Grind: The Doyles, A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  From what? Admitting how much Ava affects me? Getting tangled up in this mess with the Stacy clan?

  Exhaling a frustrated breath, I shove my fingers through my hair. Then I smooth it down again.

  Even here, in place like this, I manage to be a vain bastard. A wave of regret hits me.

  That’s half the problem, isn’t it? I sleep all day because I’m up most nights, chasing rich drunks around an upscale club while they grind it out to feel alive.

  Keep their hands to themselves, their noses clean, and the dollars flowing along with the booze and the music.

  Not a bad gig if you can get it.

  Drive my sports car back to my comfortable loft and sleep the day away without a care in the world.

  And why is that suddenly a fucking problem?

  There’s no shame in an honest job. I’m proud to bring in big money for my family. Intrigue is half of what keeps our family clean, and means we don’t have to deal in things we don’t want to. Gives me a good life. I’m fucking proud to be a Doyle. That’s enough.

  It’s always been enough, except for when it suddenly isn’t.

  But now?

  Let’s just say Ava’s got me thinking. Not just about the work she does to make the world a better place. But also about the way my father always gives back our community, takes care of the neighborhood, takes care of our people.

  Who’s going to carry that legacy forward? Seamus’s nose is buried in paperwork. Ronan, who becomes the head of the Doyle interests when my father’s not there, is too much of a hardass. Kieran gets into the real gritty shit, but he’s got a poetic Irish soul if ever I’ve seen one. Owen’s carrying on my dad’s legacy as a fighter and an entrepreneur, but in his own, different way.

  Maybe I’m seeing a place where I could step up. Step in. Have a bigger impact beyond just my work at the club.

  I give my head a sharp shake. Now’s not the time to sort this out. Right now, I’ve got something else to face. Doyles aren’t cowards, and I’m going in there, no matter how much it makes me ask tough questions about my future. About our future?

  Inside, a small grim waiting area features a sign asking people to take a seat. No receptionist. Sinking into an aging chair that creaks under my weight, I catch sight of Ava.

  She’s sitting close to a middle-aged woman, who has a small child clinging to her in pure terror. They’re bent head to head over paperwork. Ava’s voice murmurs reassuringly for several minutes and she seems to answer questions. I can see the other woman becoming calmer and more relaxed. Finally, the woman signs and Ava stands to escort her out.

  Her whole body reacts when she sees me. Her beautiful green eyes goes wide and she pauses mid-step, before smoothly resuming walking the client out.

  “Thank you again for coming, Mrs. Rubio,” Ava says to the older woman, as she hands her a cheap-looking business card. “My cell phone number and the clinic’s emergency number are on this card. I’ll call you as soon as we have some news.”

  She’s commanding every ounce of this woman’s attention, and tiny Mrs. Rubio reaches out to clasp her arm. “Thank you. Thank you so much for helping keep me and my boy safe.”

  The woman turns to go, and then she freezes when she sees me. I don’t blame her. It’s not like I belong here.

  Giving her my best neutral smile, I wait as Ava shows her out the door and turns the flimsy lock on the small office door behind her before turning back to me.

  A dark dress hugs her curves and her hair is down, hints of auburn catching the light. She looks absolutely gorgeous, powerful, and focused. Damn. A heavy feeling settles in my groin and I shift as my cock becomes steel.

  Jesus.

  If I thought Ava was sexy before? Smart, in-charge, all business Ava just rocketed into the stratosphere.

  “You came,” she says with a warm smile, coming to stop next to my chair. I push to my feet to greet her, and suddenly I realize we’re very close. The heat rolls off her body in waves, and my hand’s just moving toward her when a voice comes from a hallway I didn’t see.

  “Ava?” a woman’s deep voice calls. “Great work on the Anderson case. I just received an email; Mrs. Anderson got the order of protection, and the courts agreed…”

  A small, dark-skinned woman in a stylish suit rounds the corner, flipping through a stack of files. She looks up and stops short when she sees us. I hold my ground but Ava steps back, dropping her hands and smiling brightly.

