Gage

by Jessica Joy

  I know self-pity isn’t a great look on me, but can ye blame a man for takin’ a moment to cry into his beer?

  Fuck. I want a beer. And a steak. And beer…

  And that fuckin’ Alley Cat with the fiery hair and emerald eyes that make me think of home. Jaysus Christ, the rest of my body may have abandoned me, but every time that wee lass even crosses my mind my cock is rarin’ and ready to go. I’m no saint, I’m a biker for Christ sake, but I’ve never had such extreme reactions to a piece of ass before. Just thinking about those fiery curls, those lips that look like they were made to be around my cock, and those eyes that could fill a book with what they say with a single look… all of it together reduces me to a pubescent lad poppin’ boners at every female that crosses his path.

  With that thought in mind, I redouble my efforts to roll out of this torture device they call a bed and hobble my way to the bathroom and do my business. Grunts, groans, and sounds only uttered by an eighty-year-old man force themselves out of me as I struggle to my feet. Jaysus fookin’ Christ, me gran’s more spry than I am at the moment.

  Straightening up, I attempt to put weight on my bummed leg for the first time and the bastard betrays me. My knee buckles and sends me tumbling toward the bed again. I try to catch myself but the damnable sling holds my arm in and I end up face first on the bed with a mouth full of blanket, and ass on display thanks to the fuckin hospital gown, gasping against the pain.

  “Dio mio, quello deve essere il miglior culo che abbia mai visto.”

  My head snaps up as the sound of that slimy fuckin Italian accent assaults my ears. Standing in the doorway to my room is an over-tanned, over-greased, sleazy motherfucker in a ten-thousand-dollar suit slow-clapping at my breezy cheeks.

  “Salvatore DiMarco, I thought it was yer brother that liked my ass; still dressing like an eejit, I see,” I say, trying my best to sound intimidating with my ass hanging out to the wind while the asshole is standing there in a suit that costs more than most small countries' national GDP. The only thing that should be wearing that much silk is a motherfuckin’ cunt, and even then, I prefer lace.

  “Patrick Dunne. Still as crude as ever, I see. Haven’t changed one bit,” Salvatore says with bored amusement that only rich cocksuckers manage to pull off.

  “And yer still dressin’ like a bleedin’ chancer I see. Shoes so shiny they blindin’ ye mate? Only reason I can see for ye carrying the fuckin pimpstick ye prat,” I say, shaking my head at the fuckin’ gobshite and his shiny fuckin’ shoes that match his bleedin’ suit. What kind of eejit matches his goddamn shoes to his fuckin’ blue suit?

  “Ah come now old friend.”

  “What ye doin’ here Sal?” I bite, cutting him off. Really not interested in what he has to say, I crawl my way back onto the bed pulling the blanket over me. If I have to listen to his shit, I might as well be comfortable.

  “Is that any way to greet an old friend Patrick? Come now, I’m sure you can do better than that,” he says, leaning casually on the fuckin cane with an ostentatious gold topper.

  “Hasn’t been Patrick in a long time Sal; it’s Gage now,” I say on a groan, leaning back against the pillows and closing my eyes against the migraine I feel building thanks to the noxious cloud of his cologne.

  Salvatore heaves an exasperated sigh and steps further into the room, nudging the door closed behind him with his cane. “We both know being here wasn’t your choice. Can you find it somewhere in that cold potato you call a heart to at least pretend to be grateful for everything I’ve done? It’s really the least you could do after you killed Marcello, he made the best Chicken Vesuvio,” Sal gets a far-off look for a moment then tsks his annoyance as he straightens his already perfectly straight tie and continues, “And you took off with Viviana’s car. I mean really, she had just turned sixteen. Did you have to take that car?”

  “I thought I looked nice in the Lambo, thank ye very much. The blue complimented my eyes,” I say with a smug smile, shooting him a wink.

  “I had to get her an Alpine, Gage, a goddamn French made Renault. Do you know what they would do to me back home if they saw that?”

  The look of horror on his face is just too much, and I decide to play along. With the most melodramatic gasp I can muster I quickly cross myself and clutch at a strand of imaginary pearls at my neck, “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph, and all the saints. How did ye live through the shame?” I mock, laying on as thick an accent as possible.

