Hustle: The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Page 7

  I press her gently into the brick wall of her storefront, my hands around her small waist. I kiss her thoroughly, hoping for once to leave her as flustered as she makes me.

  I whisper her name softly into her ear, and she pulls away gently.

  “Seamus,” she says, breathless. God, my name has never sounded better.

  “Mm hmm?” I brush my lips across her neck.

  “Let’s both be sure,” She says, even as she moves her neck to give me better access.

  “About what?” I murmur.

  “That we’re not just blowing off steam.”

  It’s like a punch to the gut. This was a mistake. All the stress comes pouring into my body, and the familiar tension at least makes me feel more like myself.

  I step back. “Evi,”

  She puts her hand on my chest. “Don’t put your mask back on, Seamus.”

  It hurts like hell to look at her, so I don’t. I stare straight ahead, just willing the lines of my face to stay steady.

  “What do you want me to say?” I ask finally.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to say anything other the truth, Seamus. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from you.”

  A million snide comebacks zip through my head, but when I finally meet her eyes, there’s a raw vulnerability that scares me. She’s been hurt. A lot.

  Then comes the anger. What does she mean, the truth? I don’t lie. I’m a man of honor. Of my word.

  But she’s not calling me a liar and I know that. Getting my hackles up is just another way of holding back the truth she wants from me. What is that truth, though? I don’t know how to separate it from the history Evi and I have. From the complications of my responsibilities to my family, to this neighborhood, and to her.

  “You’re right,” I say, easing off her. I’m embarrassed now to see all the traffic zipping by. It wouldn’t do to see me making out with my client outside her shop. “Let’s have dinner, Evi. As friends. Somewhere out of the neighborhood.”

  She looks up at her loft. I see her big dumb cat glowering from one of the windows. She looks back at me, having made a decision.

  “Okay,” she says with a nod. “Let’s be bold and go across the river where no one will know who we are.”

  “People know me in Cambridge,” I reply, “Harvard, remember?”

  “Of course,” she says, rolling her eyes. She’s smiling though, so I haven’t stepped in it too hard.

  Suddenly, I’m really glad that I didn’t snap at her, didn’t fall into an old, bad pattern. It doesn’t escape my notice that she pulled the brakes on my impulses this time.

  “But you gave me an idea. Let’s go to that tourist trap tavern in Faneuil Hall. It’ll be full of tourists and we’ll be invisible.” I look her up and down.

  “Well, I’ll be invisible,” I add huskily.

  Her eyes widen and I try not to feel smug about it.

  “Okay,” she agrees. Her gaze flicks back up to the window. “I have to go feed Hank. See you.” She gives me a soft kiss on the cheek before unlocking the door to the stairs that go up to her loft. She doesn’t look back.

  I watch until I see the lights flip on in her apartment. Hank is still glowering.

  “Deal with it, cat,” I shout up to him. Jesus. What’s gotten into me? I call a Lyft. I need to get some fucking sleep and process all this shit.

  8

  Evi

  It’s a few days later and we’re in the tourist trap Boston tavern. As bad as predicted.

  “Your check,” the server says, offering it to Seamus. He takes it with a smug smile directed at me. He thanks her, pulling out a credit card, some fancy platinum thing, and sliding it into the billfold.

  “You know I can pay for my own overpriced burger,” I frown at him. He has that alpha male allure, so I’m not surprised the server handed him the check, but I’m still annoyed.

  His smile broadens. “This was my idea, Evi. You got our overpriced coffees the other day.”

  His smile is contagious, and I hate it, but I find myself grinning anyway. “Okay,” I say, holding my hands up. “Can I get us some overpriced, terrible whiskey, then?”

  The server whisks the card away.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Is Seamus flirting with me? This definitely calls for whiskey.

  He signs the slip, leaving a ridiculously generous tip. It’s good to see. There’s nothing worse than a cheap rich man. We stroll over to the Black Rose. It’s pretty empty.

