by Holly Hart
It should hurt, but it doesn’t. Something is happening to me: something I’ve never experienced before. The way I spoke to Declan in that car – it was all bravado. I did it because I saw that’s what he wanted, deep down – a girl who could match him blow for blow: a girl who wasn’t afraid.
But it was all an act.
I am afraid.
I’m afraid of him. Right now he’s a force of nature, and I don’t know if I’m cut out to handle it.
I’m afraid of myself.
I can’t tell him to stop. Not because I think he wouldn’t – he’s a better man than that, but because my body won’t let me. I don’t want him to stop. That’s what’s truly terrifying – the way I’m reacting. The way I’m driving my hips forward into his hand, and the way I’m biting back. I want him to take me like I’ve never been taken before. I want him to do things to me, dark things, things I’ve never even let myself imagine I wanted, even in my darkest moments.
But I do.
I want them all.
He spins me around so quickly I can hardly catch my breath, and rams me against the wall. His hand breaks free of my pussy as I turn, and it feels cold and alone, but not for long. Declan’s fingers attack the button holding my jeans closed, and the first cool tendrils of air lick at my freshly shaved skin.
My shoulders are beginning to ache because of the unnatural position Declan’s holding them in. “It hurts…” I whimper.
His reply is simple and uncompromising. “Good.”
It sends a shiver through me. Declan’s not bending for anyone, least of all me, and that excites me. He pulls my jeans off me roughly, and I step out of them. The second I’m free he spreads my legs wide and once more grinds his palm against my pussy. A moan escapes my lips.
“Stay there,” Declan grunts. He steps back, and suddenly his heat abandons me and I’m alone. All I want is for him to put that huge cock of his inside me, but I’m too timid to beg. I need him; my body is crying out for the thing that only he can give me.
But I do as I’m told: I don’t move; I don’t look behind me; I just stand there with my legs apart and arms spread-eagle against the wall.
He doesn’t leave me alone for long. A loop of ribbon sheathes my wrists and he pulls it tight. I test them, but I’m not getting out of this one.
“What are you going to do to me?
“Whatever I want.”
An electric shock sparks through me, and I tried to clench my legs together, but Declan roughly bats them apart. He tears my underwear off my body and leaves me clothed only from the waist upward. His hands paw roughly at my breasts, tweaking my nipples, and every time his fingers dance across my skin a whisper of pleasure escapes my lips.
But Declan reminds me that this isn’t about me – it’s about him. Whatever’s driving him doesn’t care about my pleasure, it only cares about filling whatever hole has opened inside him.
I hear his jeans drop to the floor, the crinkle of a condom, and then whimper as his huge cock presses against my spread pussy. There’s nothing I can do to stop him, and I wouldn’t if I could.
The second it’s in, he starts to fuck me roughly. He’s got one hand on my shoulder pressing me against the mirror, and my hard nipples burn as they rub against the cloth and then the wall.
“Please…” I gasped, but I don’t know what I’m asking for.
Declan redoubles his pace, and my face and my body and my legs and my hips all bang against the mirror until I worry it might break, but Declan doesn’t stop.
Sparks of electricity are shooting through my body, and even though he doesn’t care about what’s happening to me, I know I’m about to come. My breath is ragged when it’s there at all, and I close my eyes, only for a whiteness to explode behind my lids like I’m looking directly into the sun.
My skin’s on fire, and Declan slams into me once more, and my pussy clenches around his huge cock. I’m sore; I’m broken; I’ve been completely used, but none of that matters right now because the orgasm that’s overcoming me is like a tidal wave breaking against the shoreline, and my pussy and my nipples and every inch of skin is still crackling and sparking with pleasure.
But the stars fade, and the pleasure subsides, and I realize that Declan’s not made a sound.
“Didn’t you…” I say, hating the sound of my own voice, and my awkwardness. “Didn’t you come?”
14
Declan
“Step out for a sec, Pat,” I order.
