I slice into my broiled tomato and ignore him.
Clarissa kicks me from beneath the table. I’ve got to say, she’s mighty fast on the uptake. I bet my Sunday breakfast she’s plans on recording this exchange. We’ll find out if I’m correct when I’m deleting it.
“Come,” the big fella says.
“My chailín comes, too.” Guilt, this is. At least, she can walk away from this exchange with something to write about.
The man looks confused.
“His girlfriend. Me.” Clarissa stands. Her excitement could fill the pubs in Ireland.
I chew a mouthful of tomato.
“She’s waiting,” the big fella growls.
“Never make a lady wait,” Clarissa declares over her shoulder, already on the move, unaware that these fellas have the look of hardcore criminals. Trained killers, most likely. It’s in their body language, their arrogance. Hired by the woman waiting nearby.
Got to tell you, I learned the hard way back in Mexico City to never underestimate a woman, no matter her age, nationality, or the company she keeps. And doesn’t Clarissa reinforce this fact every bleedin’ day?
I finish my tomato, place the fork on my plate, then meander over to the table, taking a few seconds to slide my chair next to Clarissa before settling into it. All eyes are on me.
“I see you’re one of those?” the woman comments.
I give her my full attention while casually studying her. In her midforties, attractive in a cougar-like way, used to ordering men about.
“I’ll bite. What am I?”
“The loyal type.”
She glances at Clarissa then back at me. I ever so slowly stretch myself out in my chair and toss an arm across the back of Clarissa’s, while carefully watching the woman’s reaction.
She doesn’t disappoint. Something akin to envy flashes across her expression. Is it her husband disappointing her?
“Find the right beour and staying loyal comes easy.”
“I’m not the sharing type,” Clarissa joins in. “Luckily, Finn is loyal.”
“Happy to hear it. Now he can be loyal to me.”
Clarissa tenses in her seat.
“Easy, love. What she’s proposing isn’t sexual.” I grin at the woman. “Or is it?”
I give her credit, she doesn’t so much as blink. “Vidal needs to beat his next opponent.”
Ah, no qualms about getting straight to the point. “Why?”
“I need to win a bet.”
“By hedging your wager?”
“By any means possible. I won’t leave Ireland happy without seeing his smug face when he loses.”
O’Brien’s face . . . at the fights.
“Men,” Clarissa says with great relish, keeping her talking.
“Men. This one thinks he can get away with robbing me blind.”
I don’t dare feckin’ blink or say anything, handing things off to the capable woman beside me.
“That’s horrible,” Clarissa remarks. “Why do men always underestimate a woman’s worth. Take this one, for example,” she gestures at me and I stifle a groan, “He ghosted me after we had the best sex of my life.”
Bollocks on a stick.
And is that feckin’ heat I feel in me cheeks? I can feel every bleedin’ one of them staring at me. Best damned sex? My chailín decides now is the time to share that wee bit of information with me?
“My husband, Barrington, brought his tart into my goddamn home. He thinks he’s invincible, but he’ll pay the price soon enough.”
Well, well, well.
“My ex-boyfriend, for the lack of a better name, got me fired from my job for misconduct in the workplace. He got promoted.”
“Asshole.”
Clarissa nods in agreement.
I clear my throat.
So does every other man at the table. Our shriveled balls are collected on a platter and being served alongside a slice of humble pie. I’ve half a mind to let these two finish their conversation in private.
“I didn’t catch your name.”
My grin might not be visible but it’s as broad as day. Brilliant move by the minx.
“I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Sylvia. Sylvia Ogdenhayer.”
I don’t react.
Clarissa tilts her head. It’s the slightest of movements, giving nothing away. But it’s enough to know we are on the same bleedin’ page.
Sylvia Ogdenhayer isn’t pleased with O’Brien.
And she’s come to me to do something about it.
Now, how to proceed?
“The big fella’s got a weak chin.”
