by Hadley Finn
She nods.
The white box truck. The goons. The men who “nap” at the shop. It’s all coming together now.
“Even still the debt was accruing not dwindling.”
“When the museum happened and then Mom…” She pauses, lost in thought, seemingly lost in emotion since her chest heaves and her breathing becomes more ragged.
“Mommy!”
“Yes, Clara!”
“Is it almost time for our picnic?”
“In a few minutes. I’ll call you when it’s ready,” she calls back before continuing our conversation.
“Rocco was part of the repayment. He was the final nail in the “indebted to the mob and never getting out” coffin. I was a pawn, being forced to be bait for deals that were going down. I wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating. Couldn’t figure out how to get out. How to not have Clara raised in a life I didn’t know, didn’t want, and didn’t choose. You were an out.”
I stiffen.
“That didn’t come out right, you were… an escape. You were light in a dark time and humor when there was nothing to smile about. You were someone I could trust with my Clara, and a man I truly enjoyed talking to and being around.”
My body relaxes and I say, “All right.”
“I trusted you. I trust you now. It was never about—”
“Mommy!!” Clara comes bounding up, arms flailing. “The ocean hit me in the face!”
Sure enough, what little skin is exposed is wet.
“Is it time for our picnic, pretty girl?” I ask. “And do you want to have it out here or in the car?”
“Car” and “In the car” hit me in stereo.
I laugh. It’s settled then. I remote start the vehicle and tell my girls to go pile in. I drape a blanket over Sirona and chase Clara with one just to keep her warm. Once in the car, I help her out of her coat, but cover her with the blanket. By the time we would make our way home, she’d have a heat stroke in that getup.
We make it back to Clifden and park outside the old stone castle the town is named for. We have our square lunch food and make up stories about the who might have lived there and what their lives were like. Our stories are definitely Disney and not the Brothers Grimm.
We wave at the sheep and give them silly names.
By the time we’re back out on the road, Clara is quick to fall asleep. I reach for Sirona’s hand and thread my fingers through hers. When I bring her knuckles to my lips for a kiss, she looks at me with contentedness in her body. If I’m not mistaken, I also see promise in her eyes.
Thirty-Four
Contentedness doesn’t last long, apparently. Seems the “give a dog to the girl without her mother’s permission” thing is frowned upon.
We walk in the door to a bum-rush of dog. He’s an Old English Sheepdog but black. Just a hint of white in the beard, an anomaly among the breed. Killian has kept him for two days and apparently has seen fit to drop him in the house, with no word, and retreat back to his house, sight unseen. He’s five months old, too much pup for the couple he started life with. They offered him free of charge, refusing my multiple offers, but asked for one accommodation, that he keep his name—Hagrid, so his adjustment goes smoothly. I couldn’t refuse.
“Hi, Hagrid!”
“What?” Sirona is in disbelief.
“What?!?!” Clara is thrilled.
“Sirona, Clara, meet Hagrid. He’s our new puppy.”
“Oh my God!!!” and “Oh my God” come at me in stereo in way different tones. I glom on to Clara’s since she’s more positive.
“Clara—” I start, prepared to mention going slow and offering the back of your hand and a gentle pet to the top of the head, when I realize she is rolling under a wriggling puppy, who is licking the boxed-food remnants from her chin and wiggling… everything!
“Sean!”
“Yes?” I snap to attention.
“What have you done?”
“I got our girl a puppy. He’ll win your heart, too. Promise.”
“But, Hagrid?”
“Part of the package. I’ll explain later.”
Her hand flies to her hip. She knows just from looking at her daughter that ‘later’ means nothing. That dog has stolen Clara’s heart and her his.
“But—”
“But…she needs a friend,” I whisper, trailing my fingers down her arm and grabbing her hand. “She needs companionship and something that anchors her here. We know. She doesn’t. Yet. Might as well make this as easy as possible. And look at him.” I turn my head to the fluffball. “He needs her too.”
The lone tear that drops down her cheek worries me.
“What is it, love?”
“I could never give her all this and you, in easy fashion, have just…”
“I want a life with you. I want a life with Clara. And with Hagrid, too.”
She nods but another tear joins the ranks. She plops down on the floor at the back door and says, “Here, Hagrid.”
He bounds up, licks her face and then pushes into downward dog, tail high and wagging, chest to the floor ready to play. “Woof.”
“Clara” I call while Sirona and Hagrid get to know each other.
“Yes, Poppa?”
“We will need to train Hagrid. He knows some things like ‘sit’ and ‘down’ because his former family helped, but walking on a leash will be tough. I don’t want you trying until he’s really good at it. Okay?”
“But, why?”
“Because he could pull you right over and you would be like a sled behind a horse.”
“Oh!”
“Yeah. I’ll work with him and so will your mom. You will too. But promise me you’ll listen as we train him, okay?”
“Okay, Poppa.” But her back is to me and she hits her knees, slapping them with her little palms. “Come here, Hagrid.” And he does.
I hold out a hand to Sirona and help her up. She mumbles, “Damn Killian.”
My responding chuckle doesn’t make things better.
