by Anthology
He stiffens his grip.
“Some things should be left in the dark, Abby.”
Starting at his neck, I run my fingers down his artful torso to his bellybutton, circling around it. “Everyone has something they’re running from, Jamison. I understand how challenging it can be to look in the mirror and accept the things you’ve done.”
He nods in agreement.
“What are you running from?” he inquires.
“When I was a teenager, about thirteen, I started feeling angry about my parents’ passing. I was going through many changes, wishing my mom were there to help me figure myself out and guide me into womanhood. I hated girls who had their mothers to turn to during that crucial time of growth. I was searching for something, acceptance, love, understanding. I found it in the beds of random men. I filled the void with meaningless sex, which helped in the moment. But once it was done, I felt emptier than when I started.”
He looks at me intently, quietly studying my face, my eyes, my soul. He stares for several ticks, just taking me in. I wish I knew what he’s thinking, feeling, needing.
“I’d been doing minor things for my father since I was a kid,” he says, his resistance seemingly broken down, “delivering messages, working at one of the auto shops he owned to appear on the up and up with the IRS, making runs for whatever his boys needed. It’s just how it was, so it didn’t seem out of place. As I got older, he had me take on bigger jobs. He was prepping me to take things over one day. When I was seventeen, he gave the order—” he trails off.
“He ordered, what?” I inquire. But I already know.
“To take someone out.” His words thicken the air. “I couldn’t do it.”
Every muscle unclenches all at once, my body going limp like wet pasta.
“I’m glad you couldn’t.”
He sets his cheek against the crown of my head. “Me too,” he whispers.
Lying restlessly under the weight of our confessions, neither of us sleeps much the rest of the night.
In the week following our life-threatening encounter, Jamison sleeps in my bed every night, protectively watching over me. Some nights, we stay up late and talk, mostly about our ambitions and hopes for the future. I explain my plans to open a second restaurant in New York. He confesses his secret fantasy of escaping everything and living down in South America. We talk about all the things we could never share with others. But even with the progress we’ve made to let each other in, a barrier remains between us.
He’s holding himself back. He’s yet to make a move past kissing me, but I’m ready for more intimacy, more of a connection with him. I want him more than I’ve wanted any man, which is exactly why tonight will change everything.
Friday night, Jamison picks me up for dinner. We eat at a hole-in-the-wall sushi bar. It’s absolutely delicious, and the company isn’t bad either. But something seems off about him, weighing him down. I don’t push it, since he probably won’t tell me anyway. During our meal, he receives a message on his phone, checking it quickly then turning it off.
After dinner, as we drive, I realize we’re leaving North End and entering a more rural, working class area of Boston. I glimpse over at him to ask where we’re headed, but I stop myself when I notice the hard lines of concentration straining his face as he focuses on something beyond the windshield.
“Is everything alright?” I inquire worriedly.
He smiles at me, but it’s empty.
“I have to make a stop,” he says somberly.
I nod and ease back into my seat.
A few minutes later, we pull up to an Irish pub, parking out front. It’s dark for a drinking establishment, as if they don’t want patrons to come inside. There’s a large man standing outside the door, but I get an inkling he isn’t a bouncer.
“I shouldn’t be long,” Jamison informs me, climbing out. When he walks up to the man out front, he points to me and the broad, intimidating stranger nods. Jamison disappears into the bar and the man keeps his sights on me, glancing from side to side every now and then. He must be freezing on a night like this, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. He stands there like a statue, unwavering, not a shiver of a muscle or chatter of teeth. Thankfully, Jamison left the engine running, the heater keeping the cab comfortable.
I try not to concentrate on the behemoth and flip down the visor, checking on my makeup and hair in the little mirror instead. I’m not one to bother myself with all that, but I’m trying to do anything I can to not think about how shady this situation appears.
