Dirty Whispers: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

Patrick turns his face to me, a face I have feared my entire life. Part of me wants to shrink from it, or meekly submit to it, allow myself to be beaten and hated. But then I remember Jude, the old man, my new family. I remember my newfound confidence. I remember the fire in my belly. I remember that I am no longer reliant upon this man. I am my own person now.

  “Emily,” he says, voice low and mean. He walks across the bakery until he is standing mere inches from me. Mrs. M clings onto my arm and tries to lead me around the counter, but Patrick extends his trunk-like arm, blocking us. “You need to come with me.”

  “She doesn’t have to go anywhere with you,” Mrs. M whispers, her voice brimming with fear.

  Patrick wheels on her. “This is nothing to do with you, you stupid old cunt!”

  A collective gasp rises into the air.

  He just called Mrs. M something she does not deserve, in a million years, to be called. This man is not good. This man is evil. You owe him nothing.

  He turns back to me.

  “Barry is dead because of you, Emily,” he says slowly, trying badly to restrain his anger. His fists are clenched, his lips trembling, his eyes shot with blood, his cheeks bright red, sweat sliding down his forehead. “My goddamn friend is dead because of you. What, did you think you’d just dance away into the sunset with that Jude fuck? Is that it? You’re my sister, Emily. Did you really think I’d just let walk away after something like that?”

  “Barry is dead because he was a bad man.” My voice is unusually solid; no panic enters it. “Barry is dead because he hurt children, sold drugs, beat people for no reason. Barry is dead because he’s the type of man to stick his hand up my skirt and think nothing of it. Barry is dead because of Barry, nothing more.”

  “You shut your mouth!”

  He springs forward.

  I drag Mrs. M behind the counter just in time for Patrick’s fists to smash into the wall beside which we were standing. The red-cap old man stands halfway between the door and us, rocking back and forth. His eyes are hard, as though they’re the eyes of who he was as a younger man. I can see him imagining what he would do were he strong and young, but as it is he just stands there, unsure. The students are rooted to their seats, seemingly unable to move for fear. The other old man just stares down at the checkers game, as if he can pretend none of this is happening.

  I stand in front of Mrs. M, guiding her behind me with my hand.

  “Barry made his own grave with the mob,” I say, my voice the same, solid tone. “Barry chose to make enemies. Barry chose to be a bad man. Barry chose to act the way he did. How is that my fault? Why does everything have to be my fault?” I take a step forward, gripping the edge of the counter. For a moment, Patrick is stunned by my words. He looks at me as though I have just sprouted wings; for him, me speaking to him in this way is exactly the same. “And, what’s more, big brother, you’ll be next if you don’t get out of town. Do you really think you can make moves on the mob and get away with it? I see you now for what you really are. A scared little boy.”

  Spit slides down my chin, my black eyes pulse in pain and rage, and for a mad second I consider flinging myself over the counter and raining fists down on him. I fight the urge. I may be stronger—inside—but I’m not about to go toe to toe with this bear of a man.

  “I’m your brother.” He states this as though it is the solution to every disagreement we could possibly have and, until very recently, I would’ve shared that notion. He is my brother. Surely I have to do what he says? But Jude, Mickey, Moira…they’ve made me see the truth, and the truth is that I never have to do what this man says again.

  “I have a new family now,” I say. “And it’s not you.”

  Patrick actually looks upset for a moment. He brings his hands to his face and rubs his eyes, as though fighting tears, and then makes a snort sound as though fighting back sobs. Then he shakes his head rapidly. An atmosphere of before-violence falls over the bakery. The old man looks up from his checkers games; the red-cap old man makes for the door. The students lean back as far as they can in their chairs. Mrs. M creeps into the backroom, finally succumbing to the desire to save herself rather than protect me. Which I can’t blame her for.

  It’s as though this is a stage and the other actors have exited, leaving only me and Patrick.

  His face hardens. “I guess I should’ve expected as much from a fucking mob whore, shouldn’t I? I think you’re forgetting who the fuck you are, Emily, and who the fuck I am. Who was it who protected you at the orphanage? Who kept a roof over our heads? Who dealt with the apartments? Who stopped boys from trying to rape you?” He rants on, getting more nonsensical with each word. “You know all those boys at school wanted to gang rape you. You saw how the other girls dressed, slutty skirts, tits on display. Who made you dress right so they didn’t rape you, too?”

  “You’re deluded,” I growl, voice as low and mean as his was. He’s trying to twist me, using logic that worked on me when I was younger and more naïve. The worst part is, there’s a deeply imbedded part of my mind that believes him. I would succumb to that part of my mind usually, but now I fight it, beat it back. “I know the truth now, Patrick. I’ve changed.”

  “The truth?” he roars, throwing himself across the bakery and standing over me, the only thing between us the counter which suddenly seems thin and small and useless.