  “Excellent, Ruth,” she responds in a strong, professional voice. “I just finished up with Joan Rubio, and have everything I need there. I’ll need an hour or so to finalize the paperwork, and can drop that off here to be processed by the end of the week. Is there anything else you need?”

  Squaring this very confident, very competent woman with the softer Ava that I’ve seen takes a minute. But the picture of her in my mind rearranges fast. She doesn’t just have the potential to do great things. She’s doing them right now – even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s hard, even when she’s got every reason not to.

  Shit.

  Ruth’s eyes are still boring into mine, and there’s a hint of mistrust there. “And this is?”

  Ava quickly looks between us, and I think she’d rather not have introduced us. For some reason, that pisses me off. I stand up straighter and my shoulders go back. There’s nothing to be ashamed of with me.

  “Of course,” Ava says smoothly. “Where are my manners? Connor, let me introduce my boss here at the center, Ruth Barrett. Ruth founded the center and has run it for almost twenty years. Her work really inspired me, and she’s given me the opportunity to intern here when I can.”

  Her gaze shifts back to me. “Ruth, this is my friend Connor Doyle. Connor offered to walk me home tonight.”

  She doesn’t elaborate why, and another minute passes where she studies my face. “It’s nice to meet you, Connor. You’re not a student here.”

  It’s not a question.

  “No, ma’am. I run a business downtown.” She’s continuing to look at me in a particular way that’s making me uncomfortable.

  “Doyle. Any relation to Seamus Doyle?”

  Relief floods through me. Of course she’d know Seamus. “Seamus is my brother. He teaches here occasionally.”

  She smiles for the first time. “Seamus is a good man,” she says, and then adds pointedly, “And no fan of the Stacy family, I might add.”

  Her eyes track back to mine for a long moment, and then she says, “You go on home, Ava. Thanks again for your work. Nice meeting you, Connor. Have a good evening.” And then she heads back to her office.

  There’s a pause, when Ava says, “Just let me grab my coat.”

  She has her things and we’re out the door. It’s late – again. I promised her I’d walk her home, and that’s it.

  “Any chance you’d want to grab a drink? Or I could buy you some dinner?” It’s out before I can stop myself, and she looks at me uncertainly.

  “I’d love to,” a tentative note in her voice fights with the words. “But I have a study group that starts at 7:00 a.m., and I’m not totally ready for it.”

  Do I want to have dinner or drinks or anything with this woman? Hell, yes. But I can see where this is going. She told me when she’s free. In a fucking week. Does it suck to wait?

  Hell, yes again.

  Do I want to be putting pressure on her? Absolutely not. Then I’m no better than some entitled Stacy demanding what he wants and not thinking about what’s good for her.

  “Not tonight. No worries. Just keep me looking forward to that dinner in a few days.” My grin hides the disappointment I feel. “Have you eaten dinner though?”

  She gives a quick shake of her head, and I step to the side to pull out my phone. I hit a few key strokes and then slide it back in my pocket. When she looks at me curiously, I just wink and slide an arm around her shoulders. It’s a quick walk to my car, and an even regrettably quicker drive to her place at this late hour.

&nbs
p; I pull to a stop two streets away from her place, and leave the car idling. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” Jogging across the street, I come out a minute later with two bags of takeout. One for me and one for her. Technically, there’s enough food for a week in hers, since I don’t know what she likes. A little of everything. Plus I know her financial situation isn’t great, and this way I can take care of her without pissing her off. I hope.

  I swing down into the car, stashing my bag behind the seat and handing her the warm takeout. “Best Chinese food in Boston. There’s something for everyone in there, because I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

  She stares at the bag, looks away and then back at my face. “You didn’t have to do this, Connor. But thank you.”

  “Can’t have you studying on an empty stomach,” I shift back into traffic and then all too soon we’re in front of her apartment.

  As I hold open the car door and walk her up to her apartment, there’s a moment of uncertainty when she turns to me quickly. “You’re Murphy Doyle’s son.”