She arches an eyebrow. “A weak chin?”
I tap my own, feeling the big fella listening intently across the table struggle not to send a punch my way.
“And how do you fix a weak chin?”
I give her a lazy smile. “Don’t get hit.”
She doesn’t like my sense of humor. “I’ll offer you ten thousand euros throw the fight. Two thousand more if it looks convincing.”
“How come you’re so sure I’ll even make it that far?”
She cracks a smile, and I’ve got to say, it’s unsettling. “Word is O’Brien has taken an interest in you.”
“That so?” I run my fingers across my jaw. “How come you’re so certain the big fella will qualify?”
“If Vidal loses, I’ll kill him.”
The woman is bleedin’ serious.
She shrugs. “Just a matter of speech.”
“O’Brien really screwed you over,” Clarissa presses on. Yep. Recording every word, for sure.
“He promised to spend hours with his head between my thighs but instead is trying to fuck me from behind.”
Well, there you have it.
Sylvia rises to her feet. Her men follow suit. “Throw the fight and take my money, or you’ll end up with the same offer I made Vidal.” The mad woman stalks off with a trail of men behind her.
I turn and catch Clarissa tapping the red button on her cell phone. She stores her phone safely away in her knapsack. Unaware that whatever she captured on video will never see the light of day.
I wait a heartbeat until I have her full attention. “She threatened to kill you,” is all she has to offer me. “In case you didn’t notice, I’ve a way with the ladies.”
She stares at me like I’ve lost my bleedin’ mind. “She threatened to kill you.”
I stand and nod toward our table. “All this talk of fighting and murder has given me an appetite.”
Clarissa
Finn reorders us breakfast and insists we enjoy it without interruption.
Who am I to protest? At this point, I’d run ten more miles, eat three breakfasts, and kiss Finn’s battered lips until his knees shook because I’m that happy.
“Easy does it,” he mutters, encouraging me to contain my excitement.
I clap my hands together. “Easy is right. Can you believe Sylvia Ogdenhayer is in Cork? And she’s taken an interest in you?”
Mrs. Ogdenhayer is in Ireland. She’s dealing directly with O’Brien.
And Finn and I are right in the middle of it.
Finn shrugs then stabs a fork into a slice of ham.
I ignore his lackluster enthusiasm and busy myself finishing up business. I take out my iPhone and replay the video, anxious to hear Sylvia Ogdenhayer’s voice and check for sound quality. The audio is crisp and clear, and better than I hoped for. Yeah, I needed more. I needed her to say O’Brien’s name or discuss being in Ireland on business. I’ll have to fill in the blanks myself. But it sounds like O’Brien will be at the fights, so this is just the beginning of getting to the heart of these characters.
With careful fingers, I upload it along with the warehouse footage. I have half a mind to skim through everything and begin connecting the pieces of this complicated puzzle for viewers.
“Eat.”
I glance up.
Finn gestures to my full plate of food. “Yer eggs are getting cold.”
With a sigh, I tuck my phone away and give in to my hunger. Finn alternates between staring at his plate and watching me eat. I know this because I do the same.
“That little girl would have wanted to be like you if she’d grown up.”
I drop my fork. “What?”
“Christiana. The wee tyke you lost. She’d have looked up to you if she’d lived.”
Tears form, his words springing a withered cork free from a dam. “You remember her name.”
He taps a finger to his temple. “Big head. Big brain.”
I pick up a napkin and dab my eyes.
“I’ve no doubt you’d find a way to make change even without this story.” He pauses, watching me carefully. Probably waiting for the sprig of tears to turn into a geyser.
I shake my head. “This story is the one. It has villains, twist and turns that read like a melodrama, and a hero.”
Finn looks away and readjusts his big body in his chair. Modest for such a bold man. Uncomfortable with me calling him a hero.
“Anyway,” I say, drawing his focus back to what I’m saying, “The networks will want more investigative pieces if this story strikes a chord with viewers. I have another one locked and loaded to go. Christiana’s story will be told.”