This is probably his father’s place, one of many enterprises he owns to keep on the up and up for tax purposes and the government. Though, I’m sure he’s already on the FBI’s radar. I just hope whatever Jamison is doing here, has nothing to do with his father’s real business.
I must’ve drank too much sake because my bladder suddenly feels like it’s filled with rocks. I’m sure Jamison wouldn’t want me leaving the car and going inside. Hell, I’m not sure I want to go inside myself. But I don’t know how much longer he plans to be or how long I can hold it. I decide it isn’t worth the sharp pain of holding it and climb out of the car.
As I’m about to walk inside, the hulking man by the door sticks his hand out to block my entrance. “Mr. O’Rourke asks for you to remain in the car.”
“I’m in need of the ladies room,” I admit, doing a little dance to indicate the direness of the situation. “I’ll only be a moment,” I promise him.
He nods his head and drops his hand to let me through. The main room is quiet, dimly light, and nearly empty, only a few men sitting around talking and drinking. They watch me as I attempt to move unnoticed towards the back, where I’ll most likely locate the restroom. And I do.
Once I’ve finished, I exit and turn to walk back out to the car, but the faint sound of voices, both male, catches my attention when I realize one is Jamison. Tiptoeing in the direction of the cracked open door at the very end, I get close enough to spy Jamison sitting on the edge of a desk, a man in a dark suit in the office with him.
“You need to be careful,” the man warns.
“I am careful,” Jamison responds.
“Are you sure about that?”
“What are you talking about?” Jamison stands up, his body language aggressive, with his hands balled into fists at his side.
“That little girlfriend of yours could prove to be more trouble than she’s worth.”
“Have you been following her?” Anger rises in Jamison’s voice.
“It comes with the job, O’Rourke. We don’t need any loose ends.”
“She doesn’t know anything. Leave her out of this.”
“It’s just a fair warning, kid. This life doesn’t work well when too many people get involved. She may hear something she doesn’t want to hear, then what, O’Rourke?”
“I fucking told you she doesn’t know anything. She won’t be a problem.”
“I hope you’re right, for everyone’s sake.”
“Do you have what you came for or not?” Jamison asks, sounding on edge. The suit-clad man unlocks a desk drawer, retrieving a thick, unmarked envelope and hands it to him. Jamison opens it up, discreetly glimpsing inside, but I can’t see anything from this angle. “This should about do it,” he says.
Is it drugs? Money?
“I think you’re right,” the other man agrees, seemingly satisfied by the encounter. Jamison slides the envelope into the breast pocket in the inner lining of his jacket.
Did he lie to me about his involvement with his father’s business?
“This is the end of it, right?” Jamison asks.
“We’ll be keeping in touch,” the man in the suit says before turning towards the door. When I realize Jamison’s readying to leave, I move down the hall quickly and quietly, back out to the front of the bar. If he catches me there, I’ll say I was leaving after using the restroom. Luckily, I get back to the car without being found out. He must’ve gotten caught up by someone
or something.
A few minutes later, Jamison strides out, patting the giant’s back on his way toward the car. He slides into the driver’s seat, removes the envelope from his jacket, and shoves it into the glovebox, slamming the latch shut, but not before the pistol ominously placed inside catches my eye. When I glance over at him, he doesn’t look at me, even though I know he feels my eyes on him, his visibly fighting the urge to acknowledge my gaze.
He shifts the car into gear and drives away. No longer than we’ve left, as if the weather is reflecting the mood in the car, it begins to rain. At first, it’s no more than a sporadic drop on the windshield or the roof, but then it really comes down, hard and thick, blanketing the windows in water.
After ten minutes of tense silence and awkward glances, we’re finally down by the bay, pulling up to Jamison’s renovated ice warehouse, a long-standing brick structure on a pier, with a seriously intimidating metal gate out front forbidding entry. He presses a button on the clicker clipped to his visor. With a rattle and a groan, it slowly opens, and he pulls inside, parking in a smaller building beside the main building.