  It’s still far too early for the club crowds to come in. We settle down in a corner near a window, and I get us the best terrible whiskey the place has to offer.

  “Ugh,” Seamus says, taking a sip. “This is awful.”

  He smiles at me and sips again. “It’s perfect.”

  I lean forward and kiss his mouth, almost chastely, my eyes closed. When I pull away, he looks surprised, but not in a bad way.

  “You’re right,” I murmur, licking my lips, tasting both him and the liquor.

  His gaze darkens and he sweeps his thumb across my forehead, moving the hair out of my eyes.

  “I’m filing an injunction,” he says softly.

  God, leave it to Seamus to talk lawyer.

  “It’s mostly just stalling for time,” he admits. “I want the Stacys to demonstrate that their land grab is actually for public use. It won’t stop them, but it’ll slow them down. Public use can be interpreted to basically be anything that generates tax revenue at this point, and if their condos have a shopping plaza or even a strip of park land, that’s enough.”

  I nod, leaning into his hand.

  “The files you,” he pauses, stroking my face, “liberated from Peggy didn’t have a lot of information. But there’s a huge time gap from 1920-1960. That’s significant.”

  I snap up, pulling away from Seamus’ caress and taking a shot of liquor. “Those shady bastards,” I snarl.

  “They are,” he says, nodding. “But we can look through old newspapers and legal filings. I have some legal librarian friends…”

  “Librarian friends,” I murmur.

  “Everyone gets librarians wrong,” he says, running his long finger across the top of the glass of water he’d been served with our whiskey. “They’re surprisingly aggressive, and if there’s information to be found, they’ll find it.”

  He dips his finger in the water, and to my surprise, flicks it at me. He’s grinning like a bratty kid.

  Goddamnit if I’m not smiling again. Still, as much as I trust Seamus to do his best, I wonder if doing things above board will actually save my shop.

  The Carneys are still waiting to hear from me. Would Seamus forgive me if I went to his rivals for help? I survey his handsome face and decide that’s a problem to figure out later. Throwing back the whiskey, I lean forward to whisper in his ear.

  The burn down the back of my throat helps distract me from how good he smells, and how bad of an idea I’m having.

  “You ready for something really wild, Doyle?”

  I lead him through the windy cobblestone streets to a hole-in-the wall bar. There’s an ungodly wailing coming from the stage as a drunk man sways, belting out a country anthem.

  “Awfully early to be that drunk,” I say, “but some people need it to hone their craft.”

  He gapes at me.

  “What’s the matter, Doyle? Don’t like the music?”

  I give my eyebrows a suggestive wiggle, and feel a wave of satisfaction as he shifts under my stare. He might be uncomfortable, but there’s desire brewing under there too.

  He continues to gape as the drunk man hugs the mic stand, so moved by his own performance that he’s nearly in tears.

  I point to a table. “Sit.”

  To my absolute surprise, he does, transfixed by the spectacle. But not without brushing against me, sending electric sparks rocketing across my skin, as he does.

  I order us some more whiskey. The next singer is a group of young women screaming out a pop
song from a decade ago.

  “What’s it going to be, Seamus?” I say, shoving the karaoke list at him.

  “Absolutely not,” he says. He shakes his head in an exaggerated no and puts on his severest look.

  I throw my head back and laugh. Flirty Seamus has retreated, and uptight Seamus has returned. If I’ve ever seen him serious about one thing, it’s this.

  This man wouldn’t sing tonight for ten million bucks and his dream girl waiting in a king-size bed, apparently.

  “A man has to know his limits,” Seamus says, talking fast as I quirk an eyebrow at him, “and mine begins and ends at singing. What if a video pops up on social media and someone important, a client, sees me?”

  “Oh, for the love of god, lighten up,” I reply. “Your brothers sing.”

  The young women finish up, and apparently no one else in the thin crowd is eager to throw themselves on the awkward grenade. I scribble something down on the scrap of paper, jump up and hand it to the DJ running the operation.

