by Megyn Ward
Even though I know he’s out and wandering around Boston, I’m not worried. James will never bother me again. He knows what happens when you mess with a Gilroy.
“What about Lisa?”
“I’m not sure.” He shrugs. “Once the lawsuit was dropped she disappeared.”
“You didn’t press charges?” I say, confused. “She almost ruined your life?”
He shakes his head. “She was James’s puppet,” he says, brow furrowed slightly, attention focused on the veggies he’s sautéing. “Besides—I carry some of the blame for what happened. I never should’ve...” He looks at me, his expression heavy and hard to read. “What I did was wrong. I shouldn’t have used her like that. She had a right to be angry.”
“If you carry some of the blame then so do I,” I tell him. “If I hadn’t—” I look down at the glass of wine in my hands. “I never meant to hurt you.”
When I finally force myself to look up, I find him watching me. Waiting. “We hurt each other, Cari,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching, the movement too fast and small to be called a smile. “I don’t think either of us planned what happened—I know I didn’t.”
Planned? No. I didn’t plan any of it. Knowing that doesn’t change the way I feel. Instead of arguing, I let it sit for a while, watching Patrick pull the steaks off the grill, letting them rest while he finishes the veggies. “Can I ask you a question?” I finally say, taking another sip of wine.
He gives me a grin, a wicked flash of teeth and dimples that sends a flurry of butterflies through my stomach. “You already know why they call me Boogey Nights.”
Heat erupts across my chest. I remembered that night. The way I felt when I realized the answer to my own question. Flustered. Nervous. Not unlike how I’m feeling now. “Is that a yes?” I say, amazed at how together I sound.
He laughs, not at all buying my calm, cool and collected act. All he has to do is look at me to know how much he rattled me. “You can ask me anything you want.”
“Where did you learn to cook?”
“That’s it?” he says, pulling a pair of plates from the rack next to the stove. “I give you free rein to ask me whatever you want and that’s what you want to know?”
“Yup.” I slide off the counter and take the plates from him, holding them while he transfers a steak and vegetables to each of them. “For starters.”
“Okay,” he drawls, shaking his head. “I worked summers at Benny’s.” Grabbing our wine, he leads me through the kitchen to the dining area. “Started out as a bus boy when I was thirteen, just a few days a week.” He sets our glasses down and pulls out a chair before taking one of the plates from me. “By the time I was fifteen, I was in the kitchen full-time.”
I set my plate down before sitting, letting him push me in. “Did you like it?”
“Kept me in breakfast burritos,” he says, laughing. “Anything else?”
“How much money did your uncle give you?” I watch him round the table, looking closely. Waiting to see his shoulder stiffen or his face to twitch. I don’t really care. I’m more interested in his reaction to the question than the answer itself. Eleven months ago, the thought of his uncle passing his own sons over to make him his sole heir was enough to send him into a tailspin.
“One-hundred sixty million,” he says, cutting into his steak while the sum rolls off his tongue. No tailspin. No wincing or side-stepping. “Give or take. A good chunk of it is tied up in real estate.” He forks a bite into his mouth and chews. He shrugs, looks almost bored. “Some of it’s tied up in a few projects I’m finishing up.”
One-hundred sixty million. The sum makes me dizzy, makes the zeros parked in my bank account seem like pocket change. “Wha—” I think about Patrick’s uncle—his faded bowling shirts and work-callused hands. “How?”
He laughs at my obvious stupor. “Depends on who you ask,” he tells me. “If you ask my dad, our great-grandfather came over from Ireland, already a rich man. The way Uncle Paddy tells it, he wasn’t exactly begging in the streets... but bootlegging during Prohibition is what made him rich. Then he bought and sold half of Boston. That made him stupid rich.”
“One-hundred sixty million...” I look around the apartment, shaking my head. “That’s a lot of responsibility, Patrick.” Responsibility. Pressure. Expectation. I want to ask him how he’s taking it. How he’s holding up, but I don’t. He seems to be holding up just fine.
