Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  “Interesting,” Mrs. Filan croaks. “You don’t love him?”

  “I do,” I say quickly, praying she doesn’t decide to go and gossip to Pa about this tomorrow. “I do love him. I just… We’ve been married a long time.”

  “Any kids?” she asks.

  “No.”

  She eyes my waist. “I can see that,” she says. “Good. Don’t bother having children. They’re fooking useless.”

  I frown. “Why do you say that?”

  “I gave birth to three children,” she tells me. “And yet here I am, getting a bath from a stranger who can’t even remember if she’s married or not. What do you call that?”

  “Karma?” I offer before I can stop myself.

  What the fuck is wrong with me today?

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Filan is not known for humor. Particularly not when it’s directed at her.

  Her jaw drops, then stiffens into a nasty sneer. “I asked for the other girl, you know. The younger, prettier one. I want her next time.”

  Suddenly, I’ve had it. I’ve reached my limit today.

  “You know what?” I say, leaping to my feet and dropping the sponge so that it plunks down in the tub and splashes Mrs. Filan full in the face. “If that’s what you want, I’ll just go get her right now.”

  “You splashed me.”

  “It’s just water,” I snap at her. “You’ll survive.”

  She yells at my back, but I don’t stop long enough to hear the rest of her tirade.

  I shouldn’t be leaving her in the tub alone. She could slip and fall and break a hip trying to clamber out. That’s a common occurrence around here.

  But I just need to get away from those ugly, invasive eyes.

  I’m so damn close to shattering into pieces.

  I spot Shane in the lobby and I wave to him. At almost six foot-five, the man’s hard to miss.

  “Hey,” I say. “Where’s Lauren?”

  “Think she’s in the rec room.”

  “Mrs. Filan wants her.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes. I’d tell her to hurry, too. Mrs. Filan’s a stickler for tardiness.”

  “You’re supposed to be with Mrs. Filan right now,” he says, consulting the board behind him with everyone’s schedules.

  “What can I tell you?” I say. “She kicked me out. She hates my guts.”

  “She doesn’t like redheads,” Shane says, surprising me.

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  He smiles. “Yeah. Apparently, her husband left her for one.”

  “Jesus!” I cry, throwing my hands up. “How is that my fault?”

  “You’re the other woman—in her head, I mean.”

  I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. “God help me. I’m going home.”

  He looks a little pained. And I know it’s because Shane’s got a hard-on for the rules. Usually, I’m on the same page.

  But today, I just don’t give a damn anymore.

  He seems to notice that, too.

  “Hey,” he prods gently. “You okay?”

  I heave a long sigh and rub my temples. “Not really,” I admit. “But then again, who is?”

  “Right,” he says, voice thick with concern. “Okay, go on and get out of here. I’ll have Lauren go in and finish her bath.”

  “Thanks, Shane.”

  He gives me a sweet smile. I bask in the warmth of it for a moment.

  A friendly face is so rare these days.

  I’ve noticed the way he looks at me, too. He likes me.

  Not that I’m open to that. I’m married to Tristan Rearden, as Mrs. Filan was nice enough to remind me.

  And that’s not loyalty talking.

  It’s pure fucking fear.

  “Have a good evening, Shane.”

  “You too, Saoirse.”

  I go to my locker, grab my bag, and head out onto the streets.

  I’m running a little late tonight so I probably should take a cab, but that would mean I’d get home sooner, and I have no interest in that.

  I need this walk. I need the fresh air, cold as it might be.

  The streets are still packed, filled with a bunch of tired people trekking back home after a long day at work.

  Most of them look relieved. But there are a fair few who look like what I imagine I look like right now.

  Like we’re all being led into a prison cell.

  As I walk through the streets, I see a flash of blond. My neck cranes in that direction instantly. I know even before I get a good look that it’s not Cillian.

  But it’s instinct to keep searching. To keep hoping. Even though it hurts every time.

  Like I said before…

  Pathetic.

  22

  Saoirse

  The house is dark and quiet when I arrive. I breathe with relief. Hopefully, this means that Tristan has been held up with some police business. Or maybe it’s Kinahan business.

  I don’t particularly care either way. Just so long as it keeps him busy.

  First thing I do is head straight to the bedroom. I strip off my scrubs and throw it in the laundry hamper before soaking in the tub for a good half hour.

  Once I’ve washed away the work day, I shimmy into some grey sweats and a baggy t-shirt from my teen years. I’ve held on to it even though it’s worn thin as tissue paper.

  Mostly because it reminds me of a simpler time. A time when I wasn’t anyone’s wife. When I was just Saoirse Connelly.

  I could have been anything.

  I could have gone anywhere.

  Instead, I’m here.

  Saoirse Rearden—wife to a dirty cop, daughter to a broken father.

  Loveless. Lifeless. Hopeless.

  Bleh.

  I head to the kitchen and root around through the fridge. There’s some leftover chicken from the night before, some roast veggies, and a ridiculous amount of beer.

  I take out the food and leave the alcohol where it is.

  I’ve just warmed myself up a plate of chicken when the door bangs open, and my whole entire body curls in on itself as though a frost just tore through.

