Reckless: A Bad Boyz Anthology

by Anthology

  CHAPTER 2

  LIPS PUCKERED, THE health inspector reviews his checklist, his brow knitted with unbreakable focus. “Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses, “everything seems to be in tiptop shape. A plus, Miss Delaney.”

  I release the held breath caught in my chest, the tension draining from my body.

  Meg was sure we would pass, but it doesn’t change the fact it’s a stressful situation. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she were faking sick to get out of being here today.

  “Thank you.” I smile proudly. “This is great news.” And just in time for me to prep for the lunch rush.

  I see him out, thanking him again, then run back into the kitchen to get things started. Marcus, our head chef, already has things going, the soup of the day simmering on the stove. Unfortunately, one of our girls is out today, so I’ll be covering her shift along with my normal duties. At noon, beyond the swinging doors, the banter of patrons gradually builds in the dining room until it’s a gentle roar of voices.

  When I come out, I spot one of my regulars sitting in the corner by the kitchen. He always sits there, with his back to the wall. And he always hits on me. But he leaves my girls alone and tips them extremely well for even a simple cup of coffee. I bear his coming onto me with a polite smile and a nod. I’d ask him to leave and never come back, but he’s brought in a lot of business. I never asked who they were, but I get the feeling they play a role in the Irish Mafia. I’m sure I’ve seen more than a few in the news for pretty major crimes.

  He’s in my section, so I head over to him first. I want to get this over and done with.

  “Afternoon, Seamus.”

  “Hello, Abby,” he says in a thick Irish brogue. “You’re lookin’ very fine today.”

  “Yes, I’m doing well.” I shoot him a quick smile, hoping he’ll get the hint that I’m busy today. “What can I get for you?”

  “Well, that depends.” His smirk makes me squirm—and not in an arousing way.

  “Come now,” I chastise him gently, “I don’t have time for your shenanigans.”

  He smiles coolly, leaning back in his chair. “Why don’t you start me off with some of that chowder and a glass of Pinot.”

  He’s being relatively mild today. Maybe I’ll finally get through a workday without being harassed.

  “Coming right up.” I scoot away from the table before he gets the chance to say anything further, swiftly pour him a bowl of soup and a glass of wine, and bring it back out. When I set it down in front of him, he smiles mischievously, but doesn’t make a blatant remark or try to touch me. First, the outstanding inspection rating. Now Seamus is behaving himself. I turn and walk away with a skip in my step, thinking this may be my lucky day—then he opens his mouth. “I’d rather have that lovely arse served up to me on this table.”

  Ugh.

  This is going to be a long day.

  Later that evening, once Marcus leaves, I start to close up, switching off lights and such. I’m sweeping when the front door opens and the floor planks creak.

  “We’re closed,” I announce without looking back.

  When I don’t get a response, I glimpse behind me and find a strange man watching me. I can’t see his features with his back to the street, the glow of streetlamps obscuring my view. I step toward him to get a better look in the deadened light of the restaurant. I regret it instantly. I recognize the coat he’s wearing as the one the man wore the other night, the man following Meghan and I after our night out. When I dare to look up at his face, his eyes are wide and wild, peering out from a black ski mask. Paralyzed, I scan the figure draped in black, finally noticing the gun in his hand when the headlights of a passing car glint off the barrel pointed directly at me.

  The panic is gripping. A rush of heat washes over me, like I’m standing too close to fire, burning me up from the inside out.

  I raise my hands up defensively. “W-what d-do you w-want?” I question, my voice wavering.

  With those crazy eyes, a grin smears across his face through the mouth hole of his mask. He steps toward me, the gun still aimed in my direction, his blood-curdling sneer fixed in place.

  In an instant, I hatch a shaky plan. There’s a back door in the kitchen, which leads to a maze of pathways between the buildings. It’s risky. It’s my only chance.

