by Anthology
When the moment’s at its peak, my mind and body in a haze, he jerks himself away, huffing harshly, his onyx hair falling into his eyes.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, his erection straining against my panties. “This will change everything.”
“I want it to change everything,” I confess, shifting them aside and lining him up with me. Dropping my hips, he crosses the threshold with a smooth thrust, and I’m obliterated.
CHAPTER 7
I DON’T LEAVE Jamison’s until Sunday morning. He had to look over some things at the shop before meeting up with his father tonight. Dropping me off at my place, he promises he would be over after, which probably wouldn’t be until later.
Before I head up to my apartment, I check the mail then pick Prudence up from the lady above me. She loves to watch her when I’m away. I think she keeps her company. Once I’ve fed Prue, I keep myself busy throughout the day by catching up on things I’ve been ignoring lately. I straighten up my place, pay some late bills, and surf the internet for possible sites for the second restaurant in New York. After I’ve found a few promising leads, I get dinner started. I’m making him my nana’s famous clam chowder. I chop potatoes, an onion, and a few sticks of celery then sauté them with butter and add fresh clams and clam juice. Once I get everything simmering on the stove, I figure I have time for a shower before I’ll need to stir it. Plus, I don’t want to smell like a gym locker room when Jamison arrives. Talk about an appetite killer.
I turn on the faucet and strip down while I wait for the water to heat up. Clamping a clip in my hair to keep it up and dry, I jump in and allow the hot spray to drum down on me, turning every muscle in my tired body into taffy and rinsing away the day. I start to feel new.
Muffled under the sound of the shower, I hear the front door shut.
He’s early.
I pluck the soap off the dish on the wall and clean myself swiftly, getting all the nooks and crannies. As I’m rinsing off, my bathroom door slowly opens and Jamison enters. The curtain has a thick layer of water vapor covering it, so he’s only a blurry outline.
“Are you going to join me?” I ask, giggling. But I’m answered with silence. “If you aren’t going to get in—” I slide open the curtain and terror freezes my blood.
“If that’s what you want, love,” Seamus rumbles with his thick Irish brogue.
***
I need to keep my head clear and my defenses up. I’m headed into the shark tank. I must remain calm and rational. They’ll smell blood if I don’t.
As I enter the house, Connor’s shouting voice travels from his office in the back of the house. He is raging angry, and it’s not hard to figure out why. Taking off my coat and hanging it in the foyer closet, I walk closer, his voice growing louder. When I step up to the double doors, I give his henchmen standing guard of his office a nod before walking in.
“We need to find this guy,” he growls, pounding his fist on the table, “before he takes down our entire organization. If any of this got out, we’d be fucked, all of us. We can’t have the other families thinking we’re weak. They’ll attack like hungry wolves.”
“How do we flush him out?” Flynn asks.
“I’ve got some ideas,” he says, deflated, worn out from the stress of this life. “But we’re running out of time. Obviously, he’s good since he was trained by us. But whoever this fuck is, he has the upper hand if the Feds are helping him. Those motherfucking—”
“That isn’t enough, Pops,” Brady says.
“I know!” Connor yells, tossing his hands into the air with frustration. “You think I don’t know how deep we’re in? I’m standing waist high in shit. I feel the Feds and the other families breathing down my neck for fuck sake.” He paces back and forth frantically, going over options in his head. I’ve seen him furious, violent, and hostile, but I’ve never seen him like this, fraught, burdened.
“What are we going to do when we find him?” Brady asks.
If they only knew their target was sitting in the room with them.
“Take him out to dinner,” he retorts, stopping in his tracks. “What do you think we’re going to do to him?” Connor falls back into his plush leather chair. “Everybody out,” my father barks. “I want to speak with my boy alone.”
My brothers and the other underbosses rise, buttoning their suit jackets, and walk out. When Connor says my boy, he means me. I am his eldest son, his most trusted confidant, his downfall.
“Do you think you’ll catch him?”
“We’re close,” he confesses.
“Then why make them think we aren’t?”
“If one of them is working with the rat, we wouldn’t want to alert them to how close we are, would we? I didn’t even tell your brothers, but I put a man on the problem weeks ago. He has everything handled.”
“That’s great news,” I lie, feigning contentment. On the inside, this information makes me anything but content. “Who got the job?”
He takes a cigar out of the box on his desk, cutting off the end, and shoves it in his mouth. Lighting it with a slow roll of his fingers, smoke surges out from between his smiling lips in large puffs like a chimney. “Seamus.”
Fuck.
He talks about the arduous task of hunting me down. Even though there’s a dire itch to ask him if he knows who the guy is, I won’t. If he knew it was me, I’d be sitting here with a bullet in my head. Plus, my father wants to keep his hands clean at this juncture. The less he knows, the better. Then he goes on to say, “He figured it out.”
“Why do you say that?” I question, trying to be level in tone and demeanor.
“He told me he’s takin’ the garbage out tonight.”
Code for: I’m fucking screwed.
If he knows who I am, then—Jesus, Abby.