  And then I know, know what the moment of hesitation was back in the law center. Got it. Running a hand over my jaw, I square my shoulders and nod.

  “Your dad… has quite a reputation,” she says finally. It’s hard to read what she’s thinking, but she’s nervously twisting her hair like she does when she’s anxious. Shit.

  “Look, Ava, my father got a rough start in life. There’s no denying that, and he did some time, although that was, what, forty years ago?” I jam a hand through my hair. This isn’t how I wanted to have this conversation.

  She reaches out, and instinctively I pull back, although I will myself to hold still. Her hand comes to rest on my arm. “Justice isn’t always black and white. I just wondered, that’s all.”

  It isn’t always black and white. Neither is business, unfortunately. But I’m not going deeper with her, not on a sidewalk in the cold at midnight and her dimsum chilling by the minute.

  Shit. I might not be willing to go all in here on every detail of my work right now. That’s some serious shit, and that kind of trust has to be earned. But there’s no way I’m dragging anyone into my life that doesn’t want to be there.

  No matter how beautiful she is. Or how much I want to protect her. Or how much I fucking want her.

  “Ava,” I close my eyes and open them, resolute. “If you don’t want to go out with me. I’m not going to say I’m not going to be disappointed, because I will. But I’ll understand. No pressure.”

  Our eyes meet, and whatever doubt’s there gives way to something else. She shakes her head. “No, Connor, I….” her voice trails off and then I get a hint of the Ava I saw earlier tonight. “To be honest, I’d like to know more. But not tonight. And I’m very much looking forward to going out with you.”

  I can’t stop myself from grinning, and sliding my arms around her waist to lean down. She shivers a little in my arms. Fuck. With all the self-restraint of St. Patrick himself, I kiss her chastely on the forehead.

  “You get upstairs, get warm, and eat some of that food before it gets cold,” I whisper against her hair. Jesus, she smells good. “Text me if you have time, or need anything. And I’ll see you soon.”

  I wait until she heads upstairs and then head to my car and drive toward the Kildare, distracted as all hell.

  9

  Ava

  None of the dresses that I have are perfect. They're either summer dresses, or work dresses. Not something I want to wear on a date with Connor.

  My small closet is stuffed with everything I own. Brooks ruined my best dresses, ripping them when he grabbed me in the throes of some argument or covering them with blood spatters when he hurt me even worse.

  It’s just another way he left wreckage in his wake. On some level it feels good to be pissed instead of scared. I feel more like my old self.

  Looking in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door of my studio, I give a little shrug. The simple black dress and heels, set off with my mother's gold hoop earrings, will have to do

  It’s hard: I’ve seen the totally glamorous women who pour out of Intrigue, with their upmarket fashion, Pilates bodies, and three-hundred-dollar highlights. A law student and waitress on a tight budget can’t manage that level of sophistication. Not right now, at least. Still, I have a feeling that Connor’s not going to mind.

  His face was so hopeful, his eyes so warm, as he asked me out.

  I’d been so conflicted. If Brooks saw us together or caught wind that I was going on even a casual date, he’d unleash a world of hurt.

  Still, as I looked up at Connor’s blue eyes, I decided. It’s not that I don’t care or am not scared. But for the first time in a long time, my own desire for something – for spending time with Connor - is stronger than my fear of Brooks Stacy getting mad.

  Rhonda, the other waitress who often works the night shift with me, was willing to trade so I could get a Friday night off. Her eyes lingered on my face and then she’d said in her heavy smoker’s voice, “Honey, you get on that or I will.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  There’s a light rap at the door, and momentarily I freeze. No one should be able to get in here without buzzing. That’s the whole reason I moved to the tiny studio, even though it stretched my budget to the limits. There’s an outside security system, and a part-time doorman.

  A few seconds later, a light tap follows. “Ava?”

  Immediately, my shoulders relax and I move to unlock the door. Deadbolt. Slide bolt. Bottom lock. Just to double check, as if I can’t trust my own ears, I keep the chain engaged and pull the door open.

