by Vi Carter
What I hold has mixed emotions swimming through me. One word in Irish is carved into a piece of wood. It was something our father had made.
“Chlann,” I say, the Irish word for family. Our father told us family came first no matter what and we often took it to an extreme. Like now. Tom didn’t have to be here, but he was because I was family.
My fingers trace the words carved into the wood. “Thank you.” It was a meaningful wedding present. “I’ll hang it up over the dining table,” I say.
The door opens and Richard raises both eyebrows. “We better get moving.” I nod while standing before placing the plaque back on the seat it had originally sat on. There is a lull in the room, one that I don’t want to face so we leave.
“What’s her name?” Tom asks while we are in the car.
“Margret.”
“Has she a second name?” Now I look at him.
“Why the interest?”
“It would be nice to know a bit about the bride. I see you are still as cagey as ever Michael.” I’m grateful he doesn’t use my nickname this time.
“Hegarty. She’s an only child. Her mother is lovely. Her father doesn’t like me.” I glance at Tom and he grins at me.
“No one likes you.”
I grin back. “I like it that way.”
The car pulls up at the church and nerves kick in but I push them away as I button my suit jacket and walk up the three steps to the building. The church is filled with faces I don’t know. I didn’t invite anyone, only Tom. Richard invited people who had asked me to theirs, along with Margret’s friends and relatives, it was a full house.
I don’t have to wait long for the church bells to ring and the music to announce the arrival of the bride.
My heart picks up as the door opens. This was something I was doing because I wanted it. I wanted Margret who steps through the door a veil covering her face. The white material was simple and flowed down her body like a waterfall but she stole the air from my lungs. Each step allows her face to become clearer. I nod to her father as he reluctantly hands his daughter over to me. Lifting the veil I push it back and I smile into her smiling face. I want to kiss her right here and now. My hand touches soft and flushed cheeks.
“Alainn,” I tell her, not able to form anymore words. She closes her eyes before looking before looking up at me with such love that it devours the darkness that lives inside me.
Chapter Eleven
Michael O’Reagan
“You did all this?” She’s in my arms as we dance under the fairy lights that flow above us. The outdoor reception on Whitewood house grounds impresses me. They did wonders in such a short time.
“I directed them,” I say and she laughs. It’s soft and feminine just like the flesh that I press my hands into. Tonight can’t come quick enough and I can see that want burning in her eyes as well.
“Tell me you’re happy?” I want her to be happy. I want her to be happy because of me.
Her hands leave my shoulders and cups my face. “Nothing in this world could make me happier. All I want is you.” I press my lips gently against hers. I don’t want to be gentle I want to consume her but I want everyone to respect her as much as I do.
Her father approaches and he wears a false smile. One I don’t mind. Margret smiles back at him as if he is truly happy.
“Can I have a dance with my daughter?” I give him her hand and allow him this moment with his daughter. Tom is watching me from the bar and I stop beside him and order a whiskey.
“Are you not dancing?” I ask him facing the floor that has filled with couples.
“I’m not the dancing type.” He drinks a pint of Guinness and right now he reminds me of Father so much.
“Not the woman type?” I quiz and he gives me a sharp look that I raise my brow too.
“I’m only asking.”
“What you think every man who serves time in prison favors men.” The drink turns sour in my mouth at his words.
“I knew you wouldn’t let it go.” I down my whiskey and he laughs.
“Ten years is a long time brother. But I only like women.” I’ve had enough of his chatter and push away to reclaim my wife.
She sees me approach and her face lights up. Her father hands her over immediately and I don’t resume dancing, instead I take her away from the dance floor.
“Where are we going?” She sounds excited as I leave our guests behind and walk towards the house.
Over the last few weeks Margret has been doing up some rooms. It’s hard to get her to spend money, but with practice I’m sure she will get used to it. Catering staff in the hallways move aside while congratulating us.
The noise drops as we climb the steps to our room. Margret doesn’t say anything and her hand squeezes mine nervously. I don’t think she’s aware of what she’s doing.
“We don’t have to do anything,” I say the moment I close the door. “I just wanted you all to myself.”
Her smile creeps up slowly and my heart thumps loudly.
“I knew I would marry you and here you are.” Surprise lights up her eyes.
“Really? I didn’t think you noticed me.” Brushing her hair behind her ear I smile at her. “You’re all I’ve ever seen.” She had no idea. Holding her face steady I close the distance and kiss her with the want that has been growing in me all day. She moans softly into my mouth and I have to remind myself to be gentle with her.
Chapter Twelve
Margret O’Reagan
I want to hide as Michael removes my dress and let’s it tumble to the ground but I remind myself he is my husband now and I his wife. I stand still as he strips off his own clothes. His body is as magnificent as I knew it would be. When he removes his final piece of clothing I’m nervous at how large he is. Moving towards me he presses himself to my core and something inside me trembles with delight.
Large hands cover my breasts and I close my eyes and sigh. “I want to see you.” Michael whispers before kissing my neck. Opening my eyes, I meet his blue eyes before slowly lying back on the bed. He takes his time spreading my legs and looking at me. The want to close my legs nearly consumes me. He steps in between my legs and places himself at my entrance.