  “Saoirse!” my husband roars.

  My name is always the first word on his lips when he walks through that door. A constant reminder that he is my keeper. That there is no freedom for me—not as long as he’s got breath left in his body.

  “Saoirse!”

  I close my eyes for a moment. “I’m here,” I call back softly. “In the kitchen.”

  He appears at the door. It’s so small a space that he’s only feet from me. The stink of whiskey clings to his breath and clothes as he stumbles straight for me.

  His hands wind harshly into my hair as he jerks me close to him. He takes a deep breath, and like always, I go limp and still against him.

  Even after twelve years, I haven’t gotten used to his touch. I’ve just learned to endure it.

  “Mmm… you smell fuckin’ great,” he rumbles. “But why the fuck are you wearing so many clothes?”

  I pull away from him under the guise of retrieving my plate from the microwave. “I was just getting dinner ready.”

  He doesn’t even ask who the plate of food is for. Just plucks it from my hand and sits down at the table.

  “Fork?” he asks impatiently.

  I swallow my anger and pass him a fork and knife. There’s a moment of hesitation when I contemplate stabbing him with the knife instead of handing it to him.

  But I allow myself only a moment to entertain the thought before I bury it. Maybe I should be concerned with how violent my thoughts have turned in recent years.

  Some women fantasize about cheating on their husbands.

  I fantasize about killing mine.

  I’ve played out a hundred different scenarios in my head. All of them end with Tristan’s glassy eyes staring back at me as I stand over him in triumph.

  There’s no sense of guilt attached to those fantasies, either. But then again, when it comes to Tristan, I have very l
ittle feeling left to give.

  Utensils in hand, he stabs the chicken, skewers a couple of carrots, and shovels it all into his mouth to chew like a horse.

  I can see the relief wash over his face. My own stomach roils with hunger.

  I realize that I haven’t eaten much all day. I picked up a croissant and a cup of coffee from a bakery on my way to work this morning, but during my lunch break, I’d been dealing with a whole group of cranky old seniors who weren’t happy with the meal choice on offer.

  By the time I’d managed to convince them all to eat—a negotiation process that had taken almost an hour—I’d been so tired that I retreated into a back room to close my eyes.

  It was only supposed to be a minute or two. Just enough time to breathe and recalibrate.

  But one minute turned into twenty, and by the time I woke up, all I could do was grab a yogurt cup from the staff fridge in the back before heading off to massage Mr. O’Malley.

  I haven’t eaten a thing since then.

  I move to the fridge and look inside.

  Now that Tristan’s taken my share, all the chicken is gone. So are the roast vegetables.

  The only thing edible is a bunch of neglected baby carrots in a little Ziplock bag at the back of the top shelf.

  I take them out and start crunching on them. They do next to nothing to curb my craving for real food, but at least it staves off the hunger temporarily.

  “Sit down,” Tristan directs me.

  Left with no choice, I sit down directly opposite to him so that there’s as much distance between us as possible.

  He eyes the bag of carrots in front of me. “That’s all you’re eating?”

  “That’s all there is.”

  It doesn’t even seem to register to him to offer me half his plate of food.

  “Well, it takes work to keep that body tight,” he replies with a shrug.

  I bite down hard on a carrot and try to remain detached. But I can feel him watching me now. Now that his hunger has been sated, he can focus on me.

  “Jesus, you look like a fucking old maid,” he snaps. “I buy you so much shit that you never wear.”

  “I’d prefer to buy my own clothes.”

  “What happened to the lingerie I bought for you last week?” he demands.

  “I hate pink.”

  His eyes narrow. “It cost two hundred fucking euros.”

  “I never asked you to spend that money,” I tell him. “I’d rather save up for a bigger house.”

  “Why?” he demands. “So you can move your loser father in with us? That’s not gonna fucking happen. We could have a five-bedroom with a fucking pool out back and I wouldn’t let that old drunk live here.”

  “He’s a gambler,” I correct automatically. “You’re the drunk, remember?”

  He lets his fork drop to the plate with a clatter.

  I should know better than to piss him off. Especially when he’s drunk.

  But sometimes, fighting back is the only proof I have that I’m still here.

  That I’m still alive.

  “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

  Normally, I’d back down. Tactical retreat, as they call it. I went too far once already and this path will only lead to significant pain in my future.

  But I’ve had a shit day and a shit life and for one brief fucking conversation at the very least, I want the man who causes so much of that shittiness to experience what it feels like to be on the receiving end.

  “You heard me. You’re drunk right now,” I point out. “And it’s not even nine at night.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything, eh?” he roars. “Night is night. I’m off work and I want to unwind. Relax. What I don’t want is a lecture from my bratty little wife.”

  He likes doing that.

  He likes using words like “bratty” and “childish” and “immature.” He likes reminding me that I was basically still a kid when I was forced to marry him.

  He thinks that, because he’s been the entirety of my adult life, that he has some sort of twisted hold on me.

  On my good days, I’m scared it might be true.

  And on my bad ones, I feel it in my bones that it is.

  “Fine. I’ll stop talking then.”