  When he starts to move toward me again, I turn and bolt into the kitchen. He gives chase, laughing the hysterical laugh of some demented clown. He’s enjoying this, chasing his prey, the fucking psycho. Refusing to be his victim, I swing the doors back toward the dining room with everything I have, smacking them into him. He growls angrily, smashing them open with a crash. When he spots me, he points the gun and fires, missing by only inches, the bullet ricocheting off the steel-front fridge in front of me, pinging loudly. I bolt for the backdoor and turn the knob, but it doesn’t yield. It’s jammed shut.

  Shit.

  He must’ve known about this door and blocked it with something heavy.

  “Please.” I turn to him, my back pressing against the blockade. “Please, let me go,” I beg. “You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.”

  My rapidly thumping heart rises into my throat.

  When he comes at me, I keep a distance between us, sprinting to the large prepping island. He stands at the opposite end, blocking the entrance to the dining room, my last chance for an escape.

  I move left. He moves left. I move right. He moves right, mimicking me.

  Grabbing a heavy pan off the counter, I toss it at him. It hits his shoulder, but doesn’t seem to do much except piss him off. I snatch another pan and duck behind the counter, listening to his footsteps creeping closer. Silently and swiftly, I stealthily slink about the counter until I’m facing the doors, waiting to make my move. When the toe of his shoe appears, I seize my opportunity and smash the hefty frying pan onto his foot, scrambling for the exit like my life depends on it. Because it does.

  As my fingertips graze the handle, he catches me, dragging me back into the kitchen. I writhe in his arms.

  “Let me go!” I scream.

  He forces me into the counter, violently bending me over, squashing my cheek into its cold metallic surface. I weep, petrified by what’s about to take place, ready to vomit from the overwhelming dread.

  “Please,” I whimper one last desperate plead to his humanity. But there’s nothing human about this monster.

  His greedy hand claws at my crotch, groping and pawing at it roughly over my pants. “Mmm,” he moans into my ear, his hot breath brushing past my nose. Bile rises in my chest and I choke on it, coughing through my tears. “Just relax and let it happen.”

  That voice. It’s unmistakable.

  Seamus.

  He locates the zipper of my slacks, slowly bringing it down. I try to push him back, but his dense unyielding body keeps me immobilized.

  “Help!” I cry out. “Please, somebody, help me!”

  Abruptly, he’s ripped away from my shaking body and I fall to the ground, cradling my legs to my chest, my face in my knees. I battle with my searing lungs, siphoned of oxygen.

  In the distance, there’s a struggle, pans falling to the floor, gurgling, the gasping noise of someone desperately trying to take in air. Placing my hands over my ears and shutting my eyes tight, I force myself to wake from this very real nightmare. Without warning, a startling explosion reverberates across the modest kitchen, juddering through my head and down my spine, followed by a guttural groan and clumsy footsteps rapidly waning through the dining room.

  After gaining a shard of control over myself, I cautiously glimpse up at the dark mass huddled against the island across from me. His face is tilted down, obstructed by his low-hanging hood. His shoulders move up and down with every strained breath he takes. He looks like an injured, cornered animal, holding his right side protectively. He’s been shot.

  Placing my hands on the cabinet behind me, I use it as leverage to gradually stand myself up and walk toward him. With calcula
ted movements, I kneel down beside him gingerly. “May I see?” I ask softly.

  When he nods and removes his hand, I lift up the bottom of his sweatshirt so I’m able to inspect the lesion. There appears to be a little blood, but it’s dark in the kitchen, so I can’t examine the wound clearly. I jump up, turn on the lights, and grab a cloth, wetting it with warm water. I sit next to him again, my legs crossed, and begin to clean around the laceration, noticing the familiar markings of tattoos across his ribcage. I stretch my neck to catch a peek of his face, unable to see through the bottomless darkness the hood creates, and rip it off his head.

  “Jamison?” I mutter with a whispered voice.

  He’s my enigmatic savior?

  Located under a hard-set brow, his diverse eyes meet mine when he detects the tenderness of his name on my lips.

  “Abby,” he murmurs.