“You got it, boss,” he says in that low, gravelly voice of his.
Boss.
I shiver. I’m not used to that word. I’m not sure I’ll ever be. It’s only been a couple of days since dad died, and I can’t get over how different everyone’s treating me – even Kieran.
Especially Kieran. We’re twins, only separated by ten minutes and a lifetime of experience, but even he’s looking at me different.
The car door clicks shut, and there is a moment of silence. Casey’s looking nervous, her eyes darting from window to window as she looks out at the graveyard, and I can tell she doesn’t want to be here.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“You’re asking me?” Casey replies, her voice up an octave. “Are you? You’re the one who…” She trails off, as if realizing what she was about to say.
I give her a sympathetic nod. I’m not used to it yet, and I’m not sure I ever will be – so how can I expect others to be any different? Dad was the foundation and the glue that held my whole life together and, judging by the sound of the crowd outside, it was the same way for a lot of people as well. Half of Boston is out there and maybe more besides.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Casey whispers. Her fingers clench open and closed on one hand, and she scratches the skin between her thumb and forefinger with the opposite hand.
“If you’re with me, no one –”
Casey cuts ahead of me. “It’s not that,” she says, looking down. “Luke is …,” she breaks off.
“This is where Luke is buried.”
She says it with so much finality that it breaks my heart. The first time she told me about her brother, I felt something. even though I knew whatever I felt was because I had feelings for Casey, not because I knew what she was going through. This time, it’s different. This time I know what loss feels like. It hurts. It’s a jagged wound that won’t close; an ache that I don’t think will ever go away.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, reaching over and grabbing her hand. It’s warm, almost burning hot, and I don’t expect it. It feels – different somehow: out of place on this gray day, in a field of the dead, where even the living wear black.
My mind flicks back, like it’s done a hundred times already, to that moment a couple of days ago. That moment when I saw the photo of dad, something came over me: something black, something that I couldn’t control. Yet Casey held me then, even when I treated her like dirt. She held me as hot, silent tears came out – the only time in my life I’ve ever cried.
No, I have that wrong: the second.
I squeeze her fingers in mine. I know in my heart of hearts that I can’t do this without her.
“I need you here,” I whisper.
It’s only four words, but it’s four words that mean so much more than I anything else I can say. It’s true. I’m coming to rely on Casey like a crutch to rest on. It’s crazy, I know. I mean, I barely know her, but it’s in times of hardship that true connections are forged. Whatever I’ve got with Casey, it’s real. It’s raw, but it’s tight. There’s no denying it.
Those greens of hers fix on my eyes, and they don’t let go. I can’t read her. It used to be so easy when I met her, but now, it’s harder to know what she’s thinking, with her eyes all swamped with emotion and layers of meaning too thick to grasp.
I press on. “You’re my woman,” I say.
I don’t expect those words to come out of my mouth, but when they do, I’m not surprised. It’s how I’m beginning to think of her.
&nb
sp; “I know that this, this thing we have – it’s all messed up and crazy. But that’s how it is. You’re my woman, and I need you by my side.”
Casey flinches, and I don’t know if it’s the raw honesty in my words that causes it. She holds my gaze a second longer and nods. “Okay,” she says. Then a second later, she says a second time, stronger, louder, “Okay.”
She squeezes my hand, and says, “I’m by your side.”
We step out of the town car, and Patrick closes the door behind us. The second we do, every eye in the place turns on us, and I wonder whether this is what it’s like for the President and the First Lady. The hum of the crowd goes silent for a couple of seconds, and then renews. But I know that every damn person here is following my every move.
“Declan,” an old man wheezes. “You won’t remember me –”
I cut him off. “Of course I do, Tim. I was young, but I remember.”
He laughs. “It’s true what they say. Old mobsters don’t die, they just fade away.” He bends over, coughing, and bats away my hand when I try to help. “Never grow old,” he says in a hoarse whisper as he regains his voice and pulls himself back upright. “It’s not worth it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Your father was a good man,” he says, gripping my shoulder. “A bloody good man, ye hear? If you’re half what he was, you’ll do fine.”
