to his father and this must be killing him.

  Pain tears my chest. I have to swallow hard to keep a small sound of grief from escaping my own lips. Murphy Doyle has been a fixture in all our lives forever. I can’t imagine our corner of the city – or more importantly the lives of his sons – without their dad. They’re grown men, but he’s going to leave them with a lot of things on their plates to work their way through.

  My hand goes out tentatively to rest on his knee, and ends up a little higher on his thigh. I feel the muscles contract through the thick fabric of his jeans and his body stiffens, his eyes on my hand. But when I try to take it away, he gives a little grunt and quickly covers it with his own huge hand.

  The knuckles are bruised and scraped, the palms callused. But the weight and heat of his hand feels good.

  “I’m so sorry, Owen. Your dad is a good man.”

  Most of the things I’d heard people say were platitudes, or cruel
observations. Sure, he’s a tough old bastard, but he loves his sons and they love him. Nothing he’s done takes anything away from the fact it’s hard to lose the ones you love. And frankly, no matter what he’d done in his younger days, I’d seen Murphy do a lot of good in Boston over the years.

  A kind word is just enough to take Owen off his game. He looks away fast, steels himself, his jaw cutting a harsh line. He’s fighting to keep himself under control, and I want to tell him that it’s okay to have feelings. Even hard feelings. But I don’t know how to tell a man that sees everything as a fight that it’s okay to be at ease.

  We sit like that for a minute, before he pulls his hand away and regards me again with a more neutral expression. Having him so physically close is heating things up – more than I’d like to admit.

  “My father asked me to find someone. I have some information that led me here. How many apartments are there in total in this building?”

  I slide back a bit, putting some distance between us. Physically and metaphorically.

  “Who’d he ask you to find, Owen? What are you getting caught up in?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Nothing like that, Molly. It’s…a different kind of family business. My father asked me to track down one of his nephews. I guess his brother had a kid that we never knew about.”

  It’s not that far-fetched. Even now, I knew that that generation of Doyles had been wild. But first things first.

  “Okay. So how did your face end up looking like that tonight?”

  He bites his lip a little sheepishly, and looks maybe a touch annoyed, that I’ve brought things back around to what I wanted to know in the first place. Someday this man will figure out that I’ll always outmaneuver him.

  “Ah, well, I got a lead. The kid’s mother was an addict. She lived a really hard life. Went after some information tonight, and got into a bad situation. Got out, but not without a couple of bumps and bruises.”

  He runs a hand over his face. Bumps and bruises? He looks like a gang used him for a punching bag – and judging from the cuts on his hand, he gave as good as he got right back.

  “You should have seen the other guys.”

  Finally, he lets out a weary sigh when I don’t respond.

  “Trust me, Molly, I don’t want to land a pile of trouble at your door,” he begins. “But I needed to get this fixed up.”

  “The hospital?”

  He bristles and his voice drops lower. “I got hit pretty hard, buttercup. One more head injury and there’s no big fight for me.”

  It’s been years since he called me buttercup. I used to hate it, but now the endearment sparks a warm feeling inside me, even as the weight of his words takes hold.

  Damn it. Chills of fear dance down my spine. I know what the cost of a head injury can be. Absolutely life-altering and devastating. Time’s wasting.

  I jump to my feet and grab my medical bag. A glaring light spreads over the top of Owen’s head, illuminating his face and injuries when I turn on the lamp behind where he’s sitting. I pull a flashlight from my bag and assess. Looks hurt, but seems pretty with it. Still, that head wound. We’re doing this by the book.

  “Owen, you came here for medical help.”

  “Yeah.” He looks at me, a bit wary, his eyes on the flashlight in my hands. Does he think I’ll hit him with it?

  “We’re going to do this by the book, in case you have a concussion that needs to be managed. Play this my way, and I’ll help you out. If you just want four stitches and to go on your way, take an Uber to Lahey.”

  I’m not being a jerk. I’m just setting boundaries. Clear boundaries are going to be the only thing that gets me out of this with my sanity – or my heart - intact.

  He watches me closely, his eyes still puffy from the mace, thinking and weighing his options. It sends chills up my spine when he looks me that way. What’s he seeing, what does he like and what does he find wanting? But I know Owen, and don’t think he’s off-put by my forward, confident, and blunt ways – and it turns out he’s not.

  “Wither thou lead, Molly.”

  I can’t help it. I snort. It’s a ridiculous reference, but it’s good enough. He looks more relaxed too.

  “What’s your full name?”

  “Owen Patrick Doyle.”

  Good. “And can you name your mom and dad?”

  “Murphy and Kathleen Doyle.”

  Excellent. “What day is it?”

  “Saturday, I think.”

  Last question. “Who am I and how did we meet?”

  Maybe not technically an assessment question from the list, but the intent is right. “You’re Molly Mary O’Brien, and we met twenty-four years ago when you were one. Sean and I were in first grade, and the teacher thought I was an O’Brien. You were a wee thing, squeaking and squealing and always in a foul temper.”

