The Monster

by Shen, L. J.

  I turned around quickly and offered Hunter a polite smile. We were still more acquaintances than siblings.

  “She looks beautiful.”

  He shrugged, sauntering deeper into the living room with a towel wrapped around his waist and nothing else, his blond hair dripping water. “She’s okay.”

  “I’m guessing those are her parents.” I pointed at the first picture, playing innocent. He nodded.

  “And these two?” I moved to the Penrose sisters, playing dumb. My heart pounded in my chest. I didn’t know why, but I had a feeling about these girls. This group. I wanted to be a part of them.

  “Persephone and Emmabelle. Her best friends. They’re sisters. Another bucket list dream I can’t fulfill because Sailor is on my case.”

  “What do you mean? What do you want to do to them?”

  “I want to do them.” He rolled his eyes, looking at me like I was a complete moron.

  “And who is this guy?” I asked nonchalantly, pointing at Monster. This was it. My big moment to find out his name. I didn’t know what I was going to do if I found out he was her boyfriend. How could I tell my brother that he was living with a woman who was dating a murderer?

  But no. That wasn’t the thing that bothered me the most about the idea of Sailor and Monster being together. It was the fact that he had a girlfriend. That he had moved on. Of course he would. All we shared was a kiss and a theme park ride.

  I thought I was going to be sick.

  “That’s Sam Brennan.” Hunter ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back. “Her brother. Well, adoptive brother, I guess. Her parents adopted him when she was barely a toddler. A real piece of work and the current number one mobster in Boston. All the gangs and mafia families on the East Coast have a bounty on his head. His chances of reaching an old age are below zero.”

  The Monster was a mobster.

  No surprises there.

  But now he had a name, an identity, a context.

  Things were about to become very complicated.

  Aisling 18, Sam 26.

  “For heaven’s sake, Aisling, what are you doing? They’re here. Hurry up!” Mother chided me, her heels clicking on the marble floor behind me. My mother’s delicate fingers wrapped around my wrist, tugging me.

  “Come on, you know I don’t do small talk very well. You’ll need to save me from mingling. Especially with the matriarch. She works for a living. You know I don’t do well with the middle class.”

  I followed her to the foyer, a boulder the size of Connecticut settling in the pit of my stomach.

  Today was the day my parents decided to invite Sailor’s family for dinner. Mother wanted to get to know the Brennans. Well, that was her main excuse. Really, she just wanted to force Hunter to visit her.

  Even though Hunter was against the arrangement, I’d met Sailor plenty of times since they moved in together. We became fast friends after a peculiar charity ball we’d both attended, in which she introduced me to Persephone and Emmabelle.

  She was funny, quick-witted, and loyal. But no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get her to talk about Sam. She was crazy protective of him, and every time I asked about her family, she changed the subject.

  The butlers swung the double doors open. The Brennans stood on the other side. Mrs. Brennan, with tangerine hair and sharp emerald eyes, held a steaming dish in her hand.

  Sam’s eagle eyes snapped to mine. The unpleasant curl of his lips warned me not to act like we’d previously met. Seeing each other wasn’t a surprise to either of us. I had no doubt Sam knew his sister lived with my brother.

  He never bothered to seek me out.

  My father, oblivious to my gigantic internal meltdown, conducted the introductions.

  “And this is my daughter, Aisling.” Athair—father in Gaelic—waved his hand in my direction, like I was a decorative ornament. Gerald Fitzpatrick was a plump man with a face the color of a shrimp, beady eyes, and three chins.

  Sam offered me half a nod, barely glancing my way.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” I said steely. Sam ignored me.

  My brother Cillian stood tall and imposing yet still looked small in comparison to Sam.

  “Don’t even look at her, Mr. Brennan. Aisling is prime rib. Not a hotdog and therefore not on your menu.”

  “Cillian, for shame.” Mother clutched her pearls, like she hadn’t shared his opinion. Sam grinned, taking his phone out and checking something, like our presence around him didn’t even register.

  Cillian walked over to Troy, Sam’s dad.

  “May I offer you and your wife a tour of Avebury Court Manor?”

  The man sized him up. My guess was our mansion interested Troy Brennan just a tad less than the state of the weather in Gambia.

  “You may, but I’ll pass,” Troy drawled, “on the grounds that you’re a cun—”

  “We’d love a tour!” Sparrow elbowed her husband’s side.

  Sam tucked his phone back in his pocket, indifferent to the awkwardness. Judging by the introductions alone, tonight was going to be long and painful.

  “Aisling, go with them while I check on the cook. See if they need anything,” Mother instructed, and I knew what it meant.

  Keep them company so I don’t have to. So I can fix myself a drink and hide in my room a little longer.

  I fell into step behind Troy, Sparrow, Cillian, and Sam. His casual jeans and tee were replaced with gray slacks and a black button-down shirt. His hair was cropped closer to his scalp. His shoulders were so broad they blocked half the hallway.

  We were the only two people who didn’t engage in small talk, although both Troy and Cillian seemed painfully bored with Sparrow’s sourdough bread recipe, which included letting the dough “rest” in the sun, feeding it, talking to it, and generally treating it like a Tamagotchi.

  We ascended the stairs to the second floor. My house was terrible. Soulless and glitzy, like an endless hotel lobby. Limestone and gold accents winked from every direction; dramatic curtains and fountains attacked your eyeballs no matter where you looked. If nouveau riche had a face, it would be Avebury Court Manor.

  Cillian showed the Brennans the left wing, also known as the family hall, filing through our rooms as he recited our family’s history like we were the Kennedys.

  Sam slowed his stride gradually. At first, I didn’t think it was intentional, