Hustle: The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  But not always with me.

  “Evelyn, I couldn’t have done this without you,” he takes a step in my direction. Standing close, so close. The heat from his body on a cold day is a strange, but welcome sensation.

  I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around his neck, rocketing my body into his. There’s a long pause and my heart’s pounding as my mind’s on the precipice of horror.

  Don’t fucking reject me. Don’t do it. My heart can’t take it, I silently plead. My eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that my forehead aches.

  But then his arms close around me, and for one short second I feel at peace. Calm. Like the world’s not spiraling uncontrollably. Like I won’t explode any second. Like Seamus is here, mine.

  Like maybe he finally sees me. Like maybe everything might finally be okay.

  Long seconds pass, the emotional response beginning to slide toward something else, a dangerous edge of desire. It’s not like Seamus’ body is doing a great job hiding his reaction to our proximity.

  Instinctively, I push against him just a little and feel his whole body go rock hard.

  Impossibly gentle, he puts me down. Steps back, clears his throat, looks at me, looks away. It takes a minute, but the cool and polished Seamus that’s been his default more and more lately slides into place.

  “Evelyn, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Hope, joy, anticipation, fear. It slams into me so hard I can hardly breathe. The past, the present, the future all seem to meld together, leading to and streaming from this moment.

  “About your plans, Evelyn,” his jams a hand into his hair. It’s just a little too long, and he can’t stop it from cascading down over those eyes. Intense blue orbs bore into mine.

  The moment’s already slipping away. Fury and an aching I don’t want to name war for dominance.

  “Today’s about your future, Seamus,” I try for diplomatic, clawing to keep the magic of that embrace here, even as I watch it rolling out on the tide.

  “Damn it, Evelyn. This is important.”

  It is important. But it’s not a fucking piece of paper, a pedigree, a golden path to fame and riches. Seamus sees a path into his future. A chain of actions and reactions that are all measured out, all lined up, and lead to some amazing place that only he can see.

  You can fucking see it when he’s thinking about it and know with every fiber of your being that he’s going to get there. No question.

  Even when you have no fucking clue where you’re headed. Or what you want. Or if you even have a shot at anything, no matter how hard you fight.

  “Listen, I talked to my dad,” he says, moving forward again with that fucking ‘I’m going to plan my way out of this’ look on his face. “I know academics aren’t your things, but your art skills are beyond compare. My father’s willing to pay for you to go to community college; of course, we’ll pay him back, but all you need is a year of good grades and then you can transfer…”

  I cut him off. “What, Seamus? You think they’re going to let some gutter rat that that barely finished high school into fucking Harvard?”

  Frustration lines mar his handsome face and it makes my heart hurt that he’s dragged us back here. Fucking again.

  “It doesn’t have to be Harvard, Evi,” his voice is detached, eminently reasonable as he weighs a thousand variables and it makes me hate him. I want to scream. I’m not a number, not a domino, not a pawn. “I’ve been looking into art schools and honestly, portfolios matter more than grades….”

  And that’s when it hits me. As much as Seamus likes me or whatever this is, he’s strategizing to make me fit. Shoving me into some box that fits with his plans and keeps me on his level.

  The worst part? He’s probably fucking right. But I don’t want Murphy Doyle’s fucking charity and I don’t want Seamus figuring out a way to make me respectable enough that he doesn’t need to leave me behind.

  Fuck that. Fuck him.

  “I’m not doing this again, Seamus,” I channel every ounce of fury I can muster into those words. Blinking my eyes rapidly, I curse the wind. It’s the wind stinging my eyes and not fucking tears.

  “Evelyn, I don’t get it. Don’t you want to get out of here, move on…” He shrugs, like he’s at a loss for what to say.

  That chasm, that break, that tear – it’s just widening second by second and I can’t suppress the anger that rips its way from my core.

