Grind: The Doyles, A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Page 5

A few minutes later, I’m standing outside a low-rent diner with a broken sign that cheerfully declares itself Gus’s. Even in the dim light of the interior, it's easy to see that the place is grimy and tired. A few patrons scattered at booths drink coffee or hunch together in conversation. My eyes sweep the place but don't find Ava.

  Only one way to see if she is here.

  An old bell chimes over the door when I walk in. My eyes adjust to the light, and the few customers have turned to take me in. In my dark suit, I stand out in the casual crowd. Clearly, this is not a place I belong.

  Honestly though, I’m probably more at home here on some level than I am in my own nightclub. I’d bussed tables at the Kildare since I was seven or eight. My family’s old neighborhood bar isn’t a big step up from this place.

  A form moves behind the counter. There’s a sinking feeling in my gut and a sense of disappointment that washes over me as I take in the woman, older and frumpy with gray hair. Not my Ava.

  My Ava?

  I move toward the counter, jaw tight and frustration mounting.

  At least I can ask when Ava works. Maybe get a phone number. But I'm not more than a few steps inside the diner when a familiar voice calls out softly from a corner booth.

  "Connor?"

  Just the sound of her voice sends a chill down my spine. It’s a sound that some part of me has been aching to hear for days.

  Seeing her knocks one kind of tension out of me, and kicks another one into gear. She sits in a huge booth alone, a thick book and note paper spread out before her. A few seconds ago she was clearly engrossed in something important. Her dark glossy hair is caught up in a ponytail, and even though she's wearing a ridiculous diner uniform that could have been dragged out of the 1950s, she's absolutely gorgeous.

  Jesus, why did I wait this long?

  She quickly slides out of the booth, gracefully rising to her feet. She heads in my direction, a concerned look marring her beautiful features.

  "Hey, is everything okay?"

  Before I can respond, she flushes. Hot pink starts at the top of her collar and quickly creeps to her cheeks. For a second, all I can think is how much I like seeing her with a flush on her cheeks. How I could do other things to make her flush.

  "Oh my God, your jersey. I washed that and was absolutely going to return it," she rushes on.

  "I am not here about a goddamn shirt." The frustration from the last week, the intensity of the physical reaction I'm feeling toward her, is all wrapped up in my voice. It sounds harsh.

  She takes a quick step back, shock momentarily registering on her face, but it’s gone fast. The practiced mask drops down, and I hate myself instantly for sparking that. Shaking my head, I run a hand across my jaw. Even though I just shaved a few hours ago, bristles already stab at my fingers.

  Moments pass. What the hell was I thinking?

  I take a deep breath. Let’s try this again.

  "Hi, Ava," I say. The thrill of being close to her takes hold, and a genuine smile lights my face. God, she must think I’m such a creep, grinning like a jackass after snapping at her. My smile drops. “I’m sorry,” I say. "Let’s start over. I'm not here about the shirt, I promise. Actually, I came here to see you and see how you’re doing," That’s not what I expected to say; usually I’d be prepared with something charming or witty. Definitely not something that honest or straightforward. Or pathetic? I hope it doesn’t sound that way.

  A few terrifying seconds pass before her lips curve into a small smile. Seeing her warm to me is all the encouragement I need, and the dopey grin returns to my face.

  "I’m on break for another ten minutes," she glances at the clock. "Join me?"

  Sitting down across from her, I try not to look too closely at how battered the book is. At the dark circles under her eyes. My hands clench, as I fight just to focus on her face.

  "How are you?" Again my voice is more intense than I intended. But I have to know.

  Even though the bruises on her face and wrist are healed, it’s hard to keep focused on her now. Here. All I can see for a second is her outside the club, the panic I’d felt as I fought to get to her. The fear that had risen in my throat like bile as her face had melted – for just a second – into the face of someone else I’d fought to protect and failed.

  I won’t fail again.

  "I’m fine," she says quickly.

  Our eyes meet, and damn it if my breath doesn't catch when those huge green eyes widen. Our chemistry is unbelievable. My body already has some ideas for what it would like to do.

  Impulsively, I reach out and catch her hand in mine. It’s small, but strong. She has calluses from her work, and her nails aren't manicured. Somehow, the realness of that adds another layer to her appeal. Though everything in me wants to drag her out of this place and never let her come back.

  "Tell me," I say intently. Keeping my voice low and cool, inviting her to confide in me. "That little sh— Any problems from Stacy?"

  She instantly tenses up, color draining from her face and her demeanor shifting back to anxious. Just at the mention of his name. When I get my hands on him, I am going to methodically make him regret every negative thought or action that he ever directed at this woman.

  "It’s been fine. The usual, but nothing like the other night. Thank you again, for everything…" She glances away almost shyly. But then she shows a flash, hint of the passion and independence that I sense just beneath the surface.

  She cuts her eyes back to me and bites her lip just a little. At first it looks like a totally innocent gesture, but her eyes have a certain sparkle when they meet mine. Jesus. My cock hardens as if on command. There are depths here I’m only beginning to understand.

  "It is really good to see you, Connor," her foot grazes mine under the table. Christ.

