Page 12 of Hustle

“Don’t fuck with the gays,” I say, nodding my approval. “I don’t suppose we could declare my shop a historical landmark? The first time a McCallum was able to accomplish something?”

I expect Seamus to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead he fixes me with his serious blue eyes, and my breath catches.

“Evi. Your father was no good, and I know it wasn’t easy with your mother…”

“Oh, Ma’s fine, even if she’s disappointed that I didn’t become a nun,” I wave his care off, it’s too much. “And my dad did manage to pay like, two hundred bucks in child support that one time. And hey, one of his brothers managed to stay out of prison before drinking himself to death. There’s an accomplishment.”

He looks uncomfortable, and I feel better. His smug arrogance I can handle, but the tender care that creeps into his voice when he talks about my history will break me. And I can’t.. I can’t recover from another version of that day at the beach. Nothing a little dark humor won’t cover. I expect him to return to business, but his next line surprises me, and I don’t surprise easily.

“It would’ve been a shame if you became a nun,” he almost growls in a low, heavy voice.

It goes right to my core, and I push my legs together to find some relief.

“Maybe I could’ve left the convent and married a rich Austrian with seven children.” I need to change the subject. Again.

“You didn’t seem to mind hanging out with me and my giant family,” Seamus replies, a dreamy look in his eyes now.

Goddamnit.

“I liked hanging with your mother,” I say. Moms are always boner killers. “I learned a lot about art from her. She was always willing to let me play with her paints even though I was messy and one tube of paint cost more than my family’s net worth.”

“She liked the mess.”

He’s staring off into the middle distance now. Maybe it was a mistake mentioning his mother. Spending time with her had been some of the brightest times of my childhood. Kathleen Doyle was one of the most talented painters I’ve ever met, to this day. She’d shown me that women could be artists in the middle of a dire, hard-knock childhood that otherwise left me believing I could be nothing.

“Seamus?”

His eyes cut towards mine, and they’re clear again. But the real smile is gone, and his business mask is back. It’s too familiar, and a reminder that this is just that, business.

“So I think we need to do some digging and find out if we can learn some of the history on your block and see if we can’t make a play for historical landmark status.”

“Sure,” I nod. “Just tell me where to start.”

4

Evi

“Josefina, damn you look good!” I whistle at my colleague and friend. She’s tall and leggy, like me but with thick dark hair and warm brown skin.

“We’re only supposed to use full names when there’s trouble,” she says, adjusting her bra so the red, lacy top is exposed, the low scoop neck of her tight shirt leaving little to the imagination.

“Oh, girl, I think we’re going to be in trouble tonight.”

“So how can you get us into Intrigue again?” Joey asks as we wait for our cab.

“I practically grew up with the Doyles. Connor Doyle owns the joint.”

“You’re saying we could go there whenever we want? The most exclusive club in town?” She looks at me like I’ve been lying to her my whole life.

“Yeah, but it’s full of bougie assholes,” I shrug. “It’s good for blowing off some steam, but I’m always afraid I’m going to get into a fight.”

She grins, tapping my big hoop earrings. “Remember to take those out first if you rumble, Mama.”

“This isn’t amateur hour, Joey. I know how to fight.”

We both laugh, and the cab arrives just after eleven. We’re at the club in less than twenty minutes. Sully’s at the front door. He’s been working for the Doyles for as long as I can remember.

“Hey, scrapper,” he says as I walk up and give him a hug. “Good to see you. Connor’s saved you and your friend a VIP booth.”

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