I thank him, and we move on.
Casey holds my arm tight as mobster after mobster comes up to me to pay their respects. It’s crazy. I don’t know half of them, but everyone knows who I am.
We get a second’s peace, and I pull her aside behind – I dunno – a crypt? Something big and stone and full of dead people, anyway. It’s not the first place I’d have picked for a meeting, but it’s not like I’ve got a hell of a lot of choices.
“What the hell is this?” I ask her, my voice low and urgent. “Can’t they just give me some time to – I don’t know – grieve or something? Why’s everyone coming up to me?” I glance out into the crowd, and see Kieran and Ridley and my Ma all in a family group, and no one surrounding them.
“Why is it just me? Why are they not giving “condolences” to Kieran and the rest?” I ask, pointing at them.
Casey grips my arm. I can’t tear my eyes away from hers; and I don’t want to anyway. She’s like my anchor, my point of reference. She’s all that is stopping me from just running away.
Running: that’s what I would have done as a kid. I would have just got the hell out of here and found someone to fight, or something to break.
“Isn’t it obvious?” She asks. Her eyes are soft, and the look she’s giving me feels like a warm, sympathetic hug.
“They see you as the bus now. Look at their eyes; you’ll see it. Why not Kieran, or the others? I can’t tell you. Its fate, I guess. You were born first, and maybe that’s just the way it is.”
I press my lips against hers and give her a fierce kiss. It’s not fucking romantic – it’s necessary. Casey’s the only one here who isn’t here for anything else – not the grief, not to ask something from me – she’s here just for me. I need to show her how grateful I am.
“Come on,” she whispers, stroking my cheek. “They’re waiting.”
I give myself a second, and compose my face. She straightens up the lapel on my dark gray suit, and we walk out to the podium. This is the last thing I want to be doing; today of all days, when any good Irishman should be drinking away his sorrows, not giving a goddamn speech.
Casey breaks away, and if looks could drag her back, she would be within my encircled arms and I’d never let go: but they can’t, and they don’t. She takes a seat in the crowd. I know she’s right to do so. She can’t be up here, by my side. This is my place and mine alone. How I wish it wasn’t so.
“Thank you father,” I murmur, once the priest’s speech is done. There’s a smattering of “Amens” around the crowd, then it’s my turn.
I take my place in front of the crowd, resting my hands on either side of the wooden lectern. A hundred pairs of eyes stare back at me, maybe more. If it wasn’t for the sound of the faint breeze rustling the leaves of the trees on the hill, and the shuffling of the paper programs, there would be absolute silence.
It’s enough as it is.
My ma’s head is bowed, and she’s resting on Kieran’s shoulder, all dressed in black. My brothers are all wearing a face like thunder, but I know it’s not anger, it’s a deep depression. I feel it too. There’s no one to fight, not this time. Byrne men have never dealt with sadness well. There’s a long line of us who chose the drink instead. I won’t be one of them.
But the expectant look of this crowd is almost enough to drive me to the bottle.
I clear my throat, and the sound echoes around the PA system, but the words won’t come out. The eyes are bearing down on me, drilling into me, burning me, and I don’t know how to deal with them. I’ve never felt this before. I’ve run my life to the tune of the phrase pressure makes diamonds. It sure doesn’t crush me, and it never has.
It’s always been water off a fuckin’ duck’s back for me, and you can believe it when I tell you that my back’s a whole lot broader than that fucking duck. Except, right now, it isn’t. Right now, those fucking eyes won’t stop waiting, expecting – and what the hell am I supposed to give them?
I dip my head to the microphone. “Anyone who knows me,” I whisper in a voice that isn’t mine, “knows that …”
I break off.
I need help.