  “Of course I want fucking out,” I scream. It’s all hitting me. The winter nights with no fuel when I was so cold I thought I’d never get warm again. Being so hungry that I ate an entire bag of dollar store potato chips because I didn’t know when I’d get a decent meal. The fury I felt when people around us t knew, that knew how bad it was, shrugged and went about their lives when the smallest kindness would have made a fucking difference.

  When the entire world thought I was trash and nobody fucking cared if I lived or died. Nobody except Seamus, that is. But even he thought that I needed a little reshaping apparently.

  “But I’m getting out on my own terms, Seamus. I’m doing this my way.” Maybe he can just hear me out and maybe he’ll understand.

  Seamus always understands, when he tries. But his face is mottled with fury in a way that I’ve never seen before.

  “What, by working at a fucking tattoo parlor? Damnit, Evelyn, I’m trying to do this, to figure out how to do this. For you, for me, for us….”

  The word us catches, but it’s like that blinding anger in my brain can’t be tamped down. It gets too close to the surface and I just have to blow everything up.

  “My name is Evi.”

  The hurt just won’t stop until I burn it all down.

  “Yeah, Seamus,” I choke out, between ragged breaths. “I’m going to drag my trash ass up from the gutter by working in a goddamn tattoo parlor because that’s what I want to fucking do. The only thing I’m good at is art. It’s the only time I feel alive. I’m not like you. I can’t be me trapped in a fucking classroom, studying shit I hate just so people think I’m smart and maybe forget my dad’s a gangster.”

  His mouth forms a hard line, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that I’ve got him right there. That point. That leverage. I can hurt him as badly as he hurt me.

  “You think you’re so fucking special, Seamus. But you’re so stuck up, so focused on becoming someone else, that you’re forgetting who you are and the good things you have in your life now.”

  His whole face tightens and he slips a little further away.

  Just forget it. Just forget this whole fucking thing. I jam my hands into my pockets hard and turn away before he sees the hot tears rolling down my face.

  “Good luck with Harvard, Seamus. I hope you find whatever it is that you’re looking for. I guess I’ll see you around.” Heading straight for the bus station, even though it’ll take three buses for me to get home, I don’t turn around.

  And when he calls after me, his voice going from angry to concerned to almost agonized, I just keep walking with my eyes focused straight ahead. I hold in the wracking sobs for the whole bus ride home.

  And then I cry like I’ve never, ever cried – before or since.

  Jesus, being eighteen sucks.

  Not too long after that day at the beach, one of the neighborhood ladies my good Catholic mother told me to stay away from called me up into her apartment. She’d seen me moping around the stoop one too many times.

  She did a Tarot reading for me, splaying colorful cards with frayed gilded edges in a fan across her little table. Clicking her tongue, her eyes dance between the cards and my face. I didn’t cough as she tapped her cigarette on the edge of the ancient ashtray. It was my first reading and when she pulled the card for my future, it was the Empress.

  A beautiful blonde woman sits serenely in the forest, a peaceful aura surrounding her. That peace eludes me. She wears a crown of twelve stars, blending the natural and mystical worlds. Those worlds that seem to weave together wh
en I make art, when I reinvent myself with body art, when I see tattoo artists at work transforming the ultimate human canvas. Her dress is covered in pomegranates, and she’s resting on plush cushions.

  I dig her. She’s all creativity, femininity, love, beauty and grace. It’s the first time I felt really connected to someone, other than Seamus.

  I don’t worry too much that she’s not real.

  But seeing her in all her glory made me realize that I was enough on my own. There’s power in art, and in beauty, and eventually that inspires me to help turn people into works of art. To help them transform into the most powerful, most beautiful and best versions of themselves.

  And now the Stacys are trying to take that away from me.

  I don’t fucking think so.

  Popping my lipstick into my bag, I tousle my hair. Looking over my shoulder, I call out to Hank, a fluffy, angry Himalayan cat I’d gotten from a shelter when no one else wanted him.

  “How do I look, Hank?” I ask.

  He meows indifferently from a pile of clothing on my bed. Definitely need to put that laundry away.