“You need to relax.” I nod as he moves down and presses a kiss to me while keeping himself just outside my entrance. I relax a bit and he pushes against it before sliding himself in slightly. The burn is instant and sends tears to my eyes as he pauses over me.
“Don’t stop,” I say and kiss his lips tasting the salty tears. He pulls out and moves in deeper, stretching me, widening my walls, pain soon turns to a different sense and he pushes fully into me before moving back out. Each stroke becomes more pleasurable until he trembles above me and I release seconds later.
Lying in his arms feels perfect. I feel this is where I belong. Where I will always belong.
“Margret O’Reagan.” Michael whispers in my ear and I can’t stop the smile that stretches across my face even as my body aches.
His hand moves under the covers and presses against my stomach. “I can’t wait until life starts to grow deep inside you. Life that I put there.” His words have me clenching my legs as he turns me around to face him. I open easily as he positions himself above me. “I’d really like that,” I say. Being a mother was something I had always wanted. Being a mother to Michael O’Reagan’s children was a dream come true.
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Michael and Margret O’Reagan have five children. The story begins with Finn & Shane O’Reagan. You can follow all their children’s journeys as they move through the criminal world with their parent’s choices heavy on their shoulders.
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More in the Wild Irish Series
Vicious #1 (Finn and Shane O’Reagan)
Ruthless #2 (Connor O’Reagan)
&n
bsp; Fearless #3 (Darragh O’Reagan)
Merciless #4 (Liam O’Reagan)
Heartless #5 (Liam O’Reagan)
CHAPTER ONE
FINN
“Where is your brother?” My father bends over a map that takes up the top of the table. His index finger has stopped moving as I enter. He doesn’t look up at me. Shane stands firmly beside him, arms folded across his wide chest. I scratch my eyebrow in annoyance.
There is so much I want to say, like, ‘Just because we are twins doesn’t mean we keep tabs on each other.’ Or ‘Do I look like a fucking slave?’ But our motto is carved into the wood that hangs over the dining table that is mostly used for meetings.
The Irish word ‘Chlann’ has been carved into that piece of wood by our father’s, father, and it is carved into all of us. The family comes first, no matter what. My eyes flicker back to Shane who still stares at me, a shadow of a grin on his face.
“Probably in bed with a whore,” I rattle off, and that gets my father’s attention. His finger slightly curls.
“Watch your mouth, Finn.” He speaks but doesn’t look at me. Is he fucking kidding? His mouth spews poison half the time.
I flicker a glance at Shane, expecting the grin to be visible, but it isn’t, instead, his head tilts slightly towards our father, his way of telling me to shut the fuck up and go and get our brother.
“I’ll get him now.” With a sigh, I close the door behind me and take the stairs two at a time, slowing down once I reach the landing. I can hear the undercurrent of a beat. Darragh never switches his music off. In his life, the party never seems to stop. I can smell the cigarette smoke before I even open his door, and once I do, a lot of other smells follow.
“Darragh, get up.” I kick the base of the bed, where three sets of legs hang out. The alcohol fumes in the room have me wanting to open a window. My steel toe boot connects with the bed frame again. A blond pops up like a blow-up doll, mumbling as she looks around the room. Her eyes settle on me, and she slowly grins.
“Good morning.” A polish accent or maybe Russian—I can’t tell the difference—coats her words.
“Get out,” I tell her. Her brows furrow as she looks down at sleeping beauty, who I am tempted to kick the shit out of if he doesn’t wake up soon.
“Darragh, get the fuck up.” This time he does, and the second blow-up doll inflates. Topless. She does a double take to me and then Darragh. “Twins.”
“You’re a genius. Now, get out,” I say slowly for her. This time they both get out of the bed. The second one yelps as Darragh lands a slap to her arse. I wonder sometimes how we are related. The idea that we shared the same womb is baffling.
“Da is waiting, Darragh, and he’s pissed.” I don’t blatantly watch the girls as they get dressed, but I can’t help the occasional glance; they are fit, a little too thin for my likings, but still nice. I light a fag as Darragh finally gets off the bed and pulls on a white t-shirt.
“Pick a different color,” I tell him. I am wearing a white t-shirt, and I’ll be fucked if we are dressing the same.
“You know who you are like?” Darragh asks while pulling the t-shirt off. I don’t acknowledge him but smoke my fag, hoping by the time I am finished, that Darragh will be ready. “You’re like Da.”
I snort because I am the furthest from our father, and Darragh knows it. I don’t respond as each girl moves past me and out the door. Darragh promises to ring them later, and they believe him. Our front door has become a rotating one with all of Darragh’s women. None are ever brought back for seconds. He pulls on jeans, and I want to tell him to change them. I’m wearing jeans, but I don’t want to sound whiny.
“What does he want?” Darragh slaps his face twice, and I am glad that he shaves daily. I’m growing a beard just so we look different. Being identical twins is a pain in the ass.
“I don’t know. Shane’s with him,” I say as we make our way downstairs and return to the dining room with my brother, like a good little doggy.
“Close the door,” Dad barks, and Darragh does. Once we all stand around the map on the table, he finally looks up, blue eyes snapping from me to Darragh. My father is a man that many admire.