And Casey gives it to me. My eyes find hers, deep in the crowd. It’s like my eyes were drawn to find her in that sea of men and women dressed all the same. Even dressed in black she outshines the sun. I stare out, and those greens of hers are all I see. None of those other eyes matter. Not Kieran’s, not my other brother’s, not even ma’s – just Casey’s.
I pull myself upright, remembering who I am – a Byrne. It’s fine to feel pain. Who wouldn’t after losing a man like da? But pain passes. Pain needs to pass for the next generation to take the reins. And I’m the next generation. Kieran is the next generation.
Casey is the next generation. It’s fine to feel it, but I can’t allow myself to show it. Pain is weakness, pain is blood, and there are enough goddamn sharks in that crowd in front of me that they’ll smell it. The second they do, I’ll be in the fight of my life. So I bottle it up. I concentrate on Casey’s gaze, and I let that wash over me, and wash away the pain.
I pull myself upright and proud on the podium. Whatever words I was going to say, they’re gone. They were fake, and weak, and they didn’t have the measure of the man.
“Seamus Byrne was a goddamn lion of a man,” I say – and this time, my voice rings out loud and true. “He was the best father any son could ask for –”
“Hear, hear,” Kieran’s voice rings out. He wraps his knuckles against the chair.
“He was the best husband any wife could want.”
Ridley’s voice joins Kieran’s in my brother’s choir.
“And he was the best man Dorchester could have asked for. He will be remembered. He will be missed. But he will not be forgotten.”
The crowd rumbles their support, and every one of my brothers joins in. I slap my hand against the podium, and the sound rattles through the PA system. “So, enough mourning,” I growl. “It’s not our way. It’s not the Irish way. Tonight we remember Seamus the way he would have asked to be remembered; at my ma’s house. You’re all welcome.”
I step down from the podium, and people start to mill about. The depressing atmosphere’s cleared, like the aftermath of a summer storm.
My mood’s just starting to improve, when it slams into a fucking brick wall. I’m trying to get to Casey, but instead I clap eyes on the person I least want to see.
“Mickey,” I say. “You made it.”
Mickey Morello has got those eyes that don’t focus on you when he speaks. I don’t know whether it’s because he’s just awkward, or because he’s got
places he’d rather be; but it pisses me off. This isn’t just a chance meeting in a nightclub; he’s at my dad’s goddamn funeral; and I expect him to look me in the goddamn eye.
My jaw clenches.
“Of course, Dez –”
“Declan.”
“Declan, that’s right. I do apologize. No place would I rather be.”
I can’t tell if Mickey’s being deliberately insolent, or just goddamn stupid. I wonder about the former, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the latter. He’s never been the sharpest knife in the drawer: a playboy, not a future leader.
“Are you coming?”
“Can’t, I’m afraid,” he replies airily. “Places to be – you understand.”
I understand, all right. I bet he’s going goddamn drinking. It’s not how things would’ve happened; not in my dad’s day; nor in his. Back then, men understood respect.
“Shame,” I reply in a tone that says it’s anything but. “But while I’ve got you here, perhaps we can come to an understanding?”
Mickey picks up on the bite to my voice. His eyes narrow and I could swear that his ears prick up like a dog’s.
“You don’t touch my territory, and I don’t touch yours. No one wants a war. They’re bad for business.”
“No one,” Mickey agrees with a Hollywood smile, sticking out his hand. “It’s a deal.”
He shakes like a wet fish.
15
Declan
“Some fucking party,” Kieran says moodily, staring at a cocktail sausage skewered by a little wooden toothpick. He flashes me a wry smile. I know inside he feels as miserable as I do, but that’s just the way the Irish deal: black humor.
You don’t survive the goddamn potato famine and a hundred years of working America’s hardest, dirtiest jobs without an uncanny ability to squeeze humor out of the driest stones.
It happens that Kieran can squeeze like the best of them.
I can’t concentrate on any of it. Something is eating me up inside. I’ve been hiding from it for too long, ever since Casey entered my life and turned everything upside down.