Page 83 of Her Irish Savage

All right.

Maybe not sweet.

Not vulnerable, either.

But young, and not happy with the attention of the old man grimacing and shifting from foot to foot in front of her.

Fiona’s got a flock of new suitors ready to defend her honor, and they do it with more finesse than I would do. One invites Fiona over to a display case, showing off the museum’s latest purchase, a bowl that looks like it was painted by kindergarteners set loose in a mud pit. Two more deliberately put their pickleball-honed bodies between Dowd and his prey, squaring their shoulders like they have the first idea how to throw a punch. The smartest of them looks across the room toward the head caterer, catching the guy’s attention and sparking an order issued through an earpiece.

By the time I get to Fiona’s side, she’s regained her composure. She sends one fan running to fetch her a fresh drink. She squeezes the arm of another, clearly admiring his bravery. With the steely determination of a queen, she ignores the muted commotion as two security guards escort Dowd from the hall.

“There you are!” Fiona says to me, looping her arm through mine. “Patrick, dear. I want you to meet my new friends!”

Her voice is half an octave too high. Her eyes are dilated, like she somehow found the time to sneak a joint. She’s trembling just a little; I probably couldn’t feel it if I wasn’t fighting my own impulse to crush her against my side and get her the hell out of this madhouse.

But I shake hands like I wasn’t raised by feckin’ wolves. And I admire the pottery bowl like it isn’t painted to look like shite. And I escort Fiona to the head table when the waiters glidethrough the crowd, playing their little xylophones like they’ve only learned the first three notes of a song.

I shouldn’t look at the phone in my pocket. It’s the public one, the number I’ve held for decades. It buzzes with texts every hour of the day and night.

But when a dozen messages come through while I’m spooning up my cold potato soup, I excuse myself between courses. Fiona’s eyebrows peak, a question if everything’s all right. I brush a kiss against her cheek. “All’s well,Scáthach.”

She sticks her tongue out at me, like she isn’t being watched by three hundred cultured eejits.

I head to the jacks, into a stall where I can check my phone in peace.

Dowd

Down, Cujo.

She’s mine.

There’s a video, a string of videos, close-ups of some cock railing a dripping pussy.

Dowd

But you can watch me fuck her once I’m captain of the Crew.

31

FIONA

When Patrick comes back, his face looks like someone reached behind his eyes and switched off the thing that makes him human. Taking his seat with a belligerent air, he digs into his salmon with the determination of a marathon runner carbo-loading before a big race.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Just peachy.”

I think about asking ifpeachyis a word old men use when they want out of a social commitment, but I suspect I won’t like the answer. Plus, it’s a hell of a lot more fun to tease him about being ancient when we’re in the privacy of our own apartment.

I settle for putting my hand in his lap. I’m pretty sure the table has drapery in front of it, a modesty panel for everyone sitting up here on the stage. Fuck it, if it doesn’t.

He doesn’t react when my fingers slip beneath his napkin. He reaches for his water as I trace his inseam with one nail. But when I shift to the tab on his zipper, he says, “Stop.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, so I figure I still have a little room to play. I shift my wrist so the heel of my hand rides the line of his stirring cock.

“Fiona,” he says. “Stop.” And this time, he reaches beneath the table and returns my hand to my own lap.

I shift my attention to Marjorie Hindman, on my left, spending the rest of the meal learning about the Corman’s building fund. That leaves Patrick to make small talk with the museum’s oldest living board member, Mildred Fuhrman, who just celebrated her ninety-fifth birthday. She falls asleep as dessert is being served, slumping against Patrick. He manages to hand her off to a waiter before she can drool on his tux.

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