Catching my expression, he laughs. “I don’t want to talk about money. Ask me something else.”
I nod, as eager to leave the subject behind as he is. “Okay...” I cut into my own steak, noting it’s cooked a perfect medium rare. “Why didn’t you call me?”
He shrugs. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I don’t know.” His counter question catches me off guard. “I guess I was afraid you were angry with me for leaving after...”
“I was.” A look passes over his face, too quick for me to catch it. “But you did the right thing.” He shakes his head. “You needed to go, and I needed to let you,” he says, cocking his head, stabbing his fork into the pile of vegetables on his plate. “Ask me something else.”
“Alright...” I tap my finger against my lips like I’m thinking, but I already know what I’m going to ask him. It’s something I’ve wondered since this whole thing started. “Where did the dirty talk come from?” I ask, and he laughs, the broccoli speared on the end of his fork stalls, half way to his mouth, his ears going bright red—a sure-fire sign that he’s embarrassed. As embarrassed as he is, he recovers quickly.
“I don’t know,” he tells me, pushing food into his mouth, chewing slowly while he considers the question. “I’ve never done it before you.” He cocks his head and laughs. “I never did a lot of shit before you...” He takes a long sip of wine before setting his glass down. “My sex life has always been neat. Tidy.” He shoots me a crooked smile. “Predictable.” Hearing the word, I groan, and he laughs, sitting back in his chair. “But, you do things to me.” He looks at me, and suddenly I can’t breathe. “Make me want things. Make me someone I don’t understand. Can’t control. Can’t predict. I’ve spent the last eleven months getting to know him.”
Him. The other Patrick. The Patrick nobody knows but me. The wolf he hides beneath his good deeds and nice guy smile.
“And?” The word comes out soft, pitched low. “What did you learn about him?”
“And...” Patrick’s mouth twitches. “as it turns out, he’s not such a bad guy after all.”
Thirty-six
Patrick
I push it to the absolute last possible minute. For the first time since I started pulling regular shifts at Gilroy’s, I’m not looking forward to getting behind the bar. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here. Kill another bottle of wine. Camp out on the couch with her beside me, snuggled in close enough to smell her. Touch her if I want to.
The problem with what I want is that’s not all I want. And if I let down my guard, I’m going to take it. I’ve been able to resist so far, but my control is a tenuous thing when it comes to Cari. The more time we spend alone, the harder it’s going to be for me to keep my hands off her.
I’m still not sure how I’m managing to keep my dick in my pants so far, especially after my little lapse in judgment before dinner. Feeling her pussy pressed against me. My cock hard and straining. Her knees tight around my hips. Soft tits, the hard beads of her nipples pushed against my chest... I almost lost it. Right then and fucking there, I almost lost it.
“This place is really beautiful, Patrick,” she says, taking a look around. Despite the praise, she looks wistful. Almost sad.
“But you don’t like it,” I say, following her gaze as she casts it around the apartment.
“It’s not that.” She keeps looking around. It’s like she’s searching for something. “It’s great... just different.” She finally looks at me again. “Everything’s different.”
I want to tell her she’s wrong. Not
everything is different. Not the way I feel about her. Not the things I want from her. Want to do to her.
“I have something for you,” I say, draining my glass before standing to collect our plates.
“For me?” she says, brow furrowed.
“Yup, for you.” I walk into the kitchen to deposit the plates into the sink. I’ll clean up later. Right now, this is more important. Opening one of the upper cabinets, I pull out a thin box, wrapped in sky blue paper with a silver ribbon tied around it. Tess wrapped it for me months ago. She’s surprisingly good at things like that.
On impulse, I grab the bottle of wine off the table and head over to the couch where she’s sitting, legs drawn up, feet tucked under her ass. I sit next to her and top off her glass before refilling my own. I set the box on the couch between us.
“What’s this?” she says, looking at the box.
“It’s a present,” I tell her, leaning in to set the box in her lap. “A birthday present.”