  "Can we get out of here?" There is an edge to my voice that sounds almost pleading, even to my own ears. That’s not why I came here. Well, not entirely.

  Her expression softens. "Unfortunately not."

  She looks back at the clock. "In fact, I have to get back to work. I'm late—and I have another two hours on shift."

  "I'll wait." Leaning back, I cross my arms over my chest. My brothers call me stubborn. I prefer focused.

  She laughs, but it fades as her eyes skim over me. "Look, Connor, it's really great to see you, but…"

  "But what?" I lean forward, searching her face. Have I read this whole thing wrong?

  Her eyes move back to the book. "I have an exam in the morning."

  "At eight in the morning." She looks at the clock again. Heavy emphasis on the eight. "And I’ve already been going today since breakfast."

  I run the numbers. She pulled basically a fucking fourteen-hour day and will be lucky to get five hours of sleep before she has to take a huge exam. On what? I look at the book. Constitutional law? Here I am, sitting like a Neanderthal. All I can think of is wanting her in my bed.

  That's not the kind of selfish asshole she needs more of in her life.

  Again, that urge to protect her hits me so strongly it’s almost all I can feel. I’m better than this. Better than Stacy. So much money flows into Intrigue every night. Money I could give to Ava. Money she could use to quit her shit job and buy her the time she needs to become a great goddamn lawyer and destroy the Stacys. A worthy investment. Not Brooks, though. There won’t be much left of him to destroy when I’m done.

  "No pressure. I’m going to have a coffee." I grin as I pick up the floppy plastic menu and glance down. You can barely read the words under the coffee stains. "Maybe some scrambled eggs? And then when your shift is over, I am going to make sure that you get home safely." I’ve seen enough of that spark in her eye to know that offering to pay her way through school right now will get me tossed out of the diner.

  She regards me for a long time, several beats passing. God. Did I cross a line already? Try to impose myself too soon?

  She gives a quick nod, as if she made some decision. "That is incredibly tho
ughtful. I would love that. But can I make one suggestion?"

  "Anything."

  I mean it, too. Right now, I’d do anything she asked me.

  Her voice drops to a mock serious, low tone, "I would skip the eggs if I were you."

  The next hour flies by. The food isn't terrible, but I'm only half paying attention to what I put in my mouth. Ava bustles around, serving customers, cleaning up and stocking the tables effortlessly. I appreciate her curves, the strain of her breasts against her shirt, and the way her long dark hair brushes against her back as she moves.

  Fuck.

  My eyes are on her when a man comes up to my table and clears his throat. I look up and it takes me a second to register. Bull, one of the big neighborhood guys that occasionally does work for my father. For my brother, Ronan, I correct. Maybe I should say for us.

  “Mr. Doyle,” he sounds uncertain, glancing around. Bull’s a big guy, six-five easy with tattoos, leather, and chains straight out of a biker gang. Clearly he can’t figure out why I’m here.

  Concerned I’m here for him. Jesus. Shows how distracted I was that I hadn’t noticed him earlier.

  His voice booms in the rickety little diner, and Ava glances over her shoulder more than once.

  “Hey, Bull,” I stand to shake his hand. It feels like I’m conducting business out of the diner, the way my father does at the Kildare. Christ.

  He makes small talk for a few minutes, and then turns like he’s going to leave. His eyes drag around the diner. “You need anything, sir? You good?”

  No, Bull. I don’t need you to break anyone’s legs tonight, I say silently. My eyes take in the street outside first, though. That Stacy kid was around? I’d ask Bull here to join us for a little walk.

  “I’m good, just needed a break from the club.”

  This seems to resonate with Bull, who lets out a huff of amusement. “I hear you, boss. Not exactly my scene either.” He pauses for a moment, and I know the look in his eyes. It’s the look all of our guys have had when they’ve run into my brothers and me after hearing about my dad. But Bull just clears his throat and nods. “Let me know if anything changes.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  After he leaves, I lean back against the tired booth and sip my coffee. Every few minutes Ava’s gaze meets mine briefly and she graces me with a smile. An old man bustles out of the back, and the other waitress talks to him in low tones. They both cast several nervous glances in my direction and then he approaches Ava.

  “You can leave a little early if you want.”

  She does quick math, reaching the same conclusion that I do. The diner is dead. She won't miss any tips by cutting out a little early. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m sweetening that deal a little.

  Moments later, she grabs her stuff and stands next to my table. Then we're on the street. At first, I start moving back to the club as though I’ll grab my car, but she shakes her head and points in a slightly different direction. “Actually, I just live a few streets over.”

  She's looking around uncomfortably.

  I can't help myself. I reach down and grab her hand. “Ava, you’re totally safe with me.”

  She looks up at me, and it's hard to read her expression. But then she squeezes my hand, leans a little into me, and whispers, “I know.”

  I let her point us in the right direction and set the pace. My mouth’s a little dry, and I pull her close. My cock stirs just being next to her, no matter how hard I shove thoughts of the other night in my apartment down.

  “Connor,” she says evenly, “how do you know Herbert?”