  “Thanks for the support.” I go over and pet him, and he swipes lazily at me, purring the whole time. Leaving my loft, I jog down the stairs and the hard soles of my heels ring out sharply. The loft’s right above the shop.

  Unlike most Bostonians, I have no complaints about my commute.

  I wave at Joey, another artist who works at my shop, and head out to Seamus’ office.

  Seamus fucking Doyle. God, I wish he hadn’t walked into my shop last night. He’s so uptight you could shove coal up his ass and he’d shit out diamonds. But he’s connected, and I’m willing to give him a chance before I go with the nuclear option.

  I have to shake off the memories washing over me earlier. No fucking way I’m walking into a meeting with him hamstrung by nostalgia.

  The idea of seeing him though? There’s a little thrill of anticipation that’s really annoying.

  The subway station smells pretty ripe today, and it’s not even summer yet. The inbound redline train rattles and squeals all the way to my stop. Seamus offered to meet me at my shop, but having him in my space throws me off balance.

  No thanks. If we’re doing this, I’m doing it on my terms. Just like I do everything else.

  As I walk to the office, I glare at a man who comments on my ass and tell him to fuck off.

  The building is some faceless, soulless metal and glass box, and Seamus is of course in the penthouse.

  A stunning blonde woman is behind the desk. She has an ultra-manicured, icy freshness that I’ve never been able to manage, and even though she’s as far from my style as you can get, I’m agitated. Then pissed off at myself for getting agitated.

  “I’m here to see Seamus,” I snap.

  And then I force a smile, because my irritation isn’t at her.

  She’s attractive and I wonder if Seamus thinks so too. Maybe that’s why he hired her, so he could look at her every morning. I shove that thought down hard.

  Keep it professional.

  She beams up at me. “Mr. Doyle will be right with you, Ms. McCallum. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Call me Evi. And no, thank you.”

  She nods exuberantly, blonde curls shaking around her rosy cheeks.

  She looks too sweet for her own good. Hopefully, she carries mace. Was I ever that innocent?

  Seamus doesn’t make me wait. He’s too scheduled to sacrifice billable hours for spite. He strides out of his fancy office seconds after I sit down.

  The chairs in his waiting room are leather, padded, and spare no expense.

  “Evelyn…Evi,” he corrects himself.

  He’s wearing another fancy suit, but his tie is a little askew. I walk up to him and straighten it.

  The asymmetry bothers me, I tell myself. But just the sensation of my fingers trailing over his chest sends sparks running along my skin.

  Blue eyes widen, nostrils flare.

  He looks frazzled, for just a second, and that’s enough. It’s so satisfying to see him off balance.

  “Nice digs,” I smile up at him.

  He gives me a lopsided grin, and ushers me into his office.

  “Are you hungry? Do you need anything?” He pulls out a chair for me. He’s always the damn gentleman, even when he’s breaking your heart. He hands me a bottle of water before I can speak.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of research,” he begins, not even waiting for me to sit down. “Eminent domain’s primary purpose is for public use. Taking over a property when there’s no other option, like when you’re building a highway. We all know the Stacys really want that block to put up a bunch of condos that will make them richer, but they’ll chalk it up to urban development.”

  He slides a stack of papers in front of me.

  “Here are some cases where people have fought it and won. My favorite is Rusty’s…”

  “The gay club in Central?” I’m surprised he knows it.

  “Yes,” he says, nodding. “Biotech is building up that whole area, and they wanted to gobble up Rusty’s too, but they went ahead and made themselves a historical landmark.”

  “Don’t fuck with the gays,” I say, nodding my approval. “I don’t suppose we could declare my shop a historical landmark? The first time a McCallum was able to accomplish something?”

  I expect Seamus to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead he fixes me with his serious blue eyes, and my breath catches.

  “Evi. Your father was no good, and I know it wasn’t easy with your mother…”

  “Oh, Ma’s fine, even if she’s disappointed that I didn’t become a nun,” I wave his care off, it’s too much. “And my dad did manage to pay like, two hundred bucks in child support that one time. And hey, one of his brothers managed to stay out of prison before drinking himself to death. There’s an accomplishment.”

