by Holly Hart
Scorched
A Byrne Brothers Romance
Holly Hart
Red Cape Romance
Contents
SNEAK PEEK
1. Ridley
2. Ridley
3. Frankie
4. Ridley
5. Frankie
6. Ridley
7. Frankie
8. Ridley
9. Frankie
10. Ridley
11. Ridley
12. Frankie
13. Ridley
14. Frankie
15. Ridley
16. Frankie
17. Ridley
18. Frankie
19. Frankie
20. Ridley
21. Frankie
22. Ridley
23. Frankie
24. Ridley
25. Frankie
26. Epilogue - Frankie
Byrne Baby Byrne
1. Kieran
2. Kieran
3. Sofia
4. Kieran
5. Sofia
6. Kieran
7. Sofia
8. Kieran
9. Kieran
10. Sofia
11. Kieran
12. Sofia
13. Sofia
14. Kieran
15. Sofia
16. Sofia
17. Sofia
18. Sofia
19. Kieran
20. Sofia
21. Kieran
22. Sofia
23. Kieran
24. Sofia
25. Kieran
26. Sofia
Epilogue
27. Author’s Note
27. BEGGING FOR BAD BOYS
SNEAK PEEK
EXCLUSIVE SNEAK PEEK
“Ye look good,” Ridley chuckles, “fer a girl who was shoving a burger down her throat half an hour ago…”
I add to that comment to the naughty list that’s growing in my head. When Ridley lets me out of here, frees my mouth and undoes my bindings, the first thing I’m going to do is slap him for that!
“Real good,” he finishes in an entranced hiss. The sound of Ridley’s voice sends a shiver running through me. I don’t think a man’s ever reacted to me like that before. I’ve literally stolen the breath from his lungs. Whatever power Ridley has over me right now – I’ve got something over him as well. A pull, perhaps, that’s even greater.
Ridley hooks his fingers into my underwear and slides them down my thighs. Suddenly I’m naked – bar the shirt that’s still somehow hanging onto my shoulders, if nowhere else.
“Jaysus, gal,” he growls. He sounds like I just punched him in the stomach. “Ye get better and better every time I look at you, you know that?”
I lie back, unable to say a word. I’m sure that by now my cheeks must be as red as the silk covering my vision. Ridley’s compliments are a special kind of torture. I don’t feel nearly as sexy as the girl he’s in awe of.
Except, maybe I do.
Inch by inch, compliment by compliment;
I am that girl. The one stealing Ridley’s breath away, the one he adores.
Yet again, Ridley breaks the spell. The small, brick dungeon is suddenly alive with the sound of buzzing. I blink; it takes a second for me to realize what the hell it is;
a vibrator.
Ohmigod.
1
Ridley
“And you’re really happy,” my twin brother Mac grunts, swirling the dregs of a golden pint of ale, “spending the rest of your life with the same woman?”
He lifts the glass to his lips, tips his head back, and drains the remnants of his beer. We’re three pints down – at least – maybe more; it’s hard to count. They just keep coming. In fact, it’s definitely more than three. I know because the last time I stood up, it felt like the pub’s floor had been replaced by a wooden sailing boat bobbing about in a stormy Boston Harbor.
“Because that would scare the crap out of me…” Mac finishes with a flourish, slamming his pint glass down so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t shatter right then and there.
Kieran leans back on his barstool. His black hair looks to be an inch shorter than he used to keep it, and his face less lined. He seems simultaneously older, and younger. Like he’s had to grow up, yet the stresses of life have somehow been lifted from his shoulders.
“Ye should try it sometime,” he grins. “It’ll do ye a world of good. When was the last time ye got laid, Mac? This month? This year?”
A burst of laughter escapes my lips. I snort, and strain to stop beer pouring out from my nostrils. The foamy liquid stings nonetheless. “Cut the poor lad some slack, Kieran,” I choke. “He’s having a hard enough time as it is.”
