Ringer: A New Year's Romance: The Doyles, a Boston Irish Mafia Romance Read online

  I call my son. JJ and I chat for a bit. I tell him I love him, and he grumbles, “Aww, stop it, Dad.”

  I hang up, smiling, feeling pretty good. Talking to that kid always leaves me feeling good.

  Then I head down to the gym, training for a couple of hours.

  Feeling solid about the upcoming fight.

  I call the detective, but he’s out.

  I take a short detour by my place to pick up some tools before making the drive back to Alexandra’s.

  I didn’t actually ask her if she wants me to stay, I realize.

  I suppose it would be polite to do so.

  Probably should; I shouldn’t assume she wants me around.

  The empty highway back up to Cape Ann stretches out before me, and I think again about the feeling of her lips on mine. The way her breasts pressed against me. The way she moaned, gently.

  Jesus.

  This isn’t going anywhere good. If things had gone differently years ago, maybe. Back when we were still idealistic kids, who didn’t know any better.

  Back when we were young.

  But recent events taught me two things.

  Relationships don’t end well, in general.

  And relationships that involve me?

  That goes double, for sure.

  Yeah, that’s a given.

  Even without all the baggage between us, I’m not putting that on her.

  It’s not like I hadn’t thought about calling her.

  Hell, I’d thought about calling her from that fucking fleabag motel, the day I got those divorce papers.

  I’d thought about calling her when it was finalized.

  When I’d moved into my own place.

  When I’d gone out with friends to a bar because they insisted I “get back into the game.”

  Whatever the hell that meant.

  And pretty much every day since, to be honest.

  But, let’s face it, that was just loneliness and wishful thinking.

  The kind of weakness I can’t afford.

  The kind of shit she doesn’t need.

  Instead, I’d just decided to do the responsible thing and not start something I couldn’t finish.

  Look, I’m a red-blooded man. I like sex.

  But if I’d learned one thing in the whole mess of my divorce? Or even in the whole mess of my marriage?

  I’m not fucking around.

  Not with anyone’s heart. My marriage and divorce taught me that hard lesson.

  Not with their lives. Bryan taught me that one.

  And not with the possibility of a kid. JJ for the win.

  I figured eventually I’d work it out.

  Get my head on straight, and if it made sense, there was only one woman I was calling: Alexandra.

  But that just hadn’t happened, yet.

  I shift uncomfortably, realizing that my cock is rock hard.

  I’m frustrated from all of this thinking about Alexandra.

  Thinking about the other night.

  Thinking about how frigging long since it’s been since I’ve been with a woman.

  During my marriage, I was faithful – during my deployments and when my wife wasn’t interested when I was home.

  After my divorce, I’d just wanted to be responsible.

  Yeah.

  Then I laid eyes on Alexandra again, and every good intention went straight to hell.

  Still, now that’s not what this is about.

  The only thing that matters? Keeping her safe.

  Once this shit with Chad blows over, I can get out of her life before I fuck things up.

  Hell, I don’t even know if I’ll be here in a year when my last tour’s up.

  Once I retire, I’ve got to think about my son and make choices that make it easier for us to spend time together.

  My ex has made some noises about coming back to the East Coast in a year or two. But I can’t make plans on those empty promises.

  I drive along in the snow, and the cold outside reflects the feelings I use to smother the warmth that thinking about Alix raises in my heart.

  When I get back to the farm, I knock lightly on the door and then punch in the code. She changed it and texted me the new one.

  A reasonable precaution.

  She’s smart about the security stuff, which makes it harder to dismiss the way these things are happening.

  The door swings open, and I’m surprised to hear holiday music. It’s easy to forget with everything going on that it’s almost Christmas. For a minute, I wonder what she’ll do for the holiday and what she’d like for a present – and then I shake it off hard.

  Again, that’s not what we’re doing here.

  She’s pulling a tray out of the oven, and for a second, I just take in the curves of her body. Dark yoga pants cling to the lines of her legs and cup her ass. She’s wearing a thin, sheer t-shirt. I can see her bra outlined underneath it.

  Something smells mouthwatering, although I can’t quite figure out what, I’m so distracted by her.

  I wonder if she’d wear a bra if she was here alone.

  Why the fuck am I torturing myself this way?

  So, I clear my throat.

  “Mind if I set up a punching bag?”

  The gym’s running great; I’ll need to get down there, soon, but it’s under control.

  A bag here would let me at least tone up without needing to drive down to Boston every time.

  I wouldn’t need to leave her alone.

  It’s amazing how fast that became my top priority.

  She points me to one of the upstairs bedrooms, the one that’s almost empty, and tells me to use it however I want. I retrieve my bags and schlep them up there as well, so they’re out of the way, although I’m staying on the couch.

  I am not taking chances of not hearing something.

  I get changed into work clothes, jeans, and a t-shirt. I throw on a flannel shirt and tie my boots.

  Then, I head downstairs.

  It’s mid-afternoon.