  “You ready to go?” he asks, unfolding the paper and plugging the numbers into his computer.

  “Always,” I reply with a nod. He gives me a quick, but very obvious once-over, and I grin, knowing it’ll make Seamus furious.

  I step up to the microphone and adjust it like a pro. As the opening strains of the song play, I see Seamus freeze, and I wonder if he remembers. We had our first kiss to this song at a sophomore-year dance. I sway to the music, my eyes locked on his as I sing. My voice is low and raspy from the whiskey, and I toss him a wicked half smile.

  He narrows his eyes and folds his arms across his chest, but the way he crosses and uncrosses his legs leads me to believe he’s enjoying my performance more than he’d like to admit.

  I finish to a smattering of applause, and make my way back to the table at the most languid pace I can manage.

  I don’t drop eye contact the whole way across the bar.

  Before I can even say a word, he stands up and says, “I have much better whiskey at my place. Drinks there?”

  I nod, and we’re out the door, his hand burning on my lower back. He slides it down further, over my ass. I lean into his touch, and his other arm slips around my waist. He pulls me tight next to him as we round the main street to catch a cab.

  “Look who it is! Tattoo girl and mafia lawyer getting cozy!”

  It’s Brooks Stacy. He gets in my face. He’s drunk already, no surprise there, wandering around like he’s the mayor and not his corrupt father.

  “Back off,” Seamus growls.

  “Or what?” Brooks slurs back. “I can’t wait to bulldoze that rathole shop of yours into the ground. You can stay with me if you want, though. I’m a nice guy.”

  Before Seamus can say a word, I haul back with all my might and sock Brooks with a haymaker to the jaw. He goes down like a sack of shit. I shake my hand, releasing the tension and turn back to Seamus, who just stares at me with a mix of horror and admiration warring for dominance.

  “Babe,” I say, touching his jaw lightly. “Don’t we have somewhere to be?”

  A crowd is starting to gather so I pull Seamus away, through some dark alleyways to another cross street. When I look at him, I expect him to be furious, but that’s not what I see in his eyes.

  “Goddamnit, you’re good, Evi,” he growls, dropping his head next to mine.

  I look at him, quirk up my lips, and respond.

  “You have no fucking idea.”

  9

  Seamus

  The key slides into the door, and we step inside. Immediately, reflexively, I take my shoes off inside the door. When I look pointedly at Evelyn, she just rolls her eyes and then slides off her heels.

  I try not to notice how good it feels to have her shoes next to mine.

  “Lights on,” I command the smart home system that I installed last year. It doesn’t sound like much, but I reclaim a few minutes every day, and that can really add up to both productivity and billable hours.

  It’s also just damn convenient when I want to focus on something else, like the drop-dead gorgeous woman that’s in my apartment.

  Christ, seriously? Evi has already crossed to the leather sofa and folded herself into one corner. No taking it all in, no comments on the beautiful architecture or flawless decorating.

  All this effort and she barely even notices. Instead, her eyes are on me, like I’m what she’s here for. No one ever comes here without commenting on the place.

  No one ever just comes here to spend time with me.

  I’m half pleased and half annoyed that it didn’t make an impression. I really want to make an impression on Evi tonight.

  I pull out the best bottle of whiskey I have, from Ireland, and when I hand her a crystal glass, she sets it on a side table and keeps her eyes on me. Suddenly unsure, I look around, my eye going to a chair but she points to the cushion next to her.

  “Sit.”

  When I look at her, she’s giving me an easy smile. Her eyes are wide, and the liner is just a little imperfect after a night out. A diamond stud winks in her nose, and I wonder for a minute if it’s real. I’d buy her any jewel she wanted at that moment. The finest rings to smash into Brooks Stacy’s dumb fucking face.

  God, she’s amazing. I try not to think about the PR fallout and legal exposure we might have to deal with tomorrow. But tonight?

  Just soaking up the fact that she’s a total badass.

