Page 3 of Only for You
Chapter Two
Sometimes hanging with the girls for a night out was just the thing needed to lift a person’s spirits.
Gabriella James tipped her bottle of Sam Adams to her mouth and drank deeply, throwing a glance at her cackling, tipsy cousins. She swallowed a sigh along with another gulp of beer.
Then sometimes a person just wanted to sit at home with a bowl of M&M’s and the latest season ofGame of Thronesplaying on DVD. Alone. Well, except for her beloved Tyrion. Between him andThe Hobbit’s Thorin Oakenshield, she’d so be the filling in that dwarf sandwich.
But after being away from home for almost five years, she would’ve been a Debbie Downer to reject her cousin and sister-in-law’s invitation to treat her to a few celebratory drinks. Gabrielle snorted. These bitches had passed “a few” about three tequila shots and a raunchy twirl on the dance floor ago. They were well on their way to fucked up—which left Gabriella, with her two beers, the designated driver.
Fuuuun.
Still, she couldn’t completely blame a guilt trip on her reason for being in the packed converted warehouse. Curiosity and masochism comprised the other 75 percent.
Curiosity about the seemingly popular club that hadn’t existed when she’d left Boston all those years ago.
And masochism because she’d come here hoping to catch a glimpse of its owner.
One of its owners anyway.
She should’ve known nothing—not less-than-stellar beginnings, jail, or the Irish mob—would’ve separated Rion Ward, Sasha Merchant, or Killian Vincent.
Killian.
The familiar ache in her chest pulsed a bright, neon red at just the mental whisper of his name. The man she’d loved from the first time she’d laid eyes on him at nineteen years old, when he’d stalked into her uncle’s bar on her first night—illegally—serving drinks. The man she’d never stopped loving.
The man who hated her.
Not that she blamed him. After all, she’d ratted him out to the police. He’d been arrested. Had ended up going to jail.
Yeah, Killian despised her for betraying him.
Didn’t matter that she’d committed the unforgivable sin to save his life.
She lifted the bottle to her mouth and sipped the beer without tasting it. The mundane actions offered her something else to concentrate on rather than an ill-fated love, but did nothing for the nerves twisting in her belly. She huffed out a silent, humorless chuckle. Pathetic. She was apparently pathetic and stupid as well as into emotional self-flagellation.
One would think she’d learned her lesson about dreams coated in the glitter of gullibility and youthful,foolishoptimism. Blissful couples with their happily ever afters belonged in places like Chestnut Hill and Newton with their gorgeous mansions, obscenely large salaries, and carefully manicured lawns and lives. They definitely didn’t apply to dive bar waitresses, sometimes bartenders, and their mobbed-up boyfriends from South Boston who barely earned enough to cover rent for a cramped one-bedroom apartment. Hell, her mother, with her many boyfriends and rare moments of happiness, had proven that. Why had Gabriella believed she would be any different?
“Your man did good, didn’t he?” Her cousin, Janelle, nudged Gabriella’s arm, nearly knocking her beer out of her hand. The tipsy blonde’s Long Island Iced Tea fared just fine, though.
“He’s not my man,” Gabriella murmured, not bothering to pretend she didn’t know to whom her cousin referred. For two years, he had been the axis her world revolved on. There wasn’t any point in denying it now. “And yes,” she added, switching her bottle to the opposite hand and out of Janelle’s reach. “This is nice.”
And wasn’t that the understatement of the millennia? Lick… Lick was nothing short of amazing. She surveyed the walls of exposed brick with its sensual, framed black-and-white photographs, the two glass and chrome bars with their impressive stocks of top-shelf alcohol. She’d worked as a bartender in one of the trendiest and hottest clubs in Los Angeles before returning home and recognized the cost of the premium alcohol they offered. But from the sheer number of people jockeying for rare space around the bars, gyrating on the dance floors, and crowding every available table, chair, and red and blue couch, she supposed the club could afford every luxury item she’d glimpsed. From the liquor, to the DJ she recognized as one of the most talented and in-demand in the country, to the cordoned-off VIP lounges with their crimson drapes and celebrity faces.
Pride burst inside her like a bright, colorful firework. Jamie Hughes, head of the Irish mob’s notorious O’Bannon gang, had only seen Killian as a pair of fists to torture those poor souls who’d been stupid enough to fall on the mob boss’s bad side by not paying up on loans or gambling debts. But Killian—big, brooding, quiet—had been so much more. Loyal, insightful, incisive, and brilliant. It’d been that man she’d fallen so hard in love with, even though he’d been a mob enforcer when she’d first met him. No, that part of his life had scared her—she’d hated it—but for the man she adored, she’d been willing to love him out of it, offer him a glimpse of a future with her, marriage…a family. She’d accepted that there’d been this anger that had always simmered just under his skin. Given his rough childhood and history, she’d understood. She’d also acknowledged that he could be volatile and so stubborn…which had led to the decision that had shattered them forever.
But still…this place.
Yeah, Killian had definitely “done good.”
What she’d always hoped and desired for him.
“Nice? That’s all you got isnice?” Even in her inebriated state, Janelle seemed to read Gabriella’s mind. “Gabby, I think the west coast might have jaded you. This right here,” she flung an arm wide, the expansive gesture including the interior of the club, “is the shish,” she slurred.
“Right,” Gabriella drawled. “The shish.” Goddamn it, if Janelle couldn’t even pronounce “shit”, Gabriella was going to be pouring her cousin into her car. She gave the two women another half hour, tops. Then she was dragging them out the front door, even if it had to be by their hair. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time.
Besides, she glanced down at her watch, it was already 11:45, and she hadn’t caught a glimpse of Killian. Maybe he wasn’t here tonight. And maybe she should just count her blessings and cut her losses… She wasn’t even certain what her plan or goal had been coming here tonight. Get a peek at him, then make a break for the door, not returning for another five years? Seek him out, say “hi,” and hope he wouldn’t have her ass kicked out of the club? Either option ended up with her leaving skid marks on the sidewalk.
Yep, cutting her losses was sounding better and better.