He assists me out and guides me over to a heavy-duty black door with a code pad above the handle. Overhead, an intense light sits between two cameras peering down at us. He punches a few numbers into the pad, an unnerving buzz sounding off, followed by the door loudly clicking unlocked. Opening it, he gestures me through, and I hesitantly walk in, darkness preventing me from getting a look at my surroundings. The lights come on, revealing the surprisingly nice space. I hadn’t really gotten a good look at it when I’d been here before. I suppose I was too focused on Jamison to really care. It does look a lot different at night though. Neon signs burn colorfully on the exposed brick walls, with framed images of tattoos hung like artwork. A black leather sofa and matching chairs occupy the center of the room. It’s rough and masculine. It’s Jamison.
The intimidating door slams behind me, instigating me to jump slightly.
“It doesn’t look like much on the outside,” he says, “but that’s the point.”
“What is this place?” I casually wave my hand around in the air.
“It’s my sanctuary.”
“A safe house,” I confirm.
“It’s safe. It’s my house.”
“Why would you need all that security outside?”
“I bought it when I worked for my father.” When. He shrugs his coat off his shoulders, shaking out the rain, and then drapes it on the coat hanger by the door. “I’ve never brought anyone here. No one knows about it. Even after my involvement with the family, I liked having a place where I could escape, where no one knew to find me.”
“I guess I could understand that.”
He smiles and assists me with my jacket, hanging it beside his on the wall. His eyes flash open when he turns around and gets a gander at my dress. It’s short and clingy and leaves little to the imagination.
“Fuckin’ Christ, Abigail.”
“I’ll take that as you like it.” I run my hands over the material, feigning naiveté over his overt approval of my attire.
“I like it—a lot.” He watches me for a few more beats before clearing his throat. “Would you like a drink?”
“Please.”
He casually walks into the kitchen, folding the cuffs of his black button up to his elbows, revealing his fully tatted forearms. “Wine?” he asks,
“Actually, I’d like something with a little more hair on it if you have it.” I walk further into the living room, taking in his amazing place.
“Irish whiskey alright?”
“Perfect,” I reply, smiling over my shoulder at him.
I move over to one of the many large paned windows and admire the spectacular view of the bay and city while he prepares our drinks. Joining me, he passes my glass to me, our fingers grazing.
“Would you like me to put on music?” He nods his head over to a jukebox in the corner.
“Actually, I love the sound of the water.” I giggle to myself. “You really don’t need to try so hard, Jamison. I’m a sure thing.”
He laughs. “Appreciated.”
I stare back out at the view. “I see why you bought this place,” I remark, sipping on my whiskey.
“I enjoy the seclusion as well.”
He walks over to the couch in the middle of the room and I follow, sitting beside him. We nurse our drinks and listen to the sound of the water beneath us. This leaves me with my thoughts.
Since I intend to give myself to Jamison for the first time tonight, I want to clear the air about what’s been going on with him. It’s easier said than done. Sitting here beside him, wanting him, I find it impossible to form the words.
Why am I so nervous…? Maybe the gun in the glovebox and the conversation in the bar earlier have something to do with that…? But I trust Jamison would never hurt me or let anyone else either. No matter how dark it may be, I want the truth. It doesn’t matter what he’s involved in, I want this man. I want all of him…even the darkness.
“You were in the bar tonight,” he states, as if picking up on my brainwaves. I look over at him and he’s looking right back at me. “You heard something.”
I feel guilty, which is odd considering he’s very comfortable about keeping things from me.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He straightens up, stiffer than my drink.
“What did you hear, Abigail?”
I inch away from him, the leather whining under me. “Enough to know you lied about your ties with the Irish Mob.”
He downs his drink, sets the empty glass on the table, and murmurs something under his breath I don’t catch. “When I told you I wasn’t involved, I was telling a partial truth,” he explains, turning his body toward mine.
“So, it’s not lying.” He senses the passive-aggressive in my voice. “It’s just not exactly telling the truth.”