Thirty-Five
New Year’s always holds the promise of something new, a fresh start. It’s a holiday I like—a new calendar, the assurance of a clean slate. This year will be far more new and fresh than any for as long as I can remember. From my fifteenth to my thirty-fifth, I had one mission, one simple goal: to find a way to end Enzo Calabrese. If I had two, and those years were rare, it was to end Calabrese and to get away with it.
This year, it’s weird to consider, but I face a year ahead without a goal. Without an objective, without revenge, without my day-in, day-out job. Frankly, I’m also without a hobby.
I’m not, however, without estrogen. There are hair ties, pink dresses, dolls, baking shit, even tampons around this house. There are emotions and tears and drama.
Hagrid, thank God, is a trooper. He has taken to Clara like it’s his job. While I wish the testosterone holder would keep me company, I am thankful he is so enamored with her. Where she goes, he is her shadow. She loves him and he adores her.
Sirona is not over the moon yet about the dog. It could be because he’s hairy, wiggly, and drooly, and messes with her pristine kitchen just by his mere presence. It could be because he loves attention and when Clara is without him—a rare occasion— he spends the moments trying to woo Sirona into loving him or feeding him. She’ll fall for him. Of that I’m sure.
I cook us dinner. Nothing fancy. The priestly life doesn’t bring with it tons of skills but garlic mashed potatoes are a staple as are salad and steaks.
I asked Killian to add a small outdoor kitchen to the house when it was being built. His response was that I was quare and when I grumbled about not knowing Irish slang he mumbled several words—most I’m sure were unfavorable—and said I was crazy.
Outside the office off the back of the house is a courtyard made of the same stone as the house. There is an outdoor cooking area and in the center is a firepit.
After the steak and potato dinner, I grab the girls and tell them we need to make
s’mores around the fire. It is aggressive for sure, since it’s cold and windy and the sun set hours ago. But we make our s’mores and discuss whether we will roast hotdogs in the spring.
We eat our dessert, the first I’ve made for them and so basic compared to Sirona’s skills. And when Clara starts to fade, I cover Sirona with a blanket, pick up my girl, and get her ready for bed. Hagrid follows closely behind us.
She needs two stories tonight, but only makes it through half of one. Hagrid bounds up onto her bed at her feet and, for all intents and purposes, indicates he has the watch.
I go back out to the courtyard and lift Sirona into my arms, sit back down with her on my lap, and reposition the blanket over us both. It’s too cold for this but I like the closeness and it’s the perfect excuse to have her in my lap.
She stares at the fire, deep in thought, and doesn’t speak for several minutes.
I don’t push. It’s been an emotional few days for her and she’s entitled to the time.
But I’m no saint and I move my lips to her neck and place a kiss there, with a small lick, and then glide toward her ear, nibbling at the lobe.
“Baby?”
“You love us.” It’s a statement, not a question.
She can feel my nod on her neck as I say, “I do.”
The shiver that runs through her tells me she’s turned on but she doesn’t turn toward me and continues staring at the flames.
“You love Clara.”
“Yes.” It’s simple, but I don’t see any need to make this moment complicated.
“She thinks you hung the moon, you know?”
“She is the moon.”
She nods, lost still in the dancing orange waves.
I slide my hand that was over her knee up to her waist and up to her chest, skipping her breasts. I let my finger trail her collarbone and neck. I dip toward her cleavage but don’t go there. It’s a simple prayer offered with my slow-roving fingertips.
“You love me.” Another statement.
“Yes.”
“I…”
She rotates to straddle me, facing me eye to eye, for long, long moments where I hold my breath—waiting, wanting.
She dips her head and presses her lips to mine, but pulls back and stares again before diving in aggressively.
Her hands cover my face, my neck, try to squeeze between us. She palms me and fiddles with my buttons, but realizes it’s futile.
She needs to be in control here. I can sense it, so I stay silent and let her.
She rolls off me, dropping the blanket and takes my hand, tentatively, leading me into the back door and down the hall.
I silently follow.
When we get to the master, she turns and clicks the door shut and begins stripping. It’s not a striptease dance, but her fluid movements are erotic as fuck. I stand there waiting for instructions, somehow knowing she needs to direct this, fighting everything within me from taking over.
Once she is in just her panties, she comes to me, her honey-colored hair falling over her shoulders and tits, and she stares silently into my eyes and begins to unbutton my shirt. I stare at her, enthralled. This is the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced, and that includes my X-rated dreams of her.
She moves to my jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping and reaching her hand inside to cup me. She slides my jeans down and finally breaks the silence. “Shoes.”
I kick them off. She doesn’t have to tell me twice.
She slides my jeans and boxers down together. My cock bobs and seeks her out. There is no hiding my attraction.
I want her. And she knows it.
Light, damp palms press down on my shoulders until I sit on the edge of the bed. In one fluid motion, she kneels between my thighs and stares reverently at my cock. Then she gently, so lightly it might kill me, takes it into her hand, stroking.
With a final look into my eyes, she drops her head and takes my cock into her mouth.
Holy fuck! Fuck! Fuck! So much better than any fantasy I could conjure up. She slides down and I bump the back of her throat. My moan must encourage her, because she moans too and the vibration shoots straight to my spine and lights up every nerve ending in my groin.