  “I was just glad they could tint the windows on short notice. Can’t let anyone see her in that god-forsaken hunk of metal,” Sal laughs ruefully, shaking his head as he hangs his cane on the end of the bed and slides his hands into his pockets. “Seriously though Gage, how are you feeling?” he asks, almost sounding sincere.

  “Been better. And I can’t say I’m exactly thrilled to be anywhere near ye; never intended to darken yer doorstep ever again Sal,” I say honestly. For all the blustering between us, I’ve known Sal too long to keep putting on airs.

  “You and I both know you wouldn't be here if you had the choice. All history aside, I’m glad I could help. It's not often I find men I truly respect, especially a dirty Irishman like yourself. I’m happy to offer what assistance I can to your recovery,” he offers with a deferential dip of his head in my direction.

  “That all sounds fine and dandy Sal, but nothin’ ye do is outta the kindness of yer heart. What's this gonna cost me? What strings has me dumbass Brother gotten us tangled in?” I ask, leveling him with a serious stare.

  Sal smirks and gives a rueful chuckle “Such a low opinion of me.”

  “If the cement shoe fits.”

  “Honestly Gage, consider this an act of good faith. A boon for an old friend. All I ask is that we put the past behind us and move forward,” Sal says, and admittedly he actually looks sincere. Well, as sincere as his sleazy self could ever achieve.

  “Friends of the mob. Every little boy's dream,” I say with an eye roll.

  “Let’s not kid ourselves Gage. We are cut from the same cloth, you and I, and we make better allies than enemies. Consider this an olive branch and nothing more.”

  “Ye don’t offer peace without something in return DiMarco, ye’re nothing like yer brethren back home; showing up late and waving the flag at the first sign of a splinter. There’s somethin’ planned in that greasy head of yers and I don’t want anythin’ to do with it,” I snap. “Just tell me how much I need to pay ye to make ye get the fook outta here.”

  Sal sighs and sets his shoulders, his face reddening at the jabs that he can simply be bought off. “A favor for a favor is all I ask, you Irish bastard. Just answer the damn phone if I call. It’s that simple.”

  “What’s so simple?” Lexi asks from the doorway, drawing both of our attention. DiMarco switches seamlessly into the classic suave Italian gentleman, all sense of his tension and frustration evaporating at her sweet voice. I can see the change in his stance and the way he straightens his suit jacket as he turns smoothly on his heel to face her. Clenching my teeth, I grind my molars as I watch him stride toward her. I have the distinct and almost overwhelming urge to throw the giant water bottle sitting next to me at his head as he eyeballs her, the fucker isn’t even attempting to be subtle. I know she’s not mine to claim but the thought of this cockwomble laying so much as a finger on Lexi has me damn near homicidal.

  The snake throws on a sleazy smile, one I’m sure he thinks is charming, and saunters her way. My eyes go to Lexi as DiMarco closes the distance between them, watching her response. Sal introduces himself and reaches for her hand, which she doesn’t offer but he takes anyway, pressing a kiss over the back of it.

  It takes every ounce of restraint I can muster to resist laughing at the confused horror and disgust on her face as his head dips down and places what I’m sure is a wet kiss on her limp hand. Lexi stares at him as he straightens and releases her hand, smiling at her expectantly. Her eyes dart over to me as she unconsciously wipes her hand on her jeans when she
notices how hard I’m trying to contain my laughter. Our eyes lock, and she wrinkles her nose at me, clearly annoyed I didn’t save her but seeing the humor in it all. She relaxes a bit, tension leaving her shoulders, and she all but darts over to stand next to me, placing the bed between herself and DiMarco.

  Good lass.

  Gauntlet thrown.

  Whether she realizes it or not, she just told DiMarco in no uncertain terms exactly where her loyalties lie, and where she feels safe. That thought makes me entirely too pleased, yet question what I’ve done to earn such an easy win; I know the lassies like me, but I usually have to work at it some. DiMarco makes a move back toward the foot of the bed and I can’t resist digging the knife in just a little further as I reach for her hand and interlace our fingers.

  DiMarco takes in the scene, “I frutti proibiti sono i più dolci,” he says directly at me, almost like a challenge.

