by Monica James
He gestures that a waiter is to follow him, which is my opportunity.
“Chief Constable Moore,” he says, snaring two glasses of champagne from the server’s tray, offering them to the chief constable and his wife. “And you must be Mrs. Moore.”
Both accept the glasses, but I can immediately see the chief constable doesn’t appreciate lickarses.
“Mrs. Moore is Donovan’s mother. I’m Lana,” his wife says, extending her hand, which Connor kisses the back of.
Reaching for my own glass, I throw it back in one gulp, needing to wash the disgust from my bake. I notice Donovan watching me closely. This is the first time he’s seen me, but no doubt, he’s heard a lot about me.
I’m known for being a bad wee rip, and that’s why the peelers have left me be, but I think that’s about to change. Donovan Moore is no friend. He is foe.
“This is my son, Puck Kelly.”
Smiling without enthusiasm, I grab another glass of champagne, not interested in making small talk. It seems Donovan feels the same way.
“I know who he is,” he says, sipping his drink.
“Ach, I’m flattered,” I reply smartly, while Connor glares at me.
“I’d love to speak with ya later on,” Connor says, wishing to change the subject.
“Grand,” Donovan replies, not fooled by Connor’s charms. “How’s business then?”
Connor smiles, but it’s strained. “Always busy in the manufacturin’ business.”
That’s his cover story. That the Kellys earn what we do because Connor is the CEO of a company that manufactures aluminum casting products for the automotive industry. This is how we’re able to import and export our product—which has nothing to do with cars—without detection.
Everyone knows it’s bullshit, because although this business does exist, it makes little to no money operating legally. It’s just a front, and it’s worked until now.
Connor reaches for a glass of champagne, clearly sensing this for the dog’s dinner that it is. When he takes a mouthful, I zero in on the glass because I want it.
Thankfully, Cian’s da appears, who Donovan seems to take a liking to more than Connor. When Connor places the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray, I don’t bother excusing myself and follow the waiter through the room.
When he turns the corner, headed for the kitchen, I stop him. “I’ll be havin’ this.”
I don’t give him a chance to ask why I need an empty glass as I walk away with Connor’s glass in hand. I head toward the bathroom and lock the door when I’m inside.
Opening the vanity drawer, I reach for the swab and rub over the rim to collect as much of Connor’s saliva as I can. Once done, I drop the swab into the specimen jar and screw the lid on tight. One down, two to go.
Leaving the glass on the vanity, I open the door and what I see has me wishing I didn’t leave it behind as I’d have used it to gouge out the eyeball of the fucker who has his hands all over Babydoll.
“What’s goin’ on here?” I coolly ask, walking toward the ballbag who is definitely a peeler.
“Mind yer business,” he snaps, looking over Babydoll’s head to address me.
“This is my business,” I contest. “And soon it’ll be yer hand I’ll be breakin’ if ya don’t let her go.”
Babydoll turns over her shoulder to look at me as the fucker has a hold of her wrist. She looks worried, but not scared as she yanks herself free.
“Do ya know who I am, ya dirty wee hallion?” he threatens, puffing out his chest.
“I don’t give a fuck who ya are. Touch her again and y’ll know who I am.”
“I know who ye are, ya wee blurt.”
“Dead-on,” I mock. “Then we don’t need any introductions.”
Babydoll looks between us, chewing her lip.
I stand my ground, daring this bastard to fight me, but he realizes the consequences are not worth it. “Ack, have yer slut. Yer welcome to her.”
He shoves her into the wall, and just as she’s about to advance and give him an earful, I beat her to the punch—literally. I elbow him in the nose before making good on my promise of breaking his hand.
He howls, his bravado quick to break, like his nose and hand.
Taking a hold of Babydoll’s hand, I quickly lead us down the hallway and through the kitchen so we can exit out the back door. Once outside, I let her go.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” she replies, catching her breath. “Just a sleazy old man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I can take care of myself.”
