Hustle: The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  Not that it’s ever gone particularly well.

  But Evi? She’s exactly the kind of woman that I actually desire. Hell, she’s the fucking archetype in motion and the exact reason why the other women never work out.

  But I don’t make critical decisions based on what my cock wants. Personal desires aren’t the only factor that drive important decisions like this. In fact, they hardly register.

  There’s too much at stake.

  I try not to think about the various hipsters I’ve seen her around town with. Skinny, pale men whose hair was layered with a decade’s worth of unwashed grease.

  A dark dress skims her body, and it’s hard to keep my eyes in the professional zone. She’d look like she was headed to some office job, if it weren’t for the fuck-me heels, the extensive tattoos peeking out from her sleeves, and the heavy makeup. She’s doing that thing with the smoky eyeliner that gives me tunnel vision.

  But her face is cool and composed, and her icy demeanor is like a stab to the chest. Not that anyone would be able to tell. I remember what I told her about being cold.

  “Evelyn.” And now there’s more frost in my voice than I intended. “So glad you could make it.”

  Her perfectly arched eyebrows favor me with the slightest raise, as if she finds both the idea of keeping me waiting and the idea that I’m annoyed at best mildly amusing.

  It’s infuriating.

  “Not even all-powerful Seamus Doyle can control public transportation.”

  I start to say something, to fall into the trap. But I won’t let her bait me.

  Her eyes are on my face, searching. Weighing, assessing. I’m starting to get a little hot under the collar with the scrutiny, and nothing makes me sweat. Nothing. No one.

  Not even Evelyn McCallum.

  If I keep repeating it enough, it might even be true.

  “Let’s revisit our strategy,” I start, but she cuts me off.

  “Seamus, we’ve been over this. Enough talking, let’s just do it.” She’s already halfway up the stairs and flinging open the door before I can hold it for her. It feels like she’s pissed at me, and that starts a tight coil of frustration in my gut that I don’t need clouding my judgment. I’m not the one who used her for a cheap thrill.

  Last night? Just further confirmation that her temper and her rash decisions and whatever emotional damage she’s dealing with still make her untouchable.

  But if I’m being honest, Evi’s always been able to distract me.

  The grimy, aged façades of the various city hall offices flash by and I can’t help but take in her form as she moves with determination toward the clerk’s office. The woman has legs for days, and those heels are doing nothing to hide it. Finally, I push my way forward and physically put myself between her and the door.

  “Please let me do the talking.” It’s half command, and half pleading, which is a note that I dislike hearing in my own voice.

  She holds my eyes for a second, which stretches into a beat or two too long, and then her lined gray eyes drop to my mouth and linger there. My mouth goes dry.

  Her response is a half shrug, not agreement but as much assent as I’m getting. Moving fast, I hold open the door and then quickly shift in front of her before she can get to the desk.

  The woman behind the desk has a crispy ‘80s perm, thick-rimmed glasses and the warmest smile ever to grace city hall when she sees me. Half rising, a plump and intricately manicured hand reaches out for my sleeve.

  “Seamus,” she says, her voice with just an edge too much enthusiasm. “So good to see you. I’m glad you’re here. Did I mention that my Lena is graduating from her paralegal studies in just a few weeks? You really have to take her for a drink.”

  Fighting back a sigh, I’m flashing my best professional engaged grin. “Peggy, how are you? Look at these nails. Someone’s ready for summer.”

  Next to me, Evi lets out a little strangled cough at the nails line. Listen, in my line of work, any little detail – any insight into how someone works or what they value – can be an advantage or the factor that turns the tables in a tough negotiation. And the city property clerk, Peggy, is a woman who takes her nail art very seriously.

  She beams at me, and then continues, “Think of what a power duo you could be, Seamus. Can I tell Lena you’ll call?”

  Peggy’s usually not this direct, but before she can finish, I’m pulling out a card that I slide across the desk. “Have her call my office.”