  “Yer goddamn right it is,” I respond, throwing a wink DiMarco’s way as I kiss the back of her hand. Lexi looks down at me and kisses the top of my head sweetly.

  She doesn’t miss a beat in this dance.

  “Yes, well. I won’t keep either of you any longer than necessary. I merely wanted to stop by and offer my well wishes before your big move today,” Sal says, running a hand over the greasy hair helmet he’s sporting.

  “We’ve got it covered. Thanks for stopping by,” Lexi says. The level of snark this woman is giving is truly inspirational.

  DiMarco clears his throat and reaches for his cane, accepting the brushoff. Salvatore is not a man to be dismissed, let alone be so clearly rejected, and it's evident in his movements just how displeased he is with the whole situation. He puts on a tight smile and nods to the both of us once again. “Do be sure to let me know if there is anything else you need.” Sal gives us one last tight nod and stalks from the room without a backward glance.

  Once the door clicks shut behind him Lexi looks down at me and asks, “Who the hell was that greasy pizza?”

  “That ‘greasy pizza’ is the most powerful man in Chicago, lass,” I say with a laugh, giving her hand a teasing squeeze. Her jaw drops open and her eyes go big as saucers when my comment registers with her.

  “What?!” she gasps, staggering back away from the bed and finally dropping my hand. She backs up until her knees connect with the chair she’s been all but living in since we got here. She flops into it once she realizes it’s what stopped her.

  “Aye, That’s Salvatore DiMarco, head of the DiMarco family. THE Family that runs the whole of the Chicago underworld,” I explain, not even attempting to conceal the contempt I feel for the bastard.

  “Wait. DiMarco? The one Sawyer called? That’s the DiMarco that’s covering all your bills, putting us up in his penthouse, and, if you believe a word of what Sawyer has to say, saved our asses by letting us come here? THAT DiMarco?” For some reason seeing Lexi have such a strong response against DiMarco on her own feels right, as it should be, like I’m justified in my feelings toward him. “Hold on. Why the hell would the ‘King of Chicago’ do all this? Why would he give a shit about some random biker?”

  A confused little crinkle appears between her eyebrows and she pulls her lips to the side as she attempts to muddle through the whys of the whole thing. That’s a topic I most certainly don’t want her spending any amount of time on and questions I have absolutely zero intention of answering.

  Deflection it is then.

  “Ach, just some random biker, am I? Ye cut me deep Al. Cut me real deep,” I gasp in mock distress.

  “Oh, shut up. You know what I mean. Why would someone as powerful and connected as he is, go through all this trouble for… well, anyone really? Doesn’t sound very Tony Soprano to me.”

  “Oh, I beg ye lass, if ye ever find yerself in Sally's company again, please compare him to Tony Soprano. Bonus points if ye record it and send it to me,” I laugh, knowing damn well Salvatore despises everything to do with that show and has kicked more than one guy out of his bar for making that exact comparison. I would pay good money to see how he’d react if it came from Lexi.

  “Stop trying to distract me! I’m serious Gage. You haven’t seen the house he put us up in. It’s insane. Like, my entire apartment back in Seattle could have fit in the closet of the room I’m staying in. It doesn't make sense!” she insists, her mind clearly not ready to let this little revelation of hers go.

  “Ever heard the sayin’s ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’ and also ‘don’t bite the hand that feeds ye’ lass?” she nods, “Aye. That’s exactly my advice when it comes to Salvatore DiMarco and his hospitality. Don’t question it, cuz I promise ye Al, ye won’t like the answers. Enjoy it while it lasts lass, let Sawyer and meself worry about the reasons behind it all,” I say, trying to assuage her curiosity while giving her as little information as humanly possible. The less Lexi knows about DiMarco and his family, the better off she will be.

  That wasn’t the answer she was looking for, judging by the resigned sigh she gives and the way her shoulders seem to drop in disappointment accepting that she won’t get any more from me on the subject. Before I can attempt to smooth things over again, she seems to catch herself and quickly blanks her features. A pleasant, almost indulgent smile turns up the corners of her mouth and her eyes soften as they do a quick sweep of my body.