  “Yes,” I say, forcing myself to stay where I am. “The truth is that you’ve always made the world seem worse than it is. You’ve always made other people seem scarier than they are. And why? Let me tell you why, big brother. It’s because you wanted me to think that, no matter how bad things were with you, they’d be worse without you. Well, I know now that that’s crap. Do you hear me? Crap. You are worse than the outside world; you are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  Uncertainty flickers across his face, but then he remembers. Remembers who I used to be and who he used to be. Remembers that I’m supposed to be a quiet, meek woman. Remembers that he’s supposed to be in charge.

  “I am not,” he says slowly, as though explaining something simple to a slow child, “going to have my sister disgracing the last of my bloodline.”

  I almost laugh. He’s really grasping now. “Bloodline?” I spit. “Since when did you care about bloodline?”

  “You’re my fucking property!” he screams, pounding his fists on the counter. It cracks, and then snaps completely, falling away and leaving an open space between us.

  “That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?” I sneer, scared but standing my ground. “You want to own me. You want to feel like the big man. But guess what, Patrick? I know some men a hell of a lot bigger than you.”

  “Whore,” he mutters. “Slut. Bitch. Whore.”

  “Throw your words at me!” I cry. “I don’t care anymore! You. Do. Not. Own. Me.”

  “You’re a disgrace,” he says, spreading his arms. “And I won’t let you get away with it anymore.”

  He steps forward, murder in his eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Jude

  The first thing I see when I walk into the bakery is Patrick’s back, facing away from me. He looks huge, like a man other men ought to be scared of. Luckily, I’m not other men. I take in the rest only briefly. The scared kids, the old man, Emily’s boss backed away at the opposite end of the store, peeking around from the backroom. I see the shattered counter and I see Emily. Emily most of all.

  I can see what Mickey meant when he said she’s different. She looks different, though the change is difficult to pinpoint exactly. It’s like there’s a new confidence in her which has infused her bones. She stands straighter and less fear touches her features. Her eyes, though still set within two black bits, are once again saucer-like, big and green. Her gaze flits past Patrick, sees me, and then returns to Patrick.

  “I’m not the disgrace,” she says, drawing her words out.

  Smart, I think, as I creep across the bakery. Patrick may be a big bastard
, but he’s also a poorly-trained bastard with little experience of real fighting, real murder. Any trained hitman would hear me as I creep across the bakery, but this vending-machine fuck is too concerned with bullying his sister.

  “You’ve always been the disgrace,” Emily goes on, and the steel in her voice fills me with pride. She really has changed. Damn, I love this woman. I loved who she was and I love who she’s become, and I reckon I’ll love her for the rest of my life. “You talk a lot about how I need you, you’re a good brother, you’re a good man. But the truth is you’ve never been any of those things. You’ve always just been a man who hit his little sister. That’s it, Patrick. That’s all you ever were.”

  “No,” he mutters in disbelief.

  I take another step, another, until I am almost close enough to lunge.

  “Yes,” Emily spits. “You never considered my feelings. You never even treated me like a person. My whole life, you’ve treated me like less than a person. You’ve treated me like I’m just some inconvenience that has to be dealt with. When did you ever think about my feelings? When did you ever stop to consider how I felt? The truth is, Patrick, that you’re the biggest disgrace I’ve ever met. And I hate you.” She pauses, letting out a long breath as though her words are a shock even to her. “I. Hate. You.”

  Patrick raises his fist, pulling it back, right into the path of my hand.

  I grab his fist, wrench it back, and hurl him across the room. He lets out a yelp and goes flying into a table, landing on his ass. I see red, rushing at him, my fists clenched so hard my palms punish me for it. He struggles to his feet just in time for my fist to smash into his jaw.

  “Ah!” he grunts, stumbling again.

  I hit him, again, again, but I lose my cool and losing your cool is never a good idea. Whilst I unleash madly on him, he rolls aside and kicks me in the back of the leg. I stumble, clutching onto the wall, and he jumps to his feet. “No!” Emily cries, as Patrick brings his fist around in a wide, powerful swing. I throw myself to the ground, just in time to miss the main bulk of the punch, but his knuckles graze my chin, sending my head back with such force that the back of my head almost hits my shoulder blades. Pain lances from my neck down my body.

  I roll over, struggling to my feet. I’m half-standing when Patrick kicks him swiftly in the gut. I keel over, coughing. He makes to kick me again. I leap back, out of the way, and jab him twice in the nose. He takes the punches easily, as though being slapped by a child. I remind myself that he’s a huge brick shithouse of a man. Have to hit harder.

  I throw myself at him, trying like hell to keep my killer’s calm, but it’s damn hard when I know this is the man who gave Emily those black eyes. It’s damn hard when I know this is the bastard who’s been beating on his sister his entire life. He dances back, moving quick for such a big bag of piss, out of range of my punches. I uppercut left; he steps right. I uppercut right; he steps left.