  I start to protest that I didn’t squeak or squeal.

  But he grins over at me with a smile that reaches his eyes. “I’ve always been a fan.”

  This man, with his fast smiles and good-natured temper, is going to be the death of me. I have to keep remembering that he doesn’t show that kind of good temper in the fights he takes on.

  “What else do you remember about us growing up?”

  I fire up my tablet to read through the symptoms list for concussions. As I scan the pages of one of my EMT textbooks, he continues. “Lots of stuff. But I remember we ended up at a party down at Danny Mulligan’s place. Do you remember? Rich family. They had a pool, big backyard, the whole thing.”

  I do vaguely. “They said the dad was a hit man.”

  “Yup and that part is actually true.” He grins. “But do you remember what you wore that day? You tore into the pool, diving off the board, synchronized swimming in the tiniest red bikini I’ve ever seen. Your brothers were ready to kill you when they got there.”

  “Oh my god, Owen. I had totally forgotten that. You dragged Sean and Declan off, and then when they came back, we hung out in the pool for the day.”

  What I actually remember is spending time with him, a rare treat in those days. He and my brothers were older, working, and I was stuck in classes and after-school jobs. My dreams had dined on that day for months. But I’m not telling him that.

  His eyes are on me, slowly taking me in when he thinks I’m not watching. Referring back to the screen, I rapid-fire a list of questions. Is he tired? Blurry vision? Dizziness? At the end, I conclude that he’s got mild symptoms in a couple of minor areas, enough that tells me we need to watch him but that he probably doesn’t need a formal hospital visit.

  I try to relax as I assure myself that he’ll be okay. That this won’t be the hit that leaves him permanently injured – or worse. But even through my fear, I realize that he was trying to do something

  He sits very still while I work on cleaning the cut on his head, which isn’t too bad. But It’s going to take a handful of stitches, and I drop down to his level.

  “Owen, I have to stitch you up and it’s going to hurt. I don’t exactly have a local anesthesia option here. Do you want a stronger drink? It’s not the best for your head…”

  He shakes his head slightly, grimacing with pain. “I trust you, Molly. I’m not afraid of it hurting. I’ll skip the booze and the extra brain risk. Just do it.”

  Owen sits in front of me and looks straight ahead at a point on the wall. I clean his wound, treat it, stitch it up, and then disinfect it again. Having done enough of these, I know it’s one painful procedure. He doesn’t flinch or make a sound.

  One tough guy.

  The complaining I’m used to from patients sets a low bar, but the way Owen handles himself impresses me. I put a hand on his muscular shoulder, and when he looks at me, give him a quick smile.

  With the initial shock of finding Owen on my doorstep receding, I’m starting to feel bad. I fucking maced him. Whatever trouble he ended up in tonight, he was doing it for his father. And then there’s just the man himself.

>   That big powerful body. The easy smiles. The fast humor and always trying to make things better. The fact that he’d always been a good friend to my brother. I tug a curl loose from my low ponytail.

  Whatever this tension is between us doesn’t erase the fact that Owen is a good man. Fuck. No matter how much I hate fighting, I have to acknowledge that simple truth.

  I feel the shift even before the words are out of my mouth.

  Owen seems to release the tension of whatever he still carried from the fight. His breathing is slower, and his shoulders have dropped.

  I clear my throat and try to ignore the pounding that’s starting in my chest again, hoping I don’t regret this. “Owen, do you have plans tonight?”

  He is instantly alert. “Not this late.”

  “Ok, good news, bad news. Good news is that we got you cleaned up and I think you’ll be fine. I’ll need another look at that cut in the morning.”

  As I say morning, his eyes cut up fast to my face.

  “The bad news is that you definitely have a concussion and need a professional nearby to watch for any escalation for the next twelve to twenty-four hours.”

  I’m not taking chances with Owen Doyle, or frankly, with my medical training. He cooperates or he goes to the hospital. His choice.

  “Shit,” he says, running his hand through hair that stands up. I secretly love the way he looks when his hair is a mess. But I continue.

  “The way I see it, you’ve got a few options. One, we take you to a hospital. Two, I can call your brothers. Three, I can call Sean.”

  I pause for a beat before I add the last option, making sure it still sounds like a good idea. “Four, you relax here and I’ll make sure you don’t die. Your choice, but I need to know fast because I’ve got a date.”

  At the word date, his whole demeanor changes. He looks at me hard, his eyes going narrow and he’s rising fast to his feet. Those huge hands curl into fists and when his voice comes out, it’s a bass rumble. “A date? With who?”

  Come on, Doyle. Are you going to punch the boyfriend I don’t have?

  One of my eyebrows begins a slow progression to my hairline.

  “A date with Thai food, some wine, Netflix, and my shower – not in that order. And not that it’s any of your business.”