  “How did you find me?” I interrogate him.

  He reaches into his pocket, wincing, and retrieves my phone. I use it for everything. It’s my lifeblood. I store all my info in it, addresses, appointments, etc. He must have found my address.

  “I went to your apartment first. When I heard you screaming, I came rushing down.” He gives me a punishing look. “You really shouldn’t keep all your personal data in there.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I take the phone from him. “I might be dead right now if I hadn’t.”

  He grimaces and groans at a rush of pain, his jaw tensing. I set my concern back on his ribs. It doesn’t appear as bad as I first expected, enough to need stitches though.

  “Let me take you to the hospital,” I insist. He shakes his head in resistance. “You’re hurt. Please, let me help you.”

  He pulls away from me, defensively yanking his sweatshirt down and wrapping his hand back around the gash. “No,” he growls and attempts to stand by pressing his back into the side of the counter. Sliding up, he manages to rise to his feet and starts to walk out.

  I can’t let him go. I have to help him, pay him back for saving me. “Wait,” I call, pursuing him. “If you won’t go to a hospital, then you have to let me take care of that.”

  “Why?” he asks gruffly.

  Because you saved my life. Because I owe you everything. Because I don’t want you to walk out that door right now, out of fear I’ll never see you again. I could conjure up plenty of answers for him.

  “You stuck me with a needle.” I shrug. “It only seems fair I do the same to you.”

  I spot the glisten of perspiration on his brow as he fights the stinging ache, finally breaking down.

  “Fine,” he grumbles.

  “Wait one second.”

  Attempting to hide what happened here, I swiftly pick up the pans and bullet casings scattered around the kitchen, turn off the last of the lights, and snatch my keys from the bar, rejoining him by the door less than thirty seconds later. Stepping onto the sidewalk, I lock up behind us and walk the few feet to the door leading to my building. He follows me up the stairs to my apartment, which takes up the entire second level. Being the only occupant of this floor is great. With the restaurant below me, I make all the noise I want. I don’t have to worry about the other tenants either. Above me, there are two other apartments, rented by elderly women, Ester and Marge, both deaf from old age. I visit them as often as possible, spend time with them, fix things, bring them groceries, and cook them meals. They’re the sweetest little things.

  I unlock and open my door, flipping on the lights.

  “Home sweet home,” I announce, dumping my keys in the bowl on the banister by the door. “Why don’t you take a seat on the couch?”

  While he parks himself on the sofa, I walk across the open floorplan into the connected kitchen, separated from the living room by the dining table, and grab the first aid kit. Once I’ve found it, I bring the small white box with the red plus back to the couch with me and set it on the table directly in front of us.

  “We need to get this sweatshirt off,” I comment, my voice faltering at the end. He manages to free one arm, but has trouble with the other, the one above the wound. “Want my help?”

  “I got it,” he barks.

  Prideful.

  After watching him struggle, I finally get annoyed and assist him.

  “Thanks,” he says appreciatively, but there’s still a grumble in his voice. He seems like the type that doesn’t like help from others, does everything on his own. My grandfather was the same way, a stubborn, strong, independent, crotchety old man—but I loved him all the same and miss him like crazy.

  “No problem.”

  I open the kit and take out a bottle of antiseptic, a curved needle, and wiry thread. I pour the solution into a hollow bowl, placing the needle and utensils I’ll need inside. I rub the solution over my hands and then slide on a pair of latex gloves. Applying more disinfectant to a sterile cotton cloth, I dab it on the exposed area. He tenses.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can handle it.” I laugh. “Before I owned the restaurant, I was in medical school studying to be a doctor.”

  “Really?” He sounds impressed.

  “No, I just enjoy sticking people with needles,” I sarcastically confess. I take his right arm and place it along the back of the couch, giving me an opening to his ribs. “I’m not going to lie. This will sting something awful.”