“Ach, it sure looked that way,” I sarcastically state, shaking my head.
“I don’t understand you,” she reveals sincerely.
“I don’t understand myself either.”
She mulls over my comment, her anger toward me simmering when she reads the truth behind my admission.
“I’m sorry for insultin’ ya.”
“Which time?” she quips, folding her arms.
She isn’t making this easy for me, and she shouldn’t. I did a shitty thing. Well, many shitty things.
“I don’t know what it is about ye, I just…ya make me…feel.”
“Feel what?” she questions, but she’s misunderstood.
“Make me feel…full stop,” I clarify. “I can’t get my head around it. I was taught feelin’s make ya weak. And they do. I was full of feelin’ when—”
“When what?” she coaxes as I pause, realizing what I almost shared.
But what would happen if I did share my darkest secret with her? Would it change anything? The answer is no.
“When I watched my ma being killed. I was so full of feelin’ that I didn’t do anythin’ when I should have done more.”
Babydoll covers her mouth with a trembling hand. “Oh God, that’s h-horrible. That’s why the brooch means so much to you? Because it’s the last thing you have of hers?”
She should not know me this well, but there are a lot of should nots where Babydoll is involved.
“Aye, ya could say that.”
“How old were you?”
“I was five.”
Babydoll shakes her head, processing what I just shared. Something which has burdened me for so long suddenly feels a little lighter because it’s not a secret any longer.
“Is that what your face paint means?”
She isn’t thick; she understands the significance of it.
“Three men raped and killed my ma and because of them, that mask allows me to accept what I must do.”
“And what’s that?” she asks, stepping closer to me.
“It’s what I did to some fucker last night.”
She gasps, eyes wide as she doesn’t need me to draw a diagram. She understands I took a man’s life and feel nothing for doing so.
“You know who they are?”
Nodding slowly, I reply, “I do. Brody Doyle is goin’ to pay for everythin’ he took away from me.”
I realize she has no idea who that is, but I suddenly want her to know.
“This man, he’s the one who killed your mum?”
“Aye. I killed his brother last night, and it’s only a matter of time before I come for him.”
Silence.
Babydoll pales, her eyes focused in the distance. I cannot read her expression.
“Poppy?” I ask, using her name for the first time.
But she leaves me speechless when she leans forward, stands on her toes, and whispers into my ear, “The police are going to raid your home. They’re looking for drugs, guns, anything that can bring you down. You have to get rid of it. All of it. Now.
“And call me Babydoll.”
Pulling away slowly, I attempt to deal with her brutal confession. Is she telling the truth? But the better question here is, how does she know?
Angrily shoving her against the wall, a panicked gasp escapes her as I lower my face to hers. Her chest rises and falls frantically. Her fear is a drug to me. “If yer lyin’, so help me
God…”
“I’m not,” she firmly replies, not intimidated by my anger.
And I believe her.
I slam my fist against the bricks, and she flinches but doesn’t cower. She understands what she’s just done by sharing this with me.
Gripping her chin between my thumb and finger, I arch back her neck and snarl, “Then God help ya.”
Before she has a chance to speak, I slam my mouth against hers, stealing her breath just as she does with mine. She fists my shirt, pulling me toward her as we kiss without apology, not caring who sees. Her smell and taste are like a punch of adrenaline, and I growl possessively because she is mine.
Without a doubt, Babydoll has an ulterior motive. I doubt our meeting was coincidental either. Babydoll is a liar…but I don’t fucking care.
I kiss her hard, not caring that she can scarcely breathe. All I care about is marking her like a caveman because this wee liar, this wee thief is mine…mine…mine.
She loops her arms around my neck, moaning into my mouth as we tease one another, fighting for dominance. She suckles my lip ring, tugging hard with her teeth, before sweeping her tongue along my bottom lip.
Her aggression is what I need, what I want, and I lift her, coaxing her to wrap her legs around my waist. She does, and when her pussy presses against me, memories of when it was last in my mouth, on my tongue assault me, and I almost lose it right where I stand.