***
Without reluctance, I make my break for the door behind him, but my foot doesn’t step outside of the shower stall before he’s crashing me back against the inflexible tile wall. I try to escape again, the slipperiness of the water making it hard for him to get a secure hold on me, and jump out of the shower.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I’m stopped violently when he grasps my ankle, yanking it back towards him. My legs come out from under me and I fall like a tree, face first into the floor. He draws me back inside, my nails reluctantly clawing at anything within reach, and pins me back up against the wall. His hands fix around my neck, steadily increasing the pressure until it’s impossible to drag in a breath. I shove my hands into his face and chest, attempting to get him away. My feet frantically try to find traction, but they slip and slide, giving out under me. The hanging weight of my body only puts more strain on my neck. My vision blackens. My mind shuts down. I’m starting to fade out of consciousness.
BANG! CRACK!
Seamus’ head flies into the wall beside mine with a crack of the skull, his hefty, lifeless body slamming forward into mine. Screaming bloody murder, I collapse on the shower floor, red water swirling about me and down the drain. He’s everywhere.
“Abby, calm down,” Jamison orders, kneeling down in front of me, water soaking him to the bone. “Please, sweetheart, stop screaming.”
But I can’t.
“He’s—He’s—”
“Yes,” he says, “he is, Abigail. But now is not the time to breakdown. I need you to be strong.”
“I—I—”
I’m starting to sound like a broken record.
“I know, sweetheart. But I really need you to stand up now, okay?”
With a whimper, I nod my head wildly, biting down on my lower lip to keep from crying out. He helps me up and out of the shower, swathing me in a towel and rubbing my arms and back.
“I’m going to take care of this,” he promises, his voice calm and sure.
He slinks his steady arm about my shoulder, walks me out of the bathroom, and into my bedroom, shutting the door behind him. I stand there by my bed, traumatized.
“Abby, listen to me,” Jamison says, coaxing me out of my head. “I want you to stay in here until I come to get you, do you understand?”
I nod my head mechanically.
Ripping off my sopping towel, he flings my comforter around me and lies me on the bed, gently petting my head before leaving me there. I don’t move from where he places me, staring mindlessly off into nothingness, replaying the incident in my head on an endless loop. It all happened so abruptly. One terrifying second, Seamus is draining the life from me. The next, his body slams into mine, devoid of movement and vitality.
To repress the visions playing in my head like a reel, I focus on the happenings outside my room, the curtains being ripped from the rod ring by ring, a groan and a thump, the crackle of plastic, heavy footsteps moving up and down the hall.
A drawer from my dresser opens, startling me from my hypnosis. I turn over to Jamison foraging through my clothes, picking them out and then carelessly chucking them inside an overnight bag.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, supporting my upper body on my elbows.
“You’re going to stay with your sister.”
“I want to go with you,” I dispute, sitting up straight. “You know I’m safer with you. I need you.”
“I wish you could—” His voice dies off. “I need you to trust me, Abby.”
“With my life,” I blurt without pause, because it’s true. I trust him with my life. He’s saved it enough in the past month.
“Then you’ll follow my exact instructions,” he says. “Call Meghan and ask her to pick you up. When she asks you what happened, explain how I called you a slut and stormed out, how you need a shoulder to cry on. If you can actually cry, all the better. If you can’t, rant and rave about what a piece of shit I am, anything you think is believable. Whatever you do, don’t tell her the truth about tonight. A secret is better kept when less people have to keep it. Plus, I don’t want her getting involved with this. It’s bad enough—” He hesitates, staring me in the eyes with fear, sadness, hopelessness. I can’t pinpoint the chilling emotion. I just know it sends shivers down my back. “Will you do this for me, Abigail?”
“Alright,” I mumble reluctantly.
“Can you do what I told you?” he asks, clutching onto my shoulders with a strong grip. “Tell me, Abby.”
“Yes,” I guarantee him, “I can do it.”
“You need to get dressed,” he informs me, recovering a pair of jeans and a sweater from the bag and handing them to me.
Considering he’s never actually killed someone, he remains collected and sure, taking control of every detail. I assume he was taught to dispose of things that need disposing of, such as bodies and evidence.
While he leaves to take care of things, I shakily put on the clothes he took out for me before calling Meg. She asks me why I want her to pick me up. I tell her exactly what Jamison said, “We got into a heated argument and I don’t want to be alone.” I instruct her to meet me downstairs, and she agrees without further questioning.
An eerie sense of dread wrenches my stomach at the thought of leaving Jamison’s side. No matter how much I want stay, I know he needs me to do this for him, and I promised him I would.
When Meg arrives fifteen minutes later, Jamison walks me as far as the front door and hugs me to him, his hand clasped to the back of my neck. Pressing his warm, strong lips to my forehead, he lets them linger there, holding me as if he were fighting himself to let me go.
“When will you come for me?” I ask, realizing he may need to lay low for a while.
“I’m not sure.” His voice wavers for the first time since he took Seamus out.
“I love you,” he says, holding me tighter, “remember that.”