  He looks uncomfortable, and I feel better. His smug arrogance I can handle, but the tender care that creeps into his voice when he talks about my history will break me. And I can’t.. I can’t recover from another version of that day at the beach. Nothing a little dark humor won’t cover. I expect him to return to business, but his next line surprises me, and I don’t surprise easily.

  “It would’ve been a shame if you became a nun,” he almost growls in a low, heavy voice.

  It goes right to my core, and I push my legs together to find some relief.

  “Maybe I could’ve left the convent and married a rich Austrian with seven children.” I need to change the subject. Again.

  “You didn’t seem to mind hanging out with me and my giant family,” Seamus replies, a dreamy look in his eyes now.

  Goddamnit.

  “I liked hanging with your mother,” I say. Moms are always boner killers. “I learned a lot about art from her. She was always willing to let me play with her paints even though I was messy and one tube of paint cost more than my family’s net worth.”

  “She liked the mess.”

  He’s staring off into the middle distance now. Maybe it was a mistake mentioning his mother. Spending time with her had been some of the brightest times of my childhood. Kathleen Doyle was one of the most talented painters I’ve ever met, to this day. She’d shown me that women could be artists in the middle of a dire, hard-knock childhood that otherwise left me believing I could be nothing.

  “Seamus?”

  His eyes cut towards mine, and they’re clear again. But the real smile is gone, and his business mask is back. It’s too familiar, and a reminder that this is just that, business.

  “So I think we need to do some digging and find out if we can learn some of the history on your block and see if we can’t make a play for historical landmark status.”

  “Sure,” I nod. “Just tell me where to start.”

  4

  Evi

  “Josefina, damn you look good!” I whistle at my colleague and friend. She’s tall and leggy, like me but with thick dark hair and warm b
rown skin.

  “We’re only supposed to use full names when there’s trouble,” she says, adjusting her bra so the red, lacy top is exposed, the low scoop neck of her tight shirt leaving little to the imagination.

  “Oh, girl, I think we’re going to be in trouble tonight.”

  “So how can you get us into Intrigue again?” Joey asks as we wait for our cab.

  “I practically grew up with the Doyles. Connor Doyle owns the joint.”

  “You’re saying we could go there whenever we want? The most exclusive club in town?” She looks at me like I’ve been lying to her my whole life.

  “Yeah, but it’s full of bougie assholes,” I shrug. “It’s good for blowing off some steam, but I’m always afraid I’m going to get into a fight.”

  She grins, tapping my big hoop earrings. “Remember to take those out first if you rumble, Mama.”

  “This isn’t amateur hour, Joey. I know how to fight.”

  We both laugh, and the cab arrives just after eleven. We’re at the club in less than twenty minutes. Sully’s at the front door. He’s been working for the Doyles for as long as I can remember.

  “Hey, scrapper,” he says as I walk up and give him a hug. “Good to see you. Connor’s saved you and your friend a VIP booth.”

  “VIPs,” Joey says, “fancy.”

  “That’s us,” Sully smiles, exposing his missing teeth. “Fancy as fuck.”

  He moves the ropes so we can get in, and immediately the smell of sweat and liquor hits me. The loud thumping bass makes it hard to hear the hostess, but she shows us to our booth overlooking the dance floor. I can’t wait to get out there. The stress of the Stacys, of Seamus, is too fucking much.

  Time to dance off some of this energy.

  We order tequila shots to get things started and head out to dance. The floor is packed, but we squeeze our way to the middle, carving out space.

  The music is loud enough to help me forget. Before long, I’m letting go, the beat carrying me to another place. Joey and I dance for what feels like hours before taking a break for some more tequila shots and of course some beer to chase them. My hair is damp with sweat and I love it. Joey’s pulled her hair up into a ponytail, and we laugh about the people who dance to the lyrics of the music instead of the beat.