But I can’t. This is just a taste of what’s to come.
Severing our kiss roughly, I’m pleased to see her breathless and writhing in need. Even though she is a liar, and I can’t trust a word that comes out of her mouth, I can trust her body’s response to me. And I plan on exploiting that to get the truth.
“A’ll be seein’ ye awful soon, wee doll.”
“What are you going to do?”
“The only thing I can do. I need to find my uncle Sean.”
“And you trust him?”
With bitter conviction, I confess, “He’s the only person I trust.”
Her eyes narrow, and her worry is replaced with anger, for she knows what I do; her confession has done nothing to pardon her betrayal. Leaving her against the wall, I run inside, on the hunt for the only person who can help me.
Uncle Sean.
To my knowledge, we don’t leave any gear at home, in case something like this happens. But because this has never happened before, I’m worried it’s made Connor complacent. He’s already a cocky bastard, and the two are not a winning combination.
I see Uncle Sean talking to a pretty woman, but it’ll have to wait. The moment he sees me, I gesture with my head that we’re to talk in private. He senses the urgency and is over within seconds.
“Don’t ask me how I know, but we’re about to be raided.”
“Are ye havin’ a laugh?” he asks, but when he sees I’m far from laughing, he curses and runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”
He storms away, but I quickly follow because from his response, it’s clear if we get raided, we’re all going down. He takes the stairs two at a time, profanity spilling from him, and when he kicks open Connor’s door, I understand why.
“How could he do this?” he mutters under his breath, fuming at Connor.
Uncle Sean pushes aside the wooden blanket box, and when I see a hole cut into the carpet to make room for a safe, I know things are about to turn to shite. He drops to his knees, punches in a code into an electric panel, and when the door pops open, Uncle Sean shakes his head.
He frantically pulls out brick after brick of white gear. “Flush it!” he orders me while I stand still, unbelieving what I’m seeing. “Punky!”
His scream wakes me the fuck up.
I grab as many bricks as I can and leg it to the en suite, hunting through the drawers for scissors. What I find is Connor’s comb, which I slip into my pocket. When I see Fiona’s silver nail file, I snare it off the vanity. Flipping open the toilet lid, I stab the nail file into a brick and drag it downward, splitting open the plastic.
Tearing apart the seams, I desperately empty the packet into the toilet. Once it’s gone, I do the same to another brick and then another until I’m done. As I enter the bedroom and see another fifteen bricks, I shake my head.
“Why does the aul’ lad have this?” I shout, ragin’ that he could be so stupid.
Uncle Sean doesn’t answer me. Instead, he gathers as many bricks as he can, and I do the same. As we’re in the bathroom, frenziedly flushing the gear, we hear shrieks erupt from downstairs.
She was right. The peelers are here.
“Cub, burn the packets,” he orders, gesturing to the bathtub.
I collect all the empty packets which still have traces of drugs inside. Although the gear is gone, this is still evidence. We need all of it gone.
Throwing everything into the tub, I reach for the pack of matches and light one, tossing it onto the plastic. It sets alight instantly, a wee boney. Uncle Sean continues passing me things to burn. I cannot believe Connor could be this stupid.
“How’d ya know?” Uncle Sean asks between flushes. “Who the fuck tipped the peelers off?”
“I can’t tell ye.” Before he can argue, I add, “Because I don’t even understand it myself. But once I do, I swear it, I’ll tell ya.”
He doesn’t press as we have other issues to deal with—like getting rid of the remaining bricks before the peelers bust down the door. I turn on the taps to douse the flames once there is nothing left but black ash, which I push down the drain.
We both sprint into the bedroom to gather the remaining bricks and push the trunk over the safe. Everything looks the way it should.
As Uncle Sean is cutting into the last one, we hear loud voices just outside the door.
“I won’t let them take ya. Ya play stupid, ya hear?”