She looks confused, her brow scrunched up, mouth twisted slightly. “For who?”
I smile, arching a brow at her. “For you.”
She looks at the box in her lap. “You bought me a birthday present?” she says, shaking my head before looking up at me. “My birthday isn’t for another two months.”
“No,” I say. “Your birthday was ten months ago.”
She thinks about what I’m saying. “Your birthday was four month, ago and I didn’t get you anything.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, cutting her a quick look. “I bought it months before...” you left. I stop myself from saying too much and pick up my wine. Sitting back against the cushions, I gesture with my glass. “Open it.”
She hesitates, her fingers resting lightly on the box for a second before untying the ribbon and pulling the paper off.
Opening the box, her eyes widen. “Patrick.” She gasps my name, her fingers flying to her mouth before her wide eyes meet mine. “It’s beautiful.” Reaching into the box she pulls the necklace free, holding it up so she can watch it sparkle in the light. Suspended from a long, platinum chain is a paint palette charm as big as my thumb, studded with different colored gems—rubies and sapphires. Emeralds and amethysts. She doesn’t know any of that. It could be silver-plate and rhinestones, and she’d have reacted the same way. “Where did you find it?”
I don’t want to tell her that I had it made by a friend of Miranda’s, an artisan jeweler downtown. If I tell her, she’ll tell me I spent too much on it. “Do you like it?” I say instead, enjoying the moment. That I made her happy.
“I love it,” she says, looking up at me. “Thank you, Patrick.”
I take the necklace from her, opening the clasp. Leaning in, I fasten it around her neck, bringing my mouth to within a breath of hers. “You’re welcome,” I whisper, the words brushing my lips against the corner of her mouth as I pull back. Looking down, I reach a hand between us, settling the pendant between her breasts. “It looks beautiful on you.”
She blushes, covering my hand with her own. “Now I really wish I’d gotten you something.”
We sit there for a long moment, neither of us saying anything, looking at each other.
I need to leave.
Now.
Right now.
“I have to go,” I tell her as I stand. “I—I’m going to be late if I don’t leave.” Turning, I concentrate on getting out of here before I do something stupid.
Like kiss her.
Standing, she follows me to the door. “I lied.”
I feel my shoulders stiffen slightly and I turn to look at her. “You lied,” I repeat what she said, not sure if it was a question or not.
“Earlier.” Her cheeks are flushed a delicate shade of pink. “When I told you what I wanted to say—when I waited for you outside the shower...” she says softly, her breathing is quick and shallow, each draw of breath pushing her breasts against the thin fabric of her shirt, the swell of them pushing against its wide, low neckline. She’s thinking about it. About me. Us.
“Then tell me the truth.” I can see myself jerking her pants down, slipping my hand into her panties. My fingers inside. Her soft moan against my cheek...
“I wanted to say, yes.”
“Yes?”
“I asked you earlier if taking me to Benny’s was a date and you said you tell me... and so I’m telling you. Yes. It was a date. Yes, this is a date.” She takes a step closer, closing the gap between us. “Yes, we’re dating.” She looks unsure, despite what she’s telling me. Like she’s not quite sure who she’s saying it to.
I take her face in my hands again, tilting her chin up just enough. “Leave the dishes,” I tell her before pressing my lips against hers. Soft and light, our mouths lingering together. Our tongues tangling slowly. I angle my head slightly to deepen the kiss. I feel myself sinking slowly, and I pull away, my thumb stroking her cheekbone. When I do, I find her looking up at me. “I’ll do them after my shift.”
“Okay.” She smiles at me and lets me go.
Cari comes down an hour later. Her hair is piled on top of her head, exposing the long line of her neck. She’s wearing that sundress, the one that looks like a blue potato sack. The one that’s so baggy and shapeless, it makes it impossible to see the curve of her underneath. As soon as I see her in it, my cock starts to ache.
February in Boston and she’s wearing a fucking sundress.