“Fuck, baby! Oh, fuck!”
She sucks and swirls around my tip and pulls me back down her throat.
When she reaches underneath my sac and begins to fondle my balls, I’m so close I’m hurting.
“I’m going to—Sirona, I—”
She swallows. I’m fucking done and unload every fantasy I’ve ever had of her right there, with her. Finally.
She swallows again and looks shyly away before standing up and pushing me back onto the bed with those same light palms.
I fall back onto the mattress, feet still on the floor and she climbs over me. She leans down to kiss my chest, dead center, and then the cross necklace there, and reaches behind her and guides my hardening cock to her entrance. She looks me dead in the eyes and slides down, taking me in fully with a look of sheer ecstasy on her face.
Waiting for a moment—a long moment where I think I’ll die—she lifts up and sinks down again.
“So good. So full.”
“Baby?”
She meets my gaze and stops again.
“Don’t stop.” That’s not what I wanted to say, but I have no brain when she stops.
She shakes her head and continues.
“Sirona, you’re the best thing I’ve ever felt. Fuck. So tight. So wet.”
She keeps up her pace and, when the slow rhythm about wipes out my ability to function, I sit up.
“Oh,” she moans and her eyes roll toward the ceiling.
“Like that?”
“So deep. So—”
I use my thumb on her clit and she sucks in breath like she can’t breathe.
Another moan and this time it’s loud. I kiss her to muffle it, our bodies trapping my hand.
Unable to take this slow rhythm and the inability to control the pace, I stand and flip her onto the bed, wrapping her legs around my lower back. I bend down and suck in her left nipple, while pumping my cock in and out furiously. I caress her with my thumb and add pressure and she comes. Her pussy squeezes and ripples against my cock.
I keep my thumb there, moving in rhythm with my thrusts.
“Again, baby.”
“I— I can’t. I’ll die.”
My chuckle must vibrate through my cock because she comes again and this time I can’t resist and I come too. Hot, pulsing cum, milked by her pussy as it sucks me in deep.
“Sirona,” I whisper and lean my face against her chest just under her throat, wrapping myself around her. “Waited so long for you.” It’s another whisper, one that feels scary to admit.
“That was—Sean, I— wow.”
I laugh quietly and she moans a little since I’m still inside her.
I pull her toward me and kiss her. Not the devouring need-you-now type, but the “I can’t be close enough to you” type.
Her wiggles do something to me and I’m getting hard again. Never been this responsive, this eager.
I stand, still inside her, still wrapped around her, and walk with her to the bathroom, turning on the shower.
I disconnect from her and grab a washrag to clean her up and then get us both into the shower.
We spend most of the time in silence. But when I clean her and get between her legs, I freeze. No condom.
“Was… I didn’t use protection. I didn’t ask.”
“We’re covered.”
I don’t like that. Don’t want to know so I don’t ask, so I kiss her shoulder blade, her forehead, her collarbone and, just as my cock wants to grow yet again, I wash myself and throw the water onto cold just as she’s exiting the doors.
We move through the bathroom in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s not easy for me either.
When I get to the bedroom, she throws one of my T-shirts over her head, placing the towel in the hamper.
She holds
my gaze and climbs back into my bed, scooting to the side opposite our lovemaking, and pulls the covers over her body.
“You coming?” she asks gently, hesitantly, but with a contentment that I’ve never seen on her.
I nod, flip off the light, and slide in behind her, spooning into her.
“You okay?” I can’t place why I’m curious. Just feel that thing hanging in the air and don’t know what the thing is.
“Better than okay.”
“Good.” I kiss her neck as she wiggles back into my lap and my cock responds.
“Sorry,” I say, “But you have an effect on me.”
She giggles quietly and pulls my hand up to her lips where she kisses my fingertips. She takes one and sucks it deep.
“You’re playing with fire, baby.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You sure?’
“Bring it on.” She rolls her chin back and pushes her ass into my cock as a dare.
I withdraw the hand she was sucking on to drop my sleep pants below my cock and my balls and rub my shaft with it. It takes next to nothing, smelling her, having her lie next to me, until I’m hard.
I reach back around and lift her top leg, propping it up with my knee, and trail my finger through her wetness. Fuck.
“You want me, Sirona?”
She nods.
“And if I do this?” I insert my fingers into her and spread her wetness up and down.
She nods.
“You’re wet, baby. You like this?”
She wiggles but keeps nodding. I rub her clit in even, deliberate strokes.
Finally, when I’m teasing myself more than I’m teasing her, I roll up onto all fours and lift her into the same position.
I lean over and kiss her shoulder and whisper into her ear, “Hold on to the wall, baby, and try not to scream.”
Her answering shiver spreads the grin wide across my face.
I take my dick and toy with her opening. She wiggles and slides backward, trying to find me. I wait and keep sliding her wetness up and down, caressing her puckered opening with my thumb, watching her move like she is dancing, waiting for me.
I keep up my teasing, waiting for her to speak.
When she huffs, “Sean!” finally annoyed with my teasing, I shove in to the hilt and revel in the sound of her sharp inhale.