Page 39 of Her Irish Savage

He goes into the closet. I hear him sliding the hangers—his dress shirt, his suit jacket, his pants.

I’m not sure why he bothers, but he slams into the bathroom. He rummages in his Dopp kit, and for just a moment, I picture gold foil squares raining from his fingers. But he’s not looking for rubbers, because he stomps back to the front of the apartment and heads straight to the kitchen.

He empties the bowl on the counter. Pulls open the silverware drawer. He checks the cupboard that holds the mugs, and the one with plates and bowls. He looks in the refrigerator, and then the freezer.

And when he’s done, he braces both hands on the counter. He stands there—legs spread, head down. And I wait for him to explode.

14

PATRICK

Fiona played me with the key, and I fucking know it. She’s looking for power, for a way to make me pay for being gone all day. But she wants to be in control, and I don’t allow that for any woman of mine.

Besides, she’s less than a week out from the beating Madden gave her. Youth heals quickly, I’ll give her that. But I know there are still bruises beneath her expertly applied makeup. And I know a woman who’s survived what that dry shite did will be hard-pressed to accept whatIneed in bed.

All the same, I almost fuck her.

I could bend her over this kitchen counter. Rip that feckin’ lace to shreds. Plant one hand between the wings of her shoulder blades and use the other to shove my cock into her hot, wet cunt. I could ride her until I forget all the things the brain squirrels are throwing at me.

I’m a feckin’ idiot, unable to hold onto a key.

Primary school boys are better at tracking their belongings than I am.

Why the hell would any right-thinking captain have me in his clan, when I fuck up everything I touch?

I want to touch Fiona right now. I want to push her to her knees. I want to bark out short, sharp orders, let her know who’s in charge here, who runs the show. She’ll suck my cock. She’ll dig her fingernails into my thighs and take me deep enough to gag. And when I let her rock back on her heels, I’ll wipe the tears from her cheeks and tell her she’s myScáthach, and I won’t have to think about how fragile the walls are around my world.

Back home, I have systems. My keychain has a shamrock medallion. I can feel it in my pocket, know exactly where it is, know if I’ve set it down and forgotten it by mistake.

Back home, I have obligations too. My captain expects me to enforce his rules. On Mondays, I do the milk run, collecting the protection money my boss is owed. On Tuesdays, I check in with my men, see that the Fishtown machine is working as it should. Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays—every day has its tasks, its goals. Not like here, in feckin’ Boston.

And safe back home, I have my apartment to myself. It’s quiet, and the walls are bare. The furniture is plain. The wall-to-wall carpet is smooth beneath my feet. I’m not distracted by framed paintings that look like a close-up of some blushing woman’s clit. I’m not left wondering if I should lean against throw pillows or toss them on the floor. I don’t have to stare at the patterns in three antique rugs, stacked one on top of the other, like they’re on loan from a museum.

God, I want to shove Fiona down on those rugs. Jam a few of those throw pillows under her arse. Tie her hands together with my belt when she gets too antsy. Take that scrap of silk she thinks are knickers and shove it into her mouth, let her moan and groan without ever saying a word. Then I can fuck her as slow as I want, as hard as I want, tease her pretty clit until it’s as hard and pink as whatever the fuck is in that painting.

I stare at the fidget ring on my third finger, fighting the urgeto spin it. I eye my Fishtown ring, the one that means I belong in Philly. I box my breathing.

It takes me three rounds, but the squirrels die down. I push back from the counter and walk down the hall like a man this time, instead of like a rabid animal. I find the amber bottle in the bathroom, and I dry-swallow a small orange pill. I shake my head at the eejit in the mirror, and then I head out to the living room to pay my dues.

Fiona’s on the couch now. She’s sitting in the precise center of the three cushions. One foot is folded beneath her, stretching that black lace over the sleek muscle of her thigh. The other foot rests on the floor, the scarlet polish on her toenails shining like a beacon. Or maybe a stop light.

Cartons of Chinese food fill the table. I pick up the empty plate and use clean chopsticks to shovel out generous portions from each of the containers.

I ate a protein bar this morning. Downed one slug of salted coffee at Yankee Roast. Stood in line at Dunkin’ but left before I got anything to eat or drink.

And then I spent the day driving around the city like I was on a personal “greatest hits” tour—the alley Jenn and I parked in the first time she let me get in her pants. The Common, where we brought a picnic lunch the day she told me she was pregnant. The run-down Southie apartment we were renting the night she died.

I went by all of it after I left Kimi and Hannah, after I found Dowd where he shouldn’t have been. I stared at my past for hours, like some sort of homesick kid. I forgot about eating, forgot about drinking. No wonder I lost the feckin’ key.

Now, Fiona watches me chew. She eyes my throat when I swallow. Her face is set hard; she’s fighting what she wants too.

So I set down my chopsticks. I take the time to meet her stony gaze. I nod once, because I recognize when I’ve been wrong. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have let you know I’d be late.”

Something eases in her jaw. I wonder if she’s ever heard a man apologize before.

I wonder why I did, just now. It’s not my way. Not with any other woman. Maybe it’s the meds taking hold. Maybe it’s the food filling my belly. Maybe it’s the fact that I still want to rip those lace pants off her so I can take all she’s advertising and more.

I won’t. Not when I can still hear her teasing voice, from back at the hotel. Not when I know she’s called me Daddy once, and she knows how to do it again, if she wants, if she isn’t disgusted by what I need.

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