For me, I hate him and love him. I hate how he sees me as someone to take care of Darragh, I hate how he treats Connor, my brother. I hate the control.
My mind moves back to the meeting as Shane kicks it off.
“Land close by has come up for sale.” Normally Shane doesn’t speak unless father has asked him too, but I can see the irritation in our father's stance.
The smell of alcohol off Darragh is wafting through the room, and he looks like he smells. Bloodshot eyes blink several times as he slaps himself across the face again. If he keeps it up, he won’t have to slap himself anymore; Dad is ready to flitter him.
Shane jabs a finger at a patch of green fields circled with a red marker on the map. “11.86 acres has come up. Seven of it is bog land.” We all stare at the green patch that Shane points at.
“Darragh, I want you to convince the new landowner to sell it to you,” Father cuts in, and Darragh folds his arms across his chest while nodding.
“She’s only moved back here, she has no family or attachment to the land, and it should be an easy sell.” Shane sits down at the table, his black shirt and slacks make him look like he is going to a funeral. Maybe he is.
“You go with him,” my father says, cutting me with his sharp eye. Once again I try to hide my irritation at being Darragh’s babysitter.
“How much?” Darragh widens his eyes, and I wonder if he’s high. I want to kick him and tell him to get his shit together.
“Offer her a hundred thousand.”
Darragh nods.
“For bog land? That’s worth like what, two or three an acre, the good land no more than ten.” I can’t for a second understand why he is over paying.
“I didn’t realize you were my financial adviser.” Darragh shifts beside me, and I clench my jaw at my father’s words. If Shane gave his opinion it wouldn’t be shot down, but the moment I do, I get a smart fucking answer
“You both tidy yourselves up. You leave in an hour.” My father dismisses us with a wave of his hand. I am out of there and taking the stairs two at a time. My mind, for some reason, begins conjuring up images of Conor. It’s weird how much you can miss a person. I hate him for abandoning me. But he has always been there for me. Now I feel so out of place in our dysfunctional family.
Slamming my door feels pretty juvenile, but I need to release some of my anger. I also need to get showered and ready to go and purchase bog land, land that is only good for one thing.
Dumping bodies.
SIOBHAN
‘Death. It comes to us all.’ That line is from Gladiator, one of my all-time favorite films, and it rings true to me.. Right now, it’s on a loop as I look down at my father. All the wasted time, all the what if’s and why’s. Now they no longer matter. All that matters is saying goodbye and hoping the next time I meet him, we might spend some time together. I might actually get to know my father.
“Ah, Siobhan I’m so sorry for your loss.” Another farmer who I don’t know takes my hand in his. His other holds a hat that he takes from his balding head. His tweed jacket is worn and looks like if you’d slap it, dust mites would fill the air. But this is their Sunday clothes, funeral clothes. Irish Farmers have their own unique style.
“Thank you.” I don’t know his name, and there is a pause, like he is waiting for me to say it. His hand tightens on mine. “Michael,” I say. The other part of me wants to say Patrick, but I am wrong either way.
“Peter.”
I exhale a breath. “Ah, yeah, Peter.”
“Peter, you are holding up the line.” Olive, bless her heart, leans in across my shoulder. Peter is a big man, nearly seven foot tall, so being told off by a woman who is small and round is funny. But he moves along the line that just isn’t stopping. The room is now f
illed with men, mostly farmers, all chatting about how great my dad was.
My eyes flicker once again to his corpse. Each story I hear makes me wish I had known him. I don’t feel sad, or upset like any normal daughter would. No tears come, I even try to force them by thinking back to burying my mother when I was only fifteen. But I have nada.
The wake is to last three nights. Three long nights. Honestly, I don’t understand why we have to wait so long, but it’s a tradition, in case he wakes up, but my father isn’t waking up. He’s dead. For sure. “Olive. I’m going to take a break.” I needed to get out of this room of strangers.
Olive nods, each nod sharp. “Don’t you worry, Siobhan. I’ll keep this show on the road.” I suppress a smile that threatens to appear. She pats me three times on the arm. “You take a wee break. Come back when you’re ready.” I don’t delay. Instead, I move through the house quickly and out into the small backyard, which is walled in.
Opening the gate I move out into the farmyard. The large slatted shed that housed eighty cattle is now silent. It’s an odd sound. Spending most of my childhood listening to the wails of the cattle, the silence is another reminder that everyone here is gone.
Swallowing the first sign of tears, I tighten my arms across my chest. It’s freezing outside, my breaths form small white puffs in front of me. The light black dress in’t doing anything to fight off the cold. The wind prickles my skin, making me feel, and I allow it. Standing still with my eyes closed brings back so many memories.
My mother wasn’t a conventional mother by any means. She would roll up her sleeves and come out and help Dad with the cattle. She would shovel dung, feed them silage, a pair of overalls was something she owned.
A small laugh bubbles from my lips, accompanied by my first cry. Dad loved her so much. I remember watching him…watching her, thinking one day I hope someone looks at me like that. That is the before. Before she got cancer, before everything changed then, he changed. Our home changed.