  Connor stands on the other side of the door, legs spread wide and his broad shoulders blocking the view of the hallway beyond him, When our eyes meet, his whole face lights up with a smile. Oh, lord, those dimples. I undo the chain, taking in how good he looks. Dark slacks, a white shirt and a black sport coat. Freshly shaved. The man smells fantastic, and my whole body gives a little shiver of anticipation.

  He steps into the apartment and glances around. I cleaned every inch of the place until it sparkled, shoving my belongings into drawers, under the bed, into the closet. But it’s tiny and it’s old—especially compared to his gorgeous space.

  But he doesn’t comment on the apartment. Instead, he pulls a bouquet of flowers from behind his back and hands them out to me. These are no corner store carnations, but an absolutely stunning bouquet with lilies and roses in an expensive crystal vase.

  “Thank you,” I breathe. He steps in closer, putting the flowers on my little folding kitchen table and then taking my hand.

  His eyes sweep me up and down, taking their sweet time in an appreciative way.

  “You look stunning.”

  “You don’t look bad yourself.” I can’t fight back a smile. Immediately, I’m horrified. Was that supposed to be playful? What kind of a compliment is that? I don’t even know what’s coming out of my mouth around this man.

  But he’s still smiling, his eyes crinkling at the edges and dimples flashing. Other, lower parts of my body warm up in response.

  If we’re going to go on an actual date, we have to get out of here now. Or I’m going to have this man on the futon, which is the least sexy thought I can imagine.

  He clears his throat and surreptitiously adjusts himself. It’s not just me then. “So, about our plans tonight.”

  A tentative note gives me pause. I’ve been looking forward to this all week. But I have no idea what a man like Connor envisions as a date. Dancing at his club? Dinner at a fancy steakhouse? He’s probably got some signature move.

  “Do you like art?”

  Okay, that’s definitely not what I am expecting. “Yes, absolutely.”

  “Perfect.”

  A few minutes later he’s holding the door open for the passenger side of his Mercedes, and then we’re driving to Beacon Hill. Looking wistfully around, I gaze up at the historical brownstones lining these narrow streets. Someday.

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nbsp; “What made you want to be a lawyer?” he asks, glancing my way as he drives just a little too fast. He’s always playing just a little too close to the edge, moving just a little too fast, and somehow it makes him even more attractive.

  “My dad was a lawyer,” I find myself saying. “He worked the really tough cases. Defense for people who couldn’t afford to pay. Women who shot their husbands when they were being abused. Neighborhoods that corporations polluted. That kind of thing.”

  “You want to be like him?”

  “I don’t really remember him, to be honest,” I confess. “But my mom always talked about it, and I wanted to make a difference.” I leave out the part where he dumped us for his paralegal and used his legal skills to avoid paying fair child support.

  “And now that you’re studying”—he pauses for a second, and then adds with a wicked grin—“riveting subjects like constitutional law, do you plan to still do that kind of work? Or do you see yourself doing something else?”

  I shift a little in my seat. “Actually, I’m hoping to get a job going after organized crime.”

  His whole body goes tense, his eyes cutting my way.

  I add quickly, “Not like the mob. More like corrupt politicians. So yes, the same general thing, but just maybe on a larger scale.” It must sound insane to a man like Connor. He probably thinks it’s a way to get back at Brooks, but I’ve been wanting to do this long before Brooks. Watching my mother navigate corrupt legal and government systems to get the money and benefits she was owed while being constantly shot down by powerful men who said they knew my father was a good man who’d take care of his own was infuriating. I can still remember their condescending smiles and fake concern. I shake my head, moving out of the past.

  We pull into a private driveway, and a valet opens my door. Connor takes my arm and escorts me inside. The place is a mansion, and once we’re inside, an elegant woman greets us. She seems to know Connor.

  “Hello, Mr. Doyle,” she says warmly. She takes me in with a curious glance. “Welcome, thank you for joining us tonight. The exhibit is just up the stairs.”