I am going to honor that little girl’s memory. I’ve been waiting a long time to do so.
Finn sets his coffee cup down a bit too hard, splashing coffee everywhere.
I laugh at his unusual clumsiness and toss him a napkin. “Here.”
He busies himself cleaning up, unaware of how his comment keeps playing through my mind. Does he know how kind his words are? Does he understand how deeply affected I am when considering Christiana would have wanted to take after me?
“Let’s go.”
He stops mid-dab with the napkin and gives me a curious look.
“I feel like celebrating. And I know just how I’d like to do it.”
That has him snapping to attention.
“Is that right?”
I shrug.
He tosses the napkin on the table then leans back to stare at me. “You want another ride, do you?”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. Why does he have to make such a big deal about this? He should be thrilled I’ve even forgiven him for the crap he’s pulled.
He abruptly stands and tosses euros onto the table.
I blink. “Right now?”
“Never make a lady wait.” He grabs my hand and leads me out of the pub, walking briskly then turning down a narrow cobblestone street away from Main Street. I have to lengthen my stride to keep up. He stops at the backside of a centuries-old church that is tucked in from the street.
“Isn’t our B and B that . . .uh —” I’m lifted and carried several steps then placed on my feet. It happens fast. My jogging shorts along with underwear tugged down my legs. My being hoisted once more into the air. My back connecting with the church exterior, the cool, damp stone in sharp contrast to the sudden rise in my body temperature.
“Can I feck you bare?”
He’s pushing inside me as I say yes.
“Ah,” I cry out. He’s so fucking big. And him like this, the aggressor . . .
“All mornin’ long I couldn’t wait to get inside yer gorgeous pussy. Feel how we fit together? Like a puzzle sliding into place. Like we were born for each other.”
What?
“You’re a poet, too.” I gasp, as he thrusts hard.
He snorts. “Been said I’ve a way with words.”
I laugh.
“Ride me, you minx.”
I place my hands on his shoulders and flex my hips, drawing in a sharp breath as I stretch to accommodate him.
“Yeah. Like that.”
I do it again then find my rhythm. Marveling at the feel of him, the strength of him.
We don’t last long. A quickie, if you will. Like we’ve done this a million times before and understand exactly how to move to set the other off.
He arches his hips forward, forcing my clit to drag against his warm body.
I roll a wet tongue into his ear, then in a whispered breath describe in vivid detail how his big, delicious cock is splitting me into two.
The church bell begins to ring as I fall apart in his arms. God, I can’t get enough of him.
God help me, but I think I can’t live without more of this.
Finn stills, lowers me to my feet, and withdraws. He tucks himself away but I’m slower to recover, my legs weak, my thoughts garbled. The sensation of his come dripping down my thigh the most erotic thing I’ve ever felt.
He removes his shirt then cleans me off, helps me redress, and even readjusts my shirt.
“Good as new,” he offers with a wink.
26
Finn
I was always a proud bloke. If Antonio didn’t break my spirit, no role can. Maybe that’s why playing the underdog is a role I do best. The bumbling oafs being a far cry from Finn McDuff. So why is it the hand-selected lineup for tonight’s fights isn’t sitting well with me?
“You’ll be fighting Stevie Ungerton first,” the white-haired organizer is telling me, gesturing to a lanky, green-behind-the-ears pup across the room. He’d pulled me aside seconds after setting eyes on me. Eager with news about tonight’s opponents. Motivated by something, someone, not currently present inside the club.
I scowl, offended. “That wee muppet? Has he won any fights?”
The old man turns red.
“Why him?”
“You want to fight or not? Keep asking questions and you’ll end up out on yer ear, hear me?”
I give him a puzzled expression then pretend to have a feckin’ light-bulb moment. “The fight is fixed, isn’t it.”