  “Ach lass, keep eye feckin’ me the way ye are, and yer bound te get more of a show than ye bargained for. A man can only take so much,” I say with a teasing wink, needing to break the tension that’s been hovering in the room since DiMarco entered. She lets out a surprised gasp and her cheeks darken prettily in a deep blush at my words, making me smile and chuckle at her discomfort. Not that I enjoy being an ass to her, but there is something so very satisfying about getting a rise out of her.

  I open my mouth to say more, but am cut off by a soft knock at the door. The relief that washes over Lexi as the nurse walks in has me laughing that much harder until there are tears streaming down my face. Lexi rolls her eyes and playfully smacks me on the good leg before she steps back, making room for the nurse.

  “Well Mr. Dunne, I have your discharge papers here, and the doctor just signed your order for transport. Are you ready for the next step?” the overly chipper young nurse asks. I know she is referring to the next step in my recovery, but when my eyes catch with Lexi’s I can’t help the feeling in my gut that it could mean so much more.

  “Yeah, I think I am.”

  Chapter 6

  Lexi

  In the week since Gage got out of the hospital and joined us at the penthouse, things have settled into somewhat of a routine. It’s not much, there is really only so much you can do to keep a low profile when you have a gimp, a toddler, and are staying in a high-rise penthouse downtown. I know, I know, sounds tragic doesn’t it?

  The four of us are staying in one of DiMarco’s penthouse lofts, yes, one of, as in he has more than one penthouse loft. I doubt I will ever be able to wrap my brain around the amount of wealth that man has at his disposal. The loft we’re in is on the top floor of a high-rise luxury apartment building in the heart of Chicago. The core of the place is a wide-open living space with one long wall made entirely of windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling two stories up and offer breathtaking views of the city and lake beyond. The living room has that ultra-modern feel you can only achieve with obscene amounts of money and a deep obsession with glass and chrome. Seriously, everything is either black leather, chrome, glass, or ridiculous fluffy white rugs and throw blankets. DiMarco must have had a woman help ‘warm the place up’ because he seems like the type who avoids getting near anything that can leave a fluff ball on his swanky suits. The kitchen is all sleek lines and dark accents. Black granite counters, black cabinets, and brilliantly shiny stainless appliances, you know the kind you only see on the cooking shows behind a celebrity chef that somehow never gets dirty. The kitchen sits under the overhang created by the loft space that is, once again, open to the
windows on the far side, and full of floor to ceiling bookshelves on the other three walls. The worn-in overstuffed leather furniture up there is the stuff book lovers and avid readers only dream of; the perfect spot to get lost in a book for an afternoon.

  The rest of the loft layout has proven to be interesting. There are two residential ‘wings’ off the main space, one to each side, with two suites in each. Tessa, Sawyer, and Evan have taken over the “east wing” which leaves Gage and I in the “west wing.” Having Gage in the suite right across the hall from mine has been great for when I need to help him with something, or just keep an eye on him, but it’s been damn near torture as well. Have you ever tried living across the hall from the man you are madly in love with but can’t tell him because he doesn’t remember he used to love you too, so you’re hiding it from him so as not to distract him from healing from his traumatic accident? No? Well, I don’t recommend it. Every time I open my door I catch a whiff of his scent of his body wash and beard oil, and I can’t help but take a moment to let it wash over me. Every. Single. Time.

  Every morning I get up early and help Tessa make breakfast for everyone, not my favorite activity but I figure hell, we’re stuck in these close quarters for god knows how long, I might as well try to play nice with my sister while we’re here. The last thing anyone needs is a cat fight. After breakfast, Sawyer takes Gage to meet with his physical therapist for a few hours. Beyond just the mental toll his accident has had on him, the physical toll has proven to be an almost bigger challenge for Gage. By the time he comes hobbling back into the loft for lunch, he is almost always sweaty, exhausted, and it’s rare he isn’t grumbling about one thing or another under his breath. It’s kind of funny to put the habits of a big scary biker man who’s recovering from a traumatic injury and my not even one year old nephew side by side. They have the same nap time.

  I can’t really blame him though, after hearing a crash one night I ran into his room to find him tangled in his boxers face down on the floor. He obviously fell over trying to change into them for the night and couldn’t manage between the arm that doesn’t work and the leg that can’t support anything; underwear and socks are probably his most difficult, and humiliating, part of the day.