Mac glowers at me. Hell, at both of us. We’re both older than him, even if in my case, only by a few minutes. Maybe I should know better than to rib him like this: after all, it was no fun being the butt of Kieran and Declan’s jokes all those years. But what’s the point of having a younger brother if you don’t get to needle him from time to time?
Exactly.
Kieran grins at me. He knows he’s found an ally, and he knows that Mac is an easy target, ready to be taken down, like a wounded gazelle dragging its body across the plains. Kieran licks his lips. There’s a hungry, predatory look in his eyes. The corners of my lips jump up in return.
“That’s a good point, brother,” Kieran grunts, staring at Mac with wicked intent. “How do ye reckon it feels?”
Mac doesn’t reply. He jerks his head at the Drunken Monkey’s bartender and points at his glass. His face is a picture of embarrassed, impotent fury. Darkness flushes across his cheeks like thunderstorm clouds being pushed by a gale force wind. He knows better than to reply: knows that whatever he says, it’ll only make it worse.
“How what feels?” I say, filling in for my twin. I know what’s happening. It’s not a real question; I’m just pitching an easy ball for Kieran to hit out of the park.
“Why,” Kieran laughs, “Mac’s balls. What do ye reckon they feel like after all this time? Heavy? Do you reckon he can even walk with them? Or is it more of a waddle?”
The bartender disguises a smile as he hands Mac a fresh drink. My twin stares at him with daggers in his eyes, and the kid knows better than to say a word. I push my pint glass towards him. I’m having fun. Mac’s always been a good laugh: quick to smile, and easier to bait.
I close one eye, tip my head to one side and pretend to look at Mac critically. “Now that you mention it,” I say. “He is sitting with his legs pretty wide. I’m going with waddle. What say ye, brother?”
“Go to hell,” Mac mutters.
Kieran turns to me, that same wicked glint in his eye. I should know better than to ignore it, but I do. I just figure he’s got another way of winding Mac up on his mind. I’m close, so close: but also a million miles away.
“What about ye, then, little brother?” He chuckles. “Ha’ ye got any ladies in your life tha’ yer not telling me about? Or are you stuck in the middle of the Sahara like little Mac here?”
“None of your goddamn business,” I grunt, clasping a cold, fresh glass of beer between my fingers. It’s cool and wet, like scraping your knuckles down a window glistening with fresh springtime condensation. I flick the tiny droplets of water at Kieran, but it’s like spitting into the face of a wildfire. It gets me nowhere. “Some of us don’t need to settle down with the same old lady, brother. You ain’t tired of Sofia yet?”
I lob out the question with a smile on my lips. I already know the answer. I’ve never seen a man more besotted with his woman than Kieran is with Sofia Morello –
Sofia-soon-to-be Byrne. Maybe Dec with Casey, but I’m not sure. It’s a dead heat, a tossup, in my mind.
“Never!” Kieran declares with a flourish, sloshing beer all around the bar. “Not in a million years. She’s a fine lady, Sofia: a damn fine lady. You don’t know what it’s like to have a warm body in yer bed at night until ye have to go without. But,” Kieran grins slyly, “I guess ye’d know all about that, wouldn’t ye, Rid?”
I take my time before replying, lifting the cold beer to my lips and taking a deep swig. The bubbles tickle my throat. I lean back, and soak in the muted, relaxed atmosphere of the Monkey. I like this: this calm. Boston hasn’t known peace in a couple of years, but the last few months – ever since Kieran took down Mickey Morello – the city’s been an oasis.
“Still listening…” Kieran prompts.
I take a deep breath in through my nostrils. I smell the sweat of working men, the stale aroma of spilled beer, the rich mustiness of a mahogany pub that looks like it could’ve been transported in one piece from peaceful Galway, a whole ocean away. I’d never want my apartment to smell like this, but right here, right now it just feels – well…
Right.