“Are you listening? Keep yer trap shut and win yer fights. Tony Flattery and Johnny Trehem will be next.” He nods to the two lads standing alongside Stevie. Believing our conversation is over, he spins on his heels, ready to go on with his business.
“How much did the South Africans wager on me?”
The old man turns toward me and shoots me a look like I’m the stupidest feck in Cork. “What in Christ’s sake does it matter if those foreigners bet a pretty penny on you?”
“So, they bet on me winning tonight?”
“Yeah, they did.” He squints like he’s pained, like too much light is blinding his eyes. “But if you lose, it’s not the South Africans you should be worried about.”
“O’Brien?” I murmur.
The old man rolls his eyes. “Let’s hope yer fists are stronger than yer noggin.”
“O’Brien is investing in the fights?”
“Ding. Ding. Ding. Give the eegit a medal,” the old man mutters.
“Will he come and watch?”
“No.” His response surprises me but I don’t show it. “He’ll be coming to collect on his investment in you.” He taps his head. “It sink in now?”
I nod.
“O’Brien is ensuring you’ll continue yer winning streak. But say nothing to no one about who you’ll be fighting, understood?” He arches an eyebrow, and I nod agreeably. “Don’t need every Tom, Dick, and Harry betting on you and ruining the odds. Any more bleedin’ questions?”
“No.”
“Good.” He marches off.
I scratch my head, wondering how pleased Sylvia Ogdenhayer is going to be when she hears O’Brien is investing in me. If she were Irish, she’d probably do the jig while plotting and conniving how to best outwit O’Brien. Little did I know when I made it my mission to be the center of attention so every tool from Antarctica to Africa would gamble on me.
My attention falls on my three would-be opponents who haven’t realized being quick fingered while playing video games isn’t the kind of preparation needed for these kinds of fights.
With a crack of my knuckles, I get on with the business of ensuring those three tykes don’t step a foot inside the ring tonight.
27
Clarissa
My heart
is in my throat by the time Finn’s second fight has ended. Dirty, viciously skilled fighters who likely honed their skills inside the County Cork jail have gone up against Finn and lost.
“A challenge,” Finn boasted, as I wiped blood from his brow after his second win.
I’m beginning to think Finn enjoys the prolonged beatings. Taking kicks and punches in the first few rounds while taunting his opponents and riling up the crowd. Putting on a memorable show so his name is on everyone’s lips, the South Africans’, O’Brien’s.
It’s worked. O’Brien was at the club earlier to place money on the fights, and on Finn. Bets are high with everyone gambling heavily.
“Getting the job done” is what Finn calls three agonizing-to-watch bouts.
Stomach ulcer, is what my unsettled stomach is calling it.
I glance around the fight club and try to settle my thoughts on the job. Has O’Brien returned? And if he has, should I approach him?
My eyes skim over a tall, dark-haired man in a black suit standing in the darkest corner of the club. I almost missed him over there, alone by the wall, hidden in the shadows. I can’t put my finger on it—power, fear, charisma—yet something about him earns a second glance. Not Russian, I think, as the group of them are gathered on the other side of the fight club. Irish then?
I nudge Fiona. “Have you seen O’Brien?”
“Isn’t coming. He’s too busy putting me Johnny to work unloading some lorries.”
“Lorries?” My body shifts her way. Darn it. I should have asked her sooner about O’Brien.
“Trucks, as you Yanks say.”
I pause, tempering my excitement. “O’Brien operates a moving company?” It’s an innocent question, if not ridiculous.
“A moving company?” Fiona chuckles. “That’s brilliant. No, you daft woman. I’m talking about cargo. Like the kind you unload off a ship.”
“Oh,” I reply. Perhaps Finn is rubbing off on me a little too well. “That makes more sense. Why would O’Brien be moving furniture when he could move . . . whatnot.”
“Whatnot.” Fiona repeats with a smile and I relax, knowing I haven’t raised any alarms with my questions.
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 16