  Her eyes are on my face, wary. “Herbert?”

  Who the fuck is Herbert?

  One eyebrow quirks. “Big guy. Tattoo. Chains. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy that would go to Intrigue?” Not the kind of guy that could afford to go to Intrigue – or get in if he tried - goes unspoken.

  There’s silence as I weigh my answer. “Bull, you mean? I didn’t know his name was Herbert. He does some work for my family.”

  “What kind of work?” She’s not asking me what kind of work he does. She’s asking me what kind of work I do.

  “Manual labor.”

  Seconds pass. I’m not unwilling to talk about what I do, but I’m just not anxious to do it tonight. As if sensing it, she leans into my arm and wraps her hand a little tighter around my bicep. It’s hard not to flex just for good measure.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  The next few moments pass silently, and I let myself enjoy her being there. Her walk slows, imperceptibly at first and then more deliberately.

  “This is me.”

  She points at a nondescript building. It’s nicer than I expected. That’s good. A few people stream past us, but the street’s mostly empty. No sign of Stacy or any other trouble. But I’m still glad I walked her home.

  My eyes roam her face. Goddamn, she’s beautiful. I’m uncomfortably aware of how tired she looks. I want to get her into bed – and the fact that I’m mostly thinking about letting her get some sleep? That’s a new one for me.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening, Connor.” Jesus. Part of me aches to give her night out that’s so amazing she won’t forget it.

  Should I even ask? That familiar stab: My life is complicated. Her life is complicated. And I’m not certain that our two lives intertwine. She’s a law student tangled up with the Stacy family. However indirectly. However not her fault.

  And me? I’m the fourth son of one of Boston’s most notorious old mobsters. It doesn’t matter if my father’s clean now. If our business is mostly clean. The key word there is mostly, and the difference? That might be more than Ava can handle. Never mind how little time I even have to go out on a date, between my work at the club and my family obligations.

  In fact, I can’t remember the last time I went out on an actual date.

  But somehow, looking down her beautiful face – the wide green eyes, the tumble of dark hair, the faint curve of her lips – that’s all far away.

  “Do you want to come up?” her voice is tentative, tired, as her eyes search my face.

  Does she think I expect that? Probably. It’s not like many people have given a shit or taken what she needs into consideration.

  I turn to face her, a wicked grin spreading almost involuntarily. “There’s nothing I’d like better, Ava. But someone has a big exam in the morning and needs all the sleep she can get. Rain check?”

  Surprise registers, before her face clears and she meets my grin with her own soft smile.

  “I’d love that.”

  “Let me take you out to celebrate acing your test. Tomorrow?”

  Her eyes close, and then when they open, there’s a heaviness that lifted for a minute. “My next day off isn’t for a week, Connor.”

  A week? Christ. But that doesn’t stop me. “A week, then. It’s a date.”

  Something pushes me to go a little further. “What time do you get off tomorrow? If I wanted to walk you home.”

  Maybe I can’t protect her all the time. But late at night, if I can make it happen, I can sure as hell pick her up.

  Ava pushes her dark hair back over her shoulder, and bites her lower lip. I can’t tear my eyes away from those lips. Then she says, “Actually, tomorrow night I work at my school’s law clinic. I work at the domestic violence clinic.”

  Shit. Not only does she work full-time and go to school? She helps women and vulnerable people avoid situations like the one she was in. Of course she does.

  I pull out my phone. “You text me where and when, and I’ll meet you.”

  The club’s closed tomorrow. I’ll make it work. From the way her eyes light up, it seems like I’ve done the right thing. My face is getting hot. “I’ll text you the details,” she says softly.

  Desire spikes through me and my body presses toward her. Pulling her against me, I bend my head down to hers and capture her lips with mine.

  She tastes like strawberries and mint Chapstick and hope
.

  My cock’s steel where it strains against my pants. Her lips are hungry on mine, her hands sliding up the sides of my arms to loop around my neck.

  Sparks. Explosions. Jolts to every nerve.

  When we break apart, I take a step back but keep my hand lightly on her arm. If I don’t end this, we’ll end up upstairs. I clear my throat.

  “Tomorrow night then, Ava. Good luck on the exam.”

  She squeezes my arm, and then turns and heads into the building’s small atrium where a doorman looks out curiously. “Good night, Connor,” she calls over her shoulder.

  When I’m sure she’s safely inside, I scan the empty road again and then take off roughly toward Intrigue. I really don't know why I waited so fucking long to do this.

  8

  Connor

  Merena Mayburg Domestic Violence Law Clinic.

  There’s only one in Boston, Doyle. You’re in the right place. Question is, are you going in?

  My eyes scan Ava’s text again. “Hi, Connor, I volunteer at my school’s Domestic Violence law clinic tonight. I could meet you there to give you your shirt. Here’s the address. Thanks, Ava.”

  I don’t want the fucking shirt. Well, I do, but that’s not why I’m here.

  I want to see Ava. Make sure she’s okay and get her home safe.

  And then?

  Sliding a hand under my collar, I look at the sign again. Look, not much scares me but if I walk through that door, there’s no going back.