  Another strangled noise from Evi has me quickly rushing on to add, “Depending on where she wants to specialize, I can introduce her to some great firms that don’t always post their job opportunities publicly. It’s important to get into the right firm early on to set her up for a great career, and I can help make sure that happens.”

  Beaming at me for just a second, Peggy then turns her attention to Evi and stares. Her stare is beginning to slide from curious into hostile when I say smoothly, “Peggy, let me introduce my client, Evelyn McCallum. Ms. McCallum and I are here to see what we can learn about the history of the shop that she owns.”

  At the mention of client, Peggy visibly relaxes. “Could you help us pull the deed history and any other documents on the property?”

  “It’s going to take some time,” she warns, sounding less than happy. I slip her a copy of the request forms, already filled out in triplicate, and she motions to the waiting area before adding, “I’m not sure all the files for this address have been digitized, Seamus. But let me see what I can do.”

  Pulling out a chair for Evi, I adjust my tie and look at my watch again. 11:25. There’s no chance of me making my 12:00 p.m., so I pull out my phone to text my assistant and ask her to change it to a dinner meeting. Next to me, Evi shifts in her seat restlessly.

  “So is this lady in Stacy’s pocket or what?”

  My eyes go wide, my nostrils flare. She’s not speaking loud enough for Peggy to hear, but still, it’s not a savvy move to be talking so openly in city hall.

  Dropping my voice as low as possible, I answer. “Look, I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so. Pretty reliable sources say she’s clean. But this isn’t the time or place for this. Let’s talk later.” Or as clean as you can be in a political role in this city.

  Evi is shaking her foot, and I’m unable to take my eyes away. She’s got great legs, but I absolutely hate fidgeting. It’s leaving me almost unable to focus on anything else.

  No one that can so completely command my attention, distract me at a twitch of an ankle, should be part of my everyday life. It’s a recipe for disaster.

  Evi stretches, looks at her nails, and then pulls lip gloss out of her bag and swipes on a fresh layer. She notices me watching her but doesn’t react.

  “What else can we do?”

  I flash back to her words on the Carneys. Just because I don’t come in swinging my fists doesn’t mean that I’m not a man of action. It rankles me more than I care to admit that this is how she views the world.

  How she views me.

  It’s always struck me that Evi is the kind of woman who can appreciate a nuanced kind of power. Raising my chin, I meet her eyes and am ready to snap back but she’s scanning her phone.

  “Where do they keep the non-digital records? Basement?”

  I shake my head. “No such luck. Secondary storage. If it’s not there, we’ll have to put in a request. I’ll pay the rush fee, but it will likely take a couple of days.”

  “Fuck.” Indeed. Wasting time that we don’t really have.

  Wanting to make the situation better, I add, “There’s a good chance the files are here. With everything going on around our neighborhood, it’s a possible that there are copies in the mayor’s office and the planning office at least.”

  Evi bristles. “When I met with the mayor, his creep of a son was there and hit on me. That was about as far as I got.”

  Fury slams through me, and an urge to hurt Brooks Stacy – who used to date my brother’s girlfriend, Ava,
and was a real shitbag – overcomes me. I’m beginning to regret not letting Connor toss him in the harbor like so much tea.

  Before I can respond, some emotion sweeps over Evi’s face.

  I can’t tell if she’s going to do something rash, or if her body is just so alive with energy she just can’t sit still any more. A short walk, a trip to the bathroom, or to grab a bottle of water from the vending machine.

  She’s a fidgeter. I get it. I’ve just trained myself to never fidget; it gives too much away to the opposing counsel.

  “Bathrooms?” she asks, but her wide gray eyes are holding mine steadily. She presses her legs together and it takes everything in me to keep my composure.

  Am I just overthinking this?

  Sometimes things really are straightforward, I guess. Maybe I should stop second-guessing everything she says.