  “This is the thanks I get?” he presses on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’ve given you a nice home, nice things. And you can’t even muster up a thank you. You can’t even look nice for me.”

  I glance down at my sweats. “This doesn’t do it for you, baby?” I drawl sarcastically.

  I laugh to myself and reach for another carrot, but he grabs the bag and flings it across the room.

  Slamming both hands on the table, he leans in to me, his breath sour from the liquor.

  “Stand up.”

  “Tristan…”

  “I’ve given you everything,” he snarls at me, the alcohol exacerbating his anger. “And you haven’t even been able to give me a child.”

  I cringe back at his words, but I don’t want to hear this.

  I’ve heard it too often in the last few years.

  I get up and try to move past him, but he grabs me by the hand and pulls me towards him.

  “Tristan, please…”

  “It’s about time you gave me a fucking son.”

  Ignore him, I tell myself. Just fucking ignore him.

  Things always go a little better when I don’t engage.

  But it’s harder than it seems to keep silent. It’s not in my nature to be so passive. It’s not in my nature to ignore a bully.

  He shoves me back up against the kitchen counter and starts pawing at me.

  “If you were wearing the fucking lingerie I bought you, I wouldn’t have to work so hard to get my cock hard.”

  Swallow it, Saoirse.

  Don’t engage.

  Bite your fucking tongue.

  “Or maybe you should lay off the alcohol,” I blurt out, “instead of blaming me for your malfunctioning dick.”

  Oops.

  His reaction is immediate. Almost as though he’s expecting it.

  He hauls off and punches me in the face.

  I careen into the fridge. Cheap as it is, I half-expect it to crack in half from the impact.

  Instead, I’m the one who cracks in half.

  My head hits the plaster so hard I see stars. I can taste the tang of blood in my mouth and the world goes dark at the edges.

  Before I can recover, Tristan grabs me by the hair and drags me screaming out of the kitchen. Probably because there’s not enough space for him to slap me around in there.

  “You need to learn your fucking place in this house,” he seethes at me as he tows me down the hall. “Under my fucking heel.”

  I try and claw his hands off me, but he just tugs on my hair harder until my knees buckle.

  When we get into the living room, he hurls me forward onto the rug. I’m just catching my breath when I hear a horrifying sound.

  His belt buckle clacking open.

  The whisper of leather as he rips it off, tosses it aside, and starts to unbutton his pants.

  No.

  Having sex with Tristan is hard enough.

  But being raped by him is a humiliation that I don’t think I will ever live down.

  It’s a scar that will forever be imprinted on my soul.

  I try and get up, but he slaps me down again with the back of his hand. I fall back onto the sofa as he manages to get his pants down around his ankles.

  I can punch back.

  I can try to run.

  But I’ll have to return here at some point, and that means going through this process all over again, but worse.

  Might as well just get it over with now.

  I blink back tears as Tristan pulls out his cock.

  Except that, despite the lust on his face… he’s still soft.

  I look dead at him.

  I’m not laughing—not quite that suicidal just yet—but my eyes sure as hell are
.

  And I know that a man with an ego as fragile as his can’t handle that.

  Scowling as if his limp dick is my fault, he lunges forward and rakes my t-shirt over my head.

  I thrash but he gets it off and his eyes fall immediately to my naked breasts.

  Then he tugs the sweatpants off me, his fingers clawing at me like razor burns. No matter how much I kick and struggle, he’s just too big. Too strong. Too drunk to care if my blows land or not.

  Once I’m lying naked before him, he glares at me, his teeth gritted as he grabs hold of his cock and starts tugging hard.

  I can see him getting hard slowly, and I don’t want that to happen.

  “I don’t need a fucking pill,” he grunts, more to himself than to me, like his dick needs the verbal encouragement. “Open your fucking mouth.”

  I look up at him, my expression curdling. “Don’t make me put it in like this,” I say. “I don’t like putting it in when it’s so… limp.”

  Anger flashes across his eyes.

  “Get hard first,” I suggest not-that-helpfully.

  I know he can’t get hard on his own. Not right now.

  Asking him to do it will only stall the process, and make it harder for him to keep going now that I’m “expecting” him to.

  He doesn’t like pressure.

  He tries, though, frantically jerking at his wilted cock for a long minute.

  I never stop staring at him right in his stupid fucking eyes.

  Another minute passes and I can breathe because I know it’s a lost cause.

  He knows it, too. Growling, he hits me again, knocking me back against the sofa.

  It barely even registers as pain. Nothing he does hurts quite as much these days as it used to. Tonight, less than ever.

  So little, in fact, that I can’t help but laugh.

  “You think this is fucking funny?” he demands. “You little whore!”

  He raises his hand to slap me again.

  But this time, I’m ready for it.

  I duck under the slap and shoot forward low to the ground. With his pants still around his ankles, Tristan tries to turn and follow me, but he trips and hits the ground hard.

  I scurry into the kitchen.

  Knife, knife, where’s a fucking—

  I find a butcher’s knife right as I hear him storming towards me, huge footsteps landing heavy with a thump-thump-thump.