  “I’m not afraid of a little prick, sweetheart.” He glimpses down at his tattoos then back up at me. Face tilted down, I peer up at him under my lashes. Creating a singular dimple, a smirk twitches the corner of his mouth up. I return a smile and shake my head, amused by his inappropriate sense of humor. He always cracks a joke at the oddest times.

  There isn’t much blood, which means the bullet must’ve skimmed the rib beneath the long cut. I clean it off, wiping what little blood there is away so I can really assess him.

  “You’re lucky it’s just a flesh wound. If that bullet were only a few inches to the left, you probably would’ve bled out on my kitchen floor.”

  “But it didn’t,” he states calmly, as if his life wasn’t almost ended by a tiny piece of killer metal.

  I pick the needle out of the dish and stick the thread through the eye, knotting it. I place the sharp point under the cut, piercing his hard flesh, and push it through the other side, pulling the thread until the two-halves connect snuggly. If he’s in pain, he isn’t showing it. Snipping the coarse string, I knot the stitch flush to his skin to ensure it doesn’t loosen while the wound heals. I repeat the process until the open gash is completely shut, placing and securing a sterile square cloth over it with medical tape.

  “There,” I say with pride, “all done.”

  “Thank you.” He sinks back with a tired sigh, the kind you only do when you’ve experienced something completely draining, and shuts his eyes.

  I get up, go back to the kitchen, and take a pill bottle out of the cabinet. “Are you allergic to any medications?” I inquire as I pour him a glass of water. He shakes his head, keeping his eyes closed. When I walk back over, his palm is up on the cushion beside him and I set two pills inside. “Take those,” I order gently.

  He pops them in his mouth and swallows without water, waving it off when I offer it.

  “I should go,” he says, attempting to rise off the couch before I stop him with a hand on the shoulder.

  “You should stay here for the night,” he aims a questioning look in my direction, “so I can keep an eye on you.” Honestly, it’s not the only reason I want him to stay. I do want to keep a watch over him, but I’m also nervous to be alone tonight. I don’t want him in my bed or anything. I’d simply feel better knowing he was near.

  “I don’t live far from here. I’ll be fine.” I look at him pleadingly. “You need me to stay, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I nod my head, “please.” He must notice the scared tone of my voice because he rests back into the couch, relenting.

  “Alright,
I’ll stay the night.”

  “I mean, only if you really want to,” I stammer. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with your girlfriend.”

  He isn’t wearing a wedding ring. I assume if he’s with someone, she’s only a girlfriend.

  “No girlfriend.” He laughs and shakes his head. He seems entertained by my curiosity over his love life. Or, perhaps, he finds the idea of having a girlfriend absurd. Maybe he prefers the similar sex.

  “Boyfriend, then?”

  “No boyfriend.” He doesn’t appear to be offended. In fact, he laughs harder, his head rolling back and his hard abs convulsing under his shirt.

  “Would you like to tell me what’s so damn funny?”

  “You aren’t very good at being subtle,” he states.

  “I wasn’t trying to be,” I admit. “I just didn’t know if you had someone at home waiting for you. I wouldn’t want to overstep a line.” I pause for an instant, leaving an awkwardness hanging in the air. “Let me get you a blanket and pillow.”

  He nods.

  I go to my room down the hall and retrieve supplies from my closet. When I return, he’s standing by the couch in only his jeans. He looks wicked hot. His arms and entire torso from his neck to the low-hanging waist of his jeans is ornate with tats. It’s the most incredible display of art I’ve ever seen.

  “Here.” I hold out a pair of large sweatpants to him. “They belonged to a—friend. I figured you’d rather sleep in those than your jeans.”

  “Cool,” he says, taking them from me.

  I spread a sheet over the couch and tuck it into the cracks between the cushions. When I look up, he’s taking down his pants…and boxer briefs.

  Holy—

  “Like the merchandise?” he asks, taking my attention off his junk.

  “Um.”

  “You have seen a dick before, haven’t you?”

  Sorry to say, I’ve seen more than my share, but none quite so attractive as Jamison’s.