“Maybe I’m just taking me time, brother,” I smile. “Not rushing into things, like. Speaking of, thought ye were marrying the poor girl? Or are you just stringing her on?”
“You ever,” Kieran starts, raising an eyebrow sardonically, “try living with a pregnant woman, ye’d know better than to think I’m stringing the girl along. Sometimes it feels the other way around, ‘specially when I’m running around Boston at three in the morning looking for cookies and cream ice cream…”
“When’s the wedding then, brother?” Mac pipes up. The irritation has fled from his face, probably because I’m now the target of Kieran’s attention, not him. “Need to know when to buy me suit…”
Kieran shrugs, tips the last of his beer down his throat, and slides the glass across the sticky wooden bar. “Your guess is as good as mine. She doesn’t want to get up in front of the crowd with a baby in her belly. I get that.”
“You sure that she’s not just stringing ye along, now?” I say. It’s my turn to have a wicked glint in my eye.
Kieran stands up, claps his hand on top of my shoulder and squeezes it. “Funny,” he grunts. “But you’ll find out what it’s like, one day.”
I don’t say anything. I want to. I want to take Kieran’s words, twist them, and use them to jerk him around. But I don’t. There’s something in how he says what he says – simple, honest – I can tell he means it, and it makes me pause for thought. I’ve never wanted a girl for a full-time gig. It’s hard enough keeping up with my side hustles. But there’s something about Kieran these days – perhaps this sense of calm, easy relaxation that he’s exuding in spades – that, just for a second, makes me wonder whether I need something more in my life.
Nah.
And then I break the spell. “Fat chance,” I say as Kieran rifles his wallet. He grabs a thin wedge of twenty dollar bills and slaps them down on the bar. I raise an eyebrow. “What’s this for, brother?”
Kieran smirks. “Figured the least I could do for ye sad, lonely bastards is help youse drink away your sorrows…”
I throw a lazy punch in Kieran’s direction, but he ducks it and spins round toward the exit, chuckling. “Ye can’t throw a punch to save your life, brother. Never could…”
I turn on my stool and throw an insult of my own in my brother’s direction. “Tell the missus I said hi. Have fun picking out a new set of curtains tomorrow. Need a clear head for that, I’m sure…”
I finger the green bills, caressing the soft cotton and linen. Kieran’s laughter rings in my ears until he’s well out the other side of the door. I’m not mad. Not in the slightest. Hell – I’ve enjoyed this back and forth between Mac, Kieran and I. It’d be better if all five of us brothers were here, but any day I don’t have to shoot someone is a good one by me.
“Ye want another, then?” I ask Mac. Judging by the way he’s holding his head in his hands, swaying in his barstool, he really doesn’t need one.
My twin gets to his feet, pushing his stool back. It almost topples over behind him. “I’m good, brother,” he mutters, looking decidedly worse for wear. “I’ve gotta be … somewhere.”
“That’s mysterious,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Since when do you keep secrets from me?”
Mac turns and flips me the bird. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that day in second grade when you told Miss Jackson I was trying to peek down Chloe Donahue’s top.”
I shake my head. “I was just looking out for the poor lass, so I was.”
Mac narrows his eyes, finishes his pint, and grimaces at me. “I didn’t even know who Chloe was. Three weeks of detention, Rid. Three weeks!”
“Geez, brother,” I smile. “You sure know how to hold a grudge…”
Mac throws his coat over his shoulders and turns to leave. “It wasn’t the detention I was worried about,” he says. “It was Ma paddling my ass until it was red raw. Anyway, I gotta go.”
“What’s the hurry?” I ask, toying with my half-empty beer. “Are ye just going to leave your poor twin brother here, all by himself?” I grin. “Anything could happen to me…”
Mac rolls his eyes. “Maybe something should,” he grunts. “Serve you right, so it would.”
“It’s a girl, isn’t it?” I shout at Mac’s departing back. “I know it is; you don’t have to hide it, now.”y
But my words die in the quiet pub without so much as a word in reply. I shrug, tossing the money at the barman. “I guess that’s that, then. Keep the change.”