“They already know I’m guilty,” I say, appreciating him taking the fall for me. But I won’t allow it.
The last of the gear is down the toilet when the door bursts open. Uncle Sean frantically flushes it while I open the window and toss the last packet out. It sails to the ground and gets caught in Fiona’s flowering bushes.
Even if the peelers find it, they can’t prove it’s ours. And even if they do, it’s an empty brick. Hardly enough to have us lifted.
Connor storms in with Donovan and two peelers following close behind. When he sees us, standing casually, he arches a brow. Uncle Sean pats himself down, and when he finds his fegs, he offers me one. I take one with a smile.
“We have a warrant to search the property,” Donovan says, producing a piece of paper.
Uncle Sean shrugs offhandedly, lighting his feg with a match. “And this couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“I’ve called our lawyer,” Connor states angrily, no longer interested in being Donovan’s friend.
“Why bother? We’ve got nothin’ to hide.” Uncle Sean blows a smoke ring.
“Why does it smell like smoke in here?” asks a peeler, sniffing the air.
Raising my feg, I give him a reason. But Donovan isn’t convinced. He peers into the bathtub and although he can see small specks of black ash, that doesn’t prove a thing.
“Have ya not heard? One of my men had his hand broken. Ya don’t happen to know anythin’ about that, I suppose?”
Pretending to think over his question, I eventually shake my head. “I can’t say I do.”
He knows I’m lying, but with no evidence, he’s got nothing.
The peeler won’t say what happened because he has two witnesses. If it were only me, he’d have no problem ratting me out, but my response to Babydoll has him guessing she’ll tell Donovan the truth.
“Don’tcha be going anywhere,” Donovan warns, gesturing to his men that it’s time to tear the place apart.
They start in the bedroom, and it’s wild craic knowing they’re tearing up Fiona’s love nest.
“Yer joking me? Ya think this is funny?” Connor says in a low voice when he notices me smiling.<
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Taking a drag of my feg, before calmly blowing it out, I reply, “Slap it up ye.”
Connor advances forward, shoving Uncle Sean aside as he tries to stop him, and slaps my cheek. He doesn’t want any blood spilled when the peelers are here, that’s why he didn’t punch me. But I don’t care who’s here.
Without hesitation, I punch him square in the jaw.
His head snaps back with a crack, and when I see I’ve busted open his lip, I inhale, overjoyed.
Two birds, one stone.
“I’m going to check on the twins,” I say, butting out the feg in one of Fiona’s expensive bars of soap.
He doesn’t argue. I’ve won this war—for now.
With blood coating my knuckles, I walk past the peelers, daring them to stop me. They don’t.
The moment I’m out in the hallway, I unfasten my tie and wipe it over my knuckles, soaking up all the blood. Once I’ve got it all, I place it into my pocket, alongside the comb.
I have everything I need. Saliva. Hair. Blood.
Looks like tonight wasn’t a waste, after all.
He’s here.
Before I have a chance to flee, he’s on top of me, arm over my throat, pressing us nose to nose. The slither of moonlight peeking in from the curtains illuminates his eyes. They glow, like a hungry predator’s and I’m his prey.
“Get off me!” I cry, slapping at his arm. His hold isn’t tight, but it’s rigid enough that I can’t escape.
“I think not.” His voice is smooth, dangerous, and in the darkness, it’s amplified tenfold. “Awful soon is now, wee doll.”
I don’t know how Punky found me, but he can’t be here. It’s not safe…for either of us.
“I think we need to have a talk.”
“About what? I told you everything I k-know.”
“Bullshit!” he sneers, pushing harder against my neck. “Yer gonna tell me how ye knew about tonight.”
“I can’t,” I pant, squirming beneath him.
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Can’t. How’d you know where I live?”
Punky loosens the pressure but doesn’t let me go. “Y’ve got a brass neck on ye like a jockey’s bollocks, Baby! I’ve met no one like ya. Most would be pleadin’ for their life, but not you. Yer asking me questions instead.”