  She rests her bare foot on my thigh, and I can’t help but stare. She has beautiful feet, smooth and long, with toenails painted dark red. I can’t say that a foot has ever turned me on, but there’s a first time for everything, it seems. I set down my glass, and wrap a hand around her foot.

  She jumps in surprise, but then lets out a little noise of pleasure when I knead the balls of her foot and run my knuckle down the long line of it. I focus, following exactly the steps that I’ve memorized at the spa where I’ve had this done. I can’t imagine wearing the heels she does without daily foot rubs.

  Her head is thrown back, her eyes half closed. Fuck yes, I love the sight of Evi in pure pleasure. I’d love to show her more pleasure, but we’re walking a dangerous line.

  “Didn’t peg you for a foot guy,” she murmurs and I look at her hard, my hands slowing.

  Her toes wiggle in my hand insistently as she adds, “I didn’t say you could stop.”

  Her feet could be the only thing I’m touching tonight, I remind my fading resolve, and I’m going to make it count. I don’t think a foot has ever been as thoroughly kneaded, massaged, and caressed as hers.

  The noises she’s making suggest that it’s more than just her tension level dropping and my body is getting a whole different set of messages. She’s practically moaning with pleasure, and I love every minute of it.

  She slides over next to me. “Your turn.”

  I look at my feet, which are huge compared to hers, and she makes a noise in her throat.

  “Yeah, no. I don’t do feet. Shoulders.” She motions for me to sit on the floor, and then swings her legs to either side of my body, positioning herself behind me. My eyes are lingering on her long legs so close I could touch them.

  That sounds like fucking heaven. My mind goes back to her gentle caress of my shoulder in the bar, and every nerve fiber in my body is alert as she starts rubbing slow circles on my shoulders. I’m imagining the best, most relaxing, most exotic massage I’ve ever had.

  That’s when she digs in her elbow. “Holy shit, Seamus. You’re rock hard.”

  I glance down, and a little snort escapes.

  “Your shoulders,” she says very close to my ear. I can hear the grin in her voice, but don’t have time to really consider it as an explosion of pain and then release follows from my right shoulder.

  “Thai massage, it’s the best,” and she’s throwing her full weight into her elbows to work out the tension. Take it from Evi to get right to the source. It hurts like a motherfucker, and I groan a little. But it hurts in a way that I w
eirdly like.

  She doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease up, for several minutes. By the time she’s done, I can move my neck and roll my shoulders a hundred times better than the expensive sports massage I get every week.

  Turning to her, I start to say something, but what comes out is, “You’re magic.”

  Her eyes are just an inch or so from mine, and she’s throwing so much heat I can barely breathe. She knows what she wants. She gets what she wants. And there’s absolutely no mistaking what Evelyn McCallum has her sights set on tonight.

  I lean over and capture her mouth with mine.

  I’ve worked hard to be a good kisser, the kind of lover that women enjoy and want to see again. But this isn’t an artful kiss. It’s hungry and deep, lips clashing. My tongue slides into her mouth, probing, exploring, and when it hits her tongue stud, I can’t suppress a groan.

  She does something amazing with it that has my vision darkening to almost black. My hands run down the slides of her body, and I can feel my self-control dissolving into the force that is Evi.

  She’s pulling her shirt over her head, and seconds later I have her bra off. My fingertips skim over her nipples where I again touch hot metal. Holy shit.

  I want this woman more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. She whimpers against my mouth in response, and I’m honestly not sure that I’m going to hold it together.

  There’s absolutely no way that I’m going to lose control. No way.

  Evi pulls back, and the absence of her mouth feels like it crushes my soul.

  She looks into my eyes, sending daggers of pure heat in my direction. There’s nothing helpless or innocent there. It’s raw dark desire in the eyes of a woman who is unafraid of what she wants, and I make an almost primal sound in response.

  The layers are dissolving. Harvard law training? Gone.

  Polished exterior? Gone.