  I look at her for a long minute, and then give her directions. Watching her retreating form, I feel something like regret. It’s not just that I want to make this right for Evi and know that it’s going to be hard, maybe even impossible, to do. I miss the easy camaraderie we used to have.

  Even though it’s been almost fifteen years since I would have called her my best friend, I’ve never found that with anyone else, except my brothers – sometimes.

  Ten minutes later, Peggy comes back and says she’ll need to file a request. But she promises she’ll call my office as soon as she can get a copy of the files.

  Standing, I look around. Still no Evi. Pulling out my phone, I see a missed text flash, and then notice a security guard moving quickly up the stairs just beyond the glass doors.

  “Seamus, meet me outside. I’ll be over by Sam’s Café.” Sam’s Café is a good five blocks away. My stomach drops.

  Shit, Evi, what did you do?

  Calmly, but moving with purpose, I exit onto the street and start heading in the direction Evi mentioned. She’s inside, with two coffees at a corner table.

  Fuck.

  Suddenly, I’m so angry that that I could break something, and that’s completely unlike me. I have this situation in hand. It’s a game, it’s a dance. Why can’t she just trust me to take care of her? Damnit, not her exactly, but this situation.

  Her eyes are hard when they meet mine.

  “Seamus, I don’t want to get into a pissing contest with you, but your bud Ms. Peggy? Definitely dirty. I was outside her office when she called up to the planning board and asked what they wanted her to do since we’re here about the files.”

  Damnit. Instantly, icy cold anger of a different kind floods through me, redirected not at Evi but at the corrupt system that seems to be hampering us at every turn.

  Ironic, I suppose, given what my family does, but I’m determined to make this right, come hell or high water.

  “Thank you, Evi.” Admiration smooths out my voice, as I take the seat across from her. “This is good information. I’m going to make some calls and we’ll have those files before….”

  Reaching into her bag, she pulls out a manila folder and slides it across the table to me. Next to the coffee that is made perfectly the way I like it, even though we haven’t done it in years. Nearly black, with just the right hint of cream.

  “Where did you get these?” My voice is almost a growl.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says too quickly.

  This. This is why I should have listened to my instincts back at city hall.

  “Evi, there are cameras everywhere,” my voice is rising, despite my attempts to stay calm and in control.

  Her face reddens a little, but she doesn’t back down. “Don’t you think I fucking know that, Seamus? I’m not an idiot.” She drops a couple of dollars on the table and stands up abruptly.

  “Go through your channels, Seamus. But you might want to take a fucking look at what’s in the folder and consider some other avenues.” I don’t like the emphasis on avenues, but have to concede she’s not wrong.

  Having these in hand for even an extra day gives us a major advantage, and nothing’s stopping me from getting copies of the documents through legitimate requests as well to cover her tracks. Our tracks.

  “Evi, sit down and we can discuss this calmly.” It’s the wrong thing to say. But I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to keep her here. As much as her strategy pisses me off, as much as I hate her relationship to risk, as much as frustration and admiration war with each other, the strongest thing I’m feeling is just a desire to spend a few more minutes in her company.

  No matter how many missed client minutes and dollars it costs me.

  “I’ve got places to be, Seamus.”

  Something in my face seems to lower her guard. “Some of my art is going to be in a show at the ICA and I need to meet with the curator.”

  The Institute of Contemporary Arts? Wow. That’s a seriously big deal. I know she’s talented, but being featured in a collection in a gallery like that?

  Evi McCallum is playing with the heavyweights of the art world.

  “They’re doing an exhibit from some tattoo artists globally, and they have a couple of my pieces in the show.” She’s not quite looking at me.

  “Evelyn, that’s amazing,” It really is. How did I not know that she was so well regarded? She gives me just the tiniest smile, like she can read my thoughts.

  “Always full of surprises. Call me after you read those files.” And then she’s gone.

  Once again, I’m left in her wake.

  Full of surprises indeed. Fuck me.