She walks past me, barely sparing me a glance before stopping in front of Logan. I’m standing three feet away, mixing kamikaze shots for a large group of women. Ever since my spread in Bostonian came out, our business has tripled. Especially on Wednesdays and Thursdays.
“What can I get you?” Logan says, lifting a glass from the stack.
“Club soda and lime,” she says, flicking me a quick glance. As soon as our eyes meet, her cheeks flush. Logan fills her glass with ice and uses the gun to fill it with club soda before dropping a lime wedge on top of the ice. Fishing a cherry out of the garnish tray, he puts it in with a smile.
“Hot girls get a cherry,” he tells her before adding a short black straw. He says it to every girl who orders a drink from him. He flirts and winks because it’s good for business and it’s good for the tip jar. I know that. I know why he’s flirting with her. But that doesn’t change the fact that I want to smash this bottle of vodka over his head for doing it.
Lifting the cherry out of her glass, Cari pops it into her mouth. “Thanks, you’re pretty cute too,” she says, rolling her tongue over the plump red fruit. She’s talking to Logan, but she’s looking right at me. Then she’s gone, pushing through the crowd on her way to Con’s table in the back of the bar. He and Tess are back there, engaged in what looked like a pretty heated discussion, the last time I checked.
“Hey, man—you know her?” Logan says, watching Cari walk away.
Peeling my eyes off her ass, I look at him. “She’s mine.” Fitting the lid to the shaker over the top of it, I start shaking. Afterward, I tilt the shaker over the glasses I have lined up on the bar, running it down the row.
He must’ve misunderstood what I said because he looks at me like he’s waiting for me to finish my sentence “She’s your what?” he says, pouring a round of whiskey shots while I pass the kamikazes across the bar to the bunch of women trying to catch my eye. Thinking about what Cari told me about the stewardess on her flight, I almost tell them to come back tomorrow if they're interested in bagging themselves a bachelor just to fuck with Conner.
Drinks passed, and women sent packing with a polite but firm, not tonight, ladies, I look at Logan again. “She’s. Mine.”
I expected him to cop an attitude. Give me shit. Instead, he just smiles and nods. “Got it, boss,” he says before moving down the bar.
Thirty-seven
Cari
When I get to their table, Conner and Tess are fighting.
“Why are you being so stubborn?” Con asks, glaring at her over a pint of Guinness. Tess scoffs at
him in response. On the table between them is the pale pink envelope Jessica gave her this afternoon.
“You’re kidding, right?” she shoots back, sliding across the booth to make room for me without taking her eyes off him. “You are the poster boy for stubborn.”
Con’s jaw flexes tight. “This isn’t about me, Tess.”
She rolls her eyes. “Are you sure—because everything seems to be about you these days.”
For a second, he looks genuinely wounded. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tess answers his question with one of her own. “How many times has she called you today?”
Con’s face goes white. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Bullshit.” Tess comes up, out of her seat, to jab a finger in his face. “It’s exactly the same.”
He finally looks at me. “She actually wants to go to this fucking shitshow,” he snarls at me, flicking the invitation with the back of his fingers.
I feel my eyes widen and I look at Tess. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest, eyes narrowed and glaring at the space next to Con’s head. She’s chewing on her lip ring so hard I’m afraid she’s going to rip a hole in her lip. “I think she should.” I say it to her and watch her face change instantly. She’d been expecting me to agree with Con. The truth is, I don’t think she should go within a country mile of Declan’s wedding but it isn’t my decision, and it isn’t Con’s either.
“Fuck me,” Con groans, picking up his pint and taking a gulp. “You’re not helping, Legs.”
“You think I should go?” Tess says. Now that she has back-up, she suddenly looks unsure.
“I think you need to go,” I say, ignoring Con completely. “I think you need to find a hot date, get dressed up and sit your ass in the front fucking row. And after he makes the biggest mistake of his life, I think you need to drink too much on his dime, dance with Mr. Hot Date and show him what moving on looks like.”
Con, set his glass down and sighs. He knows I’m right. “At least let me take you.”