“I don’t participate in anything illegal for my father. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know the goings on within the organization, what terrible acts my family committed, which is why I’ve been working with the FBI. I’m an informant, Abby.”
“Um,” I stutter, but I don’t think he expects a response since he simply continues. “I love my family. I believe in loyalty. But they do bad things, sometimes to innocent people. They gave me no choice.” He looks out onto the view of downtown Boston. “I’m only telling you because Connor knows there’s a rat. He’s talked to me about it. It may be only a matter of time before he figures me out.”
“What do you think he’ll do if he finds out?” I probe, suddenly nervous for his safety.
He glimpses back at me, his face hesitating before making the full rotation. The heaviness in his eyes alarms me. “The same thing he’d do to anyone else he found out double-crossed him.” The lack of emotion in his voice only drives the seriousness of the situation home.
“You’re his boy, his flesh and blood,” I encourage him. I’m really trying to convince myself. “Maybe if you confess, he’ll take it easy on you.”
“Abigail, when you fuck up in this life, there are serious consequences. He’ll kill me because that’s what he did to my mother.” Fuck. “For years, I thought she left us. That’s what my father let me believe. I didn’t find out the truth until I was seventeen. He found out she was giving information to a rival family and screwing the boss or something. They made it look like she fled, emptied bank accounts, packed up her clothes, and drove her car into the bay.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I mutter, unconsciously clasping my throat with my hand, as if to protect it.
“Now you know why I resisted you when we met. Abby, I wanted you—I want you—bad. I’m falling in love with you,” he murmurs. “That’s why I won’t put you through a life of always having to look over your shoulder. I won’t put you through it.”
“I want it if it means I get you.” I reach up, firmly holding his face between my shaking hands, tears glazing over my eyes. “We’re
stronger together than apart.”
There’s an internal fight twisting him up inside. It’s evident in his eyes, fallen and squinted tight with absorption. When they meet mine again, there’s a vulnerability in them.
“Why?”
“Nothing seems to mean as much without you,” I admit.
His lips part with an intake of air. His chest expands and retracts under his shirt. He strikes, kissing me remorselessly, restraining my face to his with an inked hand tangled in my hair.
“Is my tattoo really the only one you have?” he asks, continuing to nip and stroke my mouth with his, bringing one of my legs over his lap until I straddle him.
“Why don’t you look for yourself?” I murmur, my hand trailing over the side of his face, the jawline rough with sexy scruff.
His hands slip up the bends of my body, under the clingy cloth of my dress, the skirt bunching about my waist, revealing pieces of me one section at a time. His fingers trace the ink curving with my hip, admiring his work.
“I’m glad I was your first,” he confesses then leans in, kissing the marking.
My lips irrepressibly tremble.
“You’ll be the only.”
His eyes meet mine, heavy with sex and whiskey.
A breath catches in my heaving chest when he rises off the couch, taking me up the stairs to his bedroom. He takes me over to the bed, our bodies and limbs woven, rolling across the softness of his mattress. Our lips move lithely, shaping together as if they were meant to interlock.
With his hands clung to the soft mound of my hips, he adjusts me above him, his waist tucked between my thighs. He sits us up, dragging his lips across my chest, a shuddered moan escaping my shaking lips. When his mouth works over my creamy shoulder, my head tumbles back heavily, eyes shut from the pleasure it brings me.
“Your skin is sweet,” he utters against my neck.
“Jamison,” I hiss, my hands reaching up into his hair, eager fingers weaving between the silky strands. He kisses up my neck and jaw to my mouth, his hot and hungry, igniting my skin in their wake. His hands fondle my body, discovering every twist and turn, palming my breasts until my nipples harden for him. I claw at the fly of his pants and rip down the zipper, grasping his thickness in my hand and releasing it from its confines. He moans against my mouth, his eyes shutting when my fingers wrapped about him.