  6

  Evi

  It’s been a good day, despite all the bullshit going on. It’s been a few days since Seamus and I hit city hall. He’s sent me texts and emails, but nothing personal, which is fine. Or not.

  I hate that after all these years, I’m suddenly checking my phone like he’s going to call. He’s your lawyer, Evi. Nothing else. He made that clear enough. And maybe I have, too.

  I finished up a giant, artistic back piece for one of my best clients, and did an interview with a national magazine. Secretly, it’s fun to think about ink magazines talking about my work and people on the West Coast seeing it. Not that I’d ever let on.

  But the day’s over and it’s time to kick back. Drinks with my friend Rose and her wife while they’re in town for a conference? I don’t think I can do the small talk that catching up requires tonight, but I’m too antsy to stay in with Hank. I look over at him, and he’s licking his ass. Yep, Hank needs some alone time.

  Cocktails and live music solo it is. Something low key. In a few minutes, I’ve changed into jeans and a tank, and slipped out into the night. It’s a short walk from my place to the No Name Pub. A traditional Irish band has already started in on their first set, and I order a Hemingway daiquiri and sit back to enjoy the show.

  The older guy singing had some big hit in the ’80s, and he still rocks out with the best of them. I’m soaking up the music and letting the tension drain away, when I feel it.

  My skin starts to tingle and heat rises from the low cut V-neck of my shirt before I’m even aware of what’s causing it. Swiveling to take in the room, my eyes skim the crowd for potential danger when they find him.

  Seamus fucking Doyle. Apparently undercover? He’s wearing a dark t-shirt and jeans and has staked out a back booth all to himself, as if he’s trying to keep people away. I don’t think I’ve seen him in a t-shirt since senior year gym class. He’s so deliberately staring at the band, so consciously not looking at me, that I can feel his awareness buzzing between us.

  I give it a few minutes and then conclude that no one has ever worked harder to not to look at another person.

  With a bit of a resigned sigh, I slide down off my stool and work my way around the edge of the room to where he’s sitting, throwing an elbow into the ribs of some townie that calls me baby.

  Seamus is drinking some dark beer and he looks like he could have just gotten off his shift at the dock or whatever, if you don’t look too closely at the impeccable grooming.
For a minute, I think that he’s probably got beard wax or beard oil in his bedroom, and then my mind goes to him in his bedroom.

  With some effort, I snap my attention back.

  “Hello, Evi,” he says in a very carefully neutral voice. “Would you like to join me?”

  I’d never admit it, but I love the polish in his voice, how carefully he enunciates every word.

  I slip into the booth next to him. Our knees bump under the table, and I don’t make any special effort to move mine, even when warmth spikes through me. He seems to weigh his options, and then just lets it be. If only he could do that more often.

  Then I flush, remembering how he let me move against him in the club. I probably owe him an explanation for that. Maybe an apology?

  Instead I ask, “On one of your famous Seamuscapes?”

  He quirks an eyebrow at me, cool as ever, but don’t you think for a minute that I don’t catch that flush creeping up above the neck of his dark t-shirt. Instead of denying it thought, he grants me the slightest dip of his chin.

  A major admission for a man like Seamus.

  He’s always had too much weight on those shoulders, even when we were kids. The costs of being a Doyle, the cost of fighting to escape what it means to be a Doyle, and the simple weight of being Seamus. He’s always rebelled just a little by claiming time to himself.

  It’s not that I don’t get the enormity of his responsibilities and the realities that they’ll take their toll. I’m not exactly a stranger to stress myself. But the way that Seamus lets it eat him alive – the way he lets the things he carries for other people and his to-do list – dictate every part of his day and of his soul?

  The fact that he feels like he can only get a bit back for himself at the margins?

  That’s one of the reasons that things between us can never work. I work to live, but I don’t live to work. There’s too much out there, too much to see, to do, to experience, to feel.