  There’s just a couple of hours of light, and from the looks of what she showed me in that cat building, I’m going to need a few more things to really make any headway. But I figure that if I string up some lights, I can get several hours done tonight.

  I can work in the evening. At that rate, I can probably have it finished by Christmas.

  Hard work is just the thing.

  “Cookie?”

  For a second, I think she means the dog, but I know he’s in the play area in the barn with the other dogs. I heard him squealing with delight when I came back.

  She’s holding out a small plate with holiday cookies.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “They’re not from scratch, and they’re kind of burnt around the edges,” she says apologetically. “But they’re low fat. I remembered you liked them and thought you might be able to have a couple. You know, while you’re on the fighter diet.”

  Her cheeks go pink in a way that’s both adorable and gives my cock the wrong idea.

  Gingerbread.

  Mrs. Winthrop used to make gingerbread cookies, and I couldn’t get enough of them as a kid.

  Christ.

  Something in my chest pulls tight.

  I grab one and take an exaggerated big bite that makes her laugh in surprise.

  I like making her laugh.

  “Take a drive with me up to Gloucester,” I find myself saying. “I need to hit up a hardware store.”

  She looks as if she’s going to refuse, but then relents.

  “Okay. Give me just a few minutes to check on the animals and lock up.”

  A change of scenery would be good.

  I warm up the car, so it’s comfortable when she’s ready.

  I have plenty of time to wonder what exactly I’m playing at here.

  And when she comes out in a heavy blue running jacket with her glossy hair down around her shoulders, I know.

  She’s fucking gorgeous.

  Maybe for awhile, I don
’t want to be a Marine, or a single dad, or even her bodyguard.

  I just want to be a guy enjoying the company of an attractive woman that remembered he liked gingerbread cookies.

  It’s like she read my thoughts because she slides a Ziplock bag filled with cookies onto the console.

  “Just in case,” she says with a wink.

  While we drive, she briefs me on her day.

  She took in another dog. Met with a few potential adopters. A woman adopted a playful Himalayan cat and she was really happy to find it a good home.

  “A family came to meet Cookie, but it wasn’t a fit,” she sounds sad.

  “The boner situation?” I chuckle. Cookie’s a horny little bastard, I think.

  “He, um, peed on the lady when she picked him up,” she says, almost choking from trying to hold in her laughter.

  For some reason, I snort, and then she laughs too.

  She punches me lightly on the shoulder, then rubs it.

  “He needs a home, Jack. He’s such a great little dog if someone could see the possibilities, you know? Give him a fresh start,” she says excitedly.

  I love how passionate she is about caring for her wards.

  How she takes them in and gives them love and care.

  What they need.

  What they deserve.

  Helps them focus on a new and brighter future.

  A fresh start.

  A new beginning.

  Yes, I understand it completely.

  What a wonderful thing it is to have that – someone who cares.

  We drive across the long bridge that heralds the approach to Gloucester. On each side, the sparkling water surrounds us and the view is spectacular. I always have mixed feelings here.

  Beautiful place filled with shitty memories.

  It’s been a long time, though.

  “Do you come up here a lot?” she asks.

  “Nope.”

  She looks at me, expectantly.

  Right. Use your words when people ask you questions, idiot.

  I’ve gotten good at giving and following orders and worse at asking and answering questions.

  “Last time I was here was when I was with you, Alix,” I force myself to say.

  She looks at me in shock.

  It’s true: it’s been years since I got up the guts to call her and ask her to come join me with some friends on their boat.

  It had been a perfect summer day, late June.

  We had come to attend St. Peter’s Fiesta, a big annual event that included a lot of drinking and good food and one of my favorite things as a kid: the running of the pole.

  Gloucester’s a coastal fishing town, and it’s mostly Catholic. The annual blessing of the fleet is a big deal. Protection at sea and surviving the year means a lot to fishermen and their families.

  It was one of the few things my father enjoyed.

  But the town’s particular twist on the event includes ‘The Greasy Pole.’

  It’s just one of those New England things. A big pole is erected in the middle of the harbor. Once a year, it gets covered in greasy goo and a handful of guys – it’s usually guys that are stupid enough to do it – try run the length of the pole in hopes of grabbing the flag at the end.

  Most fall off and land in the water.

  Some even break bones on the way down.

  A few take memorable nut shots.

  I remember I had, the one year I’d dared to try it.

  But it’s fun for the locals. In a community like Gloucester, winning the Pole challenge means a lot. Well, you get some bragging rights and grudging respect, at least.

  Alix met me by the harbor that day, suntanned and smiling in a red dress that just knocked the breath out of me. She was all grown up, now. And I was left with no question that the girl I thought about often had become a woman.

  I was definitely interested.

  Still, I tread carefully.

  I had a lot of doubts about relationships and my ability to have a good one. But I was doing well in the Corps and starting to believe I could be a different man than my father.

  Maybe I was a man who was worthy of a woman like her.

  Or who could be, if I put my mind to it. And a few hours in Alix’s company made one thing clear: I’d do whatever it took.

  We’d talked and laughed, caught up, and shared some memories of the better times we’d had as kids.