  He retaliates with a barrage of powerful but clumsy swings, roaring like a madman. I dodge them easily, thinking all the while that I have to beat this man more than I’ve ever had to beat anybody before. If he wins, he’ll hurt Emily. He backs me all the way to the broken counter. Wind touches my face as I narrowly dodge a strike that would’ve 1eveled me out, maybe killed me. But his chest is heaving, I see. With killer’s eyes I evaluate his movements, just as I did back in the fighting pit before all this madness started. It seems like a lifetime ago, a voice mutters in the back of my mind.

  He bows his head and charges at me. Behind me, Emily gasps.

  I force myself to remain calm. All the jobs I’ve done, all the men I’ve killed, all the fights I’ve been in suddenly accumulate their weight upon me. Anger leaves me. In its place comes a hard-earned calm, the kind of calm few men can muster whilst being attacked.

  He charges—and I step aside and hook him so hard across the face that he flies across the room, face smashing into the wall.

  Blood smears down the wallpaper, turning it red, and he crumples onto the floor.

  I watch him for a few seconds, waiting to see if he’ll stand up, but he’s out cold.

  I turn to Emily.

  She walks up to me, glancing at Patrick, and then throws her arms around me. I pull her close, hugging her tightly to me, desperate for the feel of her. She grips my shoulders, kissing me over and over on the neck, the cheek, the chin—wherever her kisses land. She leans back in the embrace, a smile on her lips. I can’t help myself. I lean forward and kiss her perfect lips. Despite it all, we moan, pushing into each other. Her body feels tight against mine, tight and strong. Perfect.

  “I love you,” she breathes, breaking off the kiss. “Have I told you that yet, Jude? I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I say, the words sounding natural, like I’ve been waiting a long time to speak them. “I love you so damn much.”

  We watch each other for a long time, hands roaming over each other’s bodies.

  “Now what?” she asks, with a cheeky smile. I read it in her face, my girlfriend’s face. She wants me; I want her.

  “Now we go home,” I say, smoothing my hand through her hair. “You’re changed, Emily. You seem different.”

  “Different good?” she says, with a cock of the head that’s sexy as hell.

  “Different good,” I confirm. “Different damn good.”

  “But we should probably call someone first, right?” she asks. “Like the police or something.”

  The police, I think, with a chill. The police, for obvious reasons, have never been a friend of mine. But she’s right. Something needs to be done with Patrick, and judging by the way Emily glances at him—an old vestige of concern in her eyes—I’m guessing she doesn’t want him dead.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.”

  We let go of each other and I reach into my pocket for my cell. I’ve dialed 91 when Emily lets out a shriek. I spin. Emily’s backed against the wall.

  Patrick’s on his feet.

  With a gun.

  Pointed at her.

  He wipes blood from his face with his free hand and swivels the gun between us, now aiming it at me, now at Emily.

  “You stupid fucks,” he snarls. “You stupid goddamn fucks. Did you really think you could get away with this? Are you really that fucking stupid? Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea who I am?”

  “A smalltime, wannabe hard man,” I say, stepping forward. My only mission is to make him point the gun at me, and not Emily. That’s all that matters now. “You’re a nobody, Patrick. A waste of breath. A piece of shit.”

  “I’m warning you,” Patrick says, eyes glassy and red. “I’m warning you, man.”

  I walk right up to him, so close that the barrel of the gun presses cold and hard against my forehead. I hear Emily let out a gasp, but that seems faraway. The only thing that’s real is the icy barrel pressed against my skin, promising death, but as long as it’s death for me and not for Emily, I can handle that.

  “Emily, get out,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

  “No,” she says. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Get out,” I repeat. “Just get the fuck out of here. Go and be happy somewhere far away.”

  “She’s not going anywhere,” Patrick grunts. His finger strokes the trigger longingly. His lips twist into a sick grin. “I’m in charge now. Do you understand? Me. Emily’s had a nice few weeks, sure. She’s had her chance to play at being the big girl. But do you want to know the truth, you mob fuck? She’ll always be mine. Even if she did somehow get away from me, do you really think she’d stop being mine? She’s my property, dumbass. She’s my property!”

  “If you shoot me,” I say, my voice oddly calm, “you’ll go to prison.”

  “I don’t see any cameras in this place,” Patrick retorts. “What if I shoot every bastard in this place? What then, eh?”

  “Patrick.” Emily’s voice is soft, kind. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her step forward. “Patrick, you’re right,” she g
oes on, in that same syrupy tone. It’s obvious to me she’s acting, but it doesn’t seem so obvious to Patrick, whose eyes flicker to her with fresh emotion.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re right. Of course you’re right. You’re in charge. You’re the boss. Everybody knows that. We’re just being silly, thinking we can get around you. Ha!” The laugh is so forced I can hardly believe my eyes when Patrick’s lips twitch and real, genuine relief enters his expression. And then it hits me. Patrick has never seen Emily as a person, not really; men like him never do. He has never stopped to consider that what she shows him might not be the complete truth. He has never stopped to consider that her face and her heart might be singing different tunes.

  “You don’t hate me?” he asks in a soft voice.

  “Hate you?” Emily sounds shocked. “I could never hate you. You’re my big brother.”