“I love you,” I murmur back, my lips trembling when tears creep up behind my eyes. I unwillingly pull away and search his beautifully mismatched eyes, unshakably terrified to set foot outside my apartment. I feel if I do, I may never see him again. I shake the thought, chalking it up to nerves and sadness, before I take that first wobbly step away from him.
***
I let Abby go, knowing she’ll be well taken care of by her sister. I watch her hesitantly walk away from me, head down the stairs, get into her sister’s car, and drive away until it’s a speck in the distance, hoping I’ve made the right choice.
***
When Meghan knocks on my door around nine the following morning, I’m already wide awake. Even though I knew he wouldn’t, I waited up for Jamison to call all night, worrying about him. I barely slept, wavering in and out of wakefulness, tossing and turning thinking about everything that happened and could happen.
Nevertheless, he never called.
“Abby? Are you up?” Meg asks from the other side of the guest room door, her voice weak. She must be tired too. We stayed up late last night talking and drinking. It felt wrong speaking ill of Jamison, even if it was what he asked me to do. Plus, it’s better than the alternative. Thankfully, she believed my story, hook, line, and sinker, and didn’t probe me further about it.
Disturbing Prue at the end of the bed, I throw the covers off me and shuffle toward the door to open it. When I do, the expression on my sister’s face makes my stomach stir. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this look.
“What’s wrong?”
“You need to see this,” she insists, her voice small and shaky, and walks into the living room. I follow her out, foggy from the lack of sleep. She turns on the TV then glances at me with rueful eyes, hitting volume on the remote control.
“The body of the twenty-nine year old man found early this morning by officials, after residents reported hearing gunshots, has been identified as Jamison Patrick O’Rourke, son of infamous crime boss, Connor O’Rourke,” the female newscaster says without a hint of emotion, as if my world didn’t just implode on itself. Jamison’s picture flashes on the screen. “No further details have been released at this time.”
“This isn’t real,” I state, refusing to accept he’s gone. “This is a joke, right?”
“Abby, I—” Meghan mutters, stepping towards me with tears welling in her big green eyes. I step back and stare blankly at her, my arms falling to my sides.
“They’re wrong,” I protest. “They have to be,” I whimper, grief cracking my voice.
“Abs, I’m so very sorry,” she says softly, confirming the nightmare is real. This isn’t some dream sequence I’m going to rouse from. He’s—gone.
The devastating realization, greater than any heart could bear, hits me like a ton of bricks, flattening me to the ground. Disintegrating, I sink to my knees and shriek into my hands, freeing the indescribable pain building inside of me. Meg comes to my aid and cradles me close, rocking me from side to side.
He warned me this world had consequences. It wasn't the one he chose for himself. He was born into it. Turning his back on it meant there would be causalities—I should’ve realized my heart would be one.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
I simply wish to thank those who have stood behind me on this journey. Their words and encouragements mean more than they know.
TROY
By: Xyla Turner
Chapter 1: Savannah
"BUT, LET ME..."
CLICK
There was nothing to explain. Keith could kick rocks and I hoped his feet bruised and left damage to those bad boys, he called toes.
It's my own damn fault. I should have moved from the sleepy town a long time ago. I did not need the constant reminder of my failures ever present before me. Yeah, I fucked up and everybody knew me. Often times, when I walked through the Super Walmart, the people in the aisles would often grow quiet. Like I was a freak of nature that was prone to snap at anyone who dared to look at me wrong.
Well, there was that time when Stacy did look at me wrong and I smacked her stupid ass right across the cheek. It wasn't for no reason, she slept with my cheating ass husband and posted his tattooed chest on Facebook for all to see. She de
served a slap. If people knew that little tidbit, they would not be so scared of me. I was harmless. Well, for the most part.
Quickly, I texted Daisy to tell her to meet me at Wade's after work. It was the same thing we did every weekend, but that is all we could do. It's what you did in Tammytown, Pennsylvania. Hung out with the same crew and if you're lucky to sleep with a group of some of that crew or marry them. Most of my friends were either married, divorced, tired or on their way to a grave. I was diverse, nobody could say otherwise. I did not discriminate in age, race, color or creed. Now when it came to men, I apparently had a type. So in some ways, I was a bit choosy. They could not be good momma boys. They could not be stuck up, uppity, addicts, or dumb. I did not care if they’d been to jail. Hell, my father was in prison, so that made me no difference. However, I could not do someone that stayed in and out of jail. That defeated the purpose of being with someone. I would risk being alone just so I did not have to deal with conjugal visits. That happened once and only God knew, but I would have sworn the guard got off with watching us. When he opened the door, he was all hot and sweaty with searing eyes glued to my ass and breast.
No, sir.
Wade’s was the usual down-home, bar in the middle of the country. Everybody knew everyone. Even silly old Stacy came in there looking for somebody else’s husband. I wondered if she read that series by Patti Doss. Since that was her modus operandum. She did not go after single men. Nope, she liked the married ones. It seemed the more dedicated they were, the harder she went after them.