When I step out of the pub, the cool spring air bites at my face. I’m lost inside my own head. Declan’s found himself a wife: now Kieran’s as close as makes no difference; but Mac, too? I start to wonder whether maybe there’s a bit more to life than the way I’m blasting through it – one woman at a time.
“Ah, get a grip…”
I button up my favorite, old and frayed gray overcoat. As it closes around my chest, the pistol tucked in the small of my back presses against my skin. It’s just a little reminder that I’m carrying. Outside it is well past dark, almost eleven at night, and the streets are quiet. I’m not expecting trouble.
Here’s the thing: it’s exactly quiet times like these when trouble likes to strike.
I hear a scuffle at the other end of the quiet, run down, residential street near the docks. I glance left and right. It’s probably a couple of drunks: not my problem. And this isn’t the kind of area a man wants to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong; unless he wants to get it shot off, that is.
“Leave it, Rid,” I mutter, “it ain’t your problem.”
For a second, I really think I’m going to do it. But if there’s a kind of man who could do that, it sure as hell isn’t me. I glance down the empty end of the street one last time. Not my problem. But then I turn and start striding towards the four disguised figures at the end of the street.
Because it is my problem: I’m Ridley Goddamn Byrne. This is my town, these are my streets, and these are my people.
The indistinct figures become clearer as I approach. Four men: no – three men – and a woman; the long red hair is a dead giveaway. That’s when the anger starts to build inside me. The men – all Hispanic, all with shaven heads and tattoos on their faces – are surrounding the poor girl like a pack of hyenas swirling around a wounded antelope.
One of them has a knife in his hand. I move quietly … stealthily … inching forward. I unbutton my coat so I can get to my weapon: just in case. I sidle down the road, sticking to the nearest wall for cover. Time slows: the world quiets; everything stops as I prepare to make my move.
Then I step out from the shadows, because lurking in the darkness is for thugs: not for men like me. I like to face my problems head on.
“Do we have a problem, gentlemen?”
2
Ridley
“Who
the fuck are you?” The knife-wielding gangster snarls. He spins away from the girl, and I let out a sigh of relief. I’ve dealt with these cartel types before – because that’s who these men are, clear as day. I’ve seen them cut men to ribbons just to make a point. A part of me feared that these animals would do the same to this redhead.
My relief, however, doesn’t last long; now the animal with a face painted like a tattooed jungle tribesman is staring at me. I never passed go. I failed to collect two hundred bucks. I have, however, quickly arrived at the top of this psychopath’s shit list.
The gangster – a tanned man, with skin a mocha caramel brown – swaggers towards me. He waves his knife around like he’s conducting an orchestra. All I want to do is punch him in the nose. I want to feel his cartilage snap crackle and fucking pop underneath my knuckles. I want to see a shower of violet droplets of blood misting through the air. I want to smell the salt of his fear on the breeze, and make him grovel for my mercy.
I bite my lip. A flash of pain shoots through my body, and my heart beat rises. I squash the desire to hurt this man; to break him. I will do all of that: but in my own time. First, I’ll give him a chance.
“That,” I smile – narrow lipped, without humor –, “is a question I could ask you,” I growl. “What the hell are you doing in my town?”
The gangster’s two accomplices hold the redheaded girl tight between them. I ignore the arrogant thug walking towards me, his hips swaying like a Latin dancer. I don’t care that he’s cock of the walk, or that he thinks that he holds all the cards, because I only have eyes for her.
I pretend that I’m doing this because I’m a Byrne, and these are our streets. I pretend that I would do this for anyone.
But it’s a lie.
I’ve always had a thing for a pretty girl, and this one’s no different. Her eyes flicker left and right: white, then blue; white, then icy blue. I can’t possibly know that, not for sure – it is way too dark – but somehow I can sense it.