  And then we’d kissed, and I’d realized what was between us wasn’t simple chemistry.

  It was an undetonated bomb.

  I pull into the parking lot of a hotel that’s got prime viewing of the pole.

  “Still there.”

  Alix jumps out of the car.

  “Let’s go down on the beach,” she exclaims already heading for the sandy beach and the waves lapping at the shore.

  I follow her because I’d follow her anywhere at this moment.

  Even though I know better…

  She sits down on the rock retaining wall, staring out at the endless ocean and the pole. Awkwardly, I sit down next to her. My big legs are too long, and I can’t quite fit next to her without our arms touching.

  Not that I’m complaining.

  “I come here sometimes, just to think,” she says softly. “I try to never miss the running of the pole in June, but my favorite time is still when it’s up in the winter. When it’s just sitting here, patiently waiting for another go. It’s all possibilities, you know?”

  I’ve wondered a thousand times what would have happened if that day had turned out differently.

  I sigh, inwardly.

  It’s a losing calculus.

  I wouldn’t have my son, if we had followed through with it.

  And I’m nothing without my boy.

  Still, I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like to have had a life that involved Alix?

  The thought of it makes my chest hurt.

  It’s probably just a fantasy.

  And we probably wouldn’t have been able to weather the demands my career made.

  I’d have managed to fuck it all up.

  Still.

  “Bryan loved this event every year,” she says, looking at me with an unreadable expression.

  The words hit me hard.

  Bryan had been a lot younger than I was, but when a Winthrop showed up in my unit, I’d been determined to help him succeed. It didn’t take much. He was a hell of a Marine. Tough kid.

  Smart.

  Big heart.

  My fuck up meant she remembered him in past tense.

  I swallow hard.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She looks up at the sky.

  Maybe for inspiration, maybe for patience, maybe for Bryan.

  I don’t know.

  “I’ve come here every year since he died to watch it. Haven’t missed it once. One year, they were predicting rain and my friends didn’t want to come. But I said, sometimes you have to give it a shot, even if it doesn’t work out. I’d rather try and miss, then just give up because it sounded like it might be hard,” she whispers.

  Very Alexandra.

  “He should be here with you to see it,” I say tightly.

  Why did I even bring her here?

  I didn’t want to dredge up bad memories.

  That wasn’t my intention.

  But then, it never was.

  She reaches out a hand and very lightly puts it on my thigh. Even through my thick jeans, her touch sears my skin. I keep my eyes deliberately on the sand, watching the waves wash away grains every time the ocean surges in.

  “Jack, I come here because Bryan loved it. Because he loved how ridiculous it was and how alive everyone is. He loved to eat the food and people watch. He’d play the carnival games and brave every single death trap ride. Just soak in the spectacle. I don’t do it because he’s dead, Jack. I do it because I’m alive,” her voice is gentle, and something in the tone makes it my mouth go dry.

  I stare hard at the sand. I don�
�t expect her to understand. Not really.

  “Do you know why I really left the ER?”

  Then I do look at her.

  More than anything, I want to know what makes this woman tick.

  She looks back at the ocean, tilting her head back slightly and keeping her eyes on a distant point on the horizon.

  “It was a summer night, and the ambulance called ahead. They had someone with extreme trauma. It turned out to be a drowning victim,” she says, quietly.

  Shit.

  Alexandra had been one of the kids with the girl who had drowned.

  Samara? I’d forgotten that until she mentioned it briefly the other day.

  I remembered her brother Tanner talking about her nightmares, and how withdrawn she’d been for a while after that. Other than the blood phobia issues, she’d seemed okay.

  I thought.

  “The doctors were backed up, and I was the first person to meet the ambulance. It was a few minutes before the medical supervisor got there. Critical minutes, Jack. You know?” she says, and I can hear the tenseness.

  My stomach tightens, and I want her to stop talking.

  Want to take all that pain away.

  The pain I caused.

  The pain the world caused.

  The pain I can see she’s speeding towards, like a train ramming a brick wall.

  “We had the best medical team, but in the end, it didn’t matter,” she says, her voice sounding pained.

  Reflexively, I reach out and put my hand over hers.

  “So, there I am in the backroom sobbing. But I wasn’t sobbing over some sixty-year-old man that got high and stumbled into his pool, Jack. I was sobbing about a girl that had been gone for two decades. A girl that I still hadn’t manage to accept that I couldn’t help. I thought…” her voice trails off and she shakes her head.

  “I was trying to save someone that didn’t need saving anymore. And in the process, I’d stopped living a life I’d actually wanted,” she confesses.

  My hand tightens around hers.

  Maybe she understands more than I gave her credit for, a fact that doesn’t surprise me in the least.

  Underestimating this woman is a grave mistake.

  “You left so you wouldn’t have to go through that again?” I ask carefully.

  Her body shifts until she’s facing me head-on.

  “No, Jack. I left because I realized that I had to live. My own life. Not one that was long dead. I felt that maybe I deserved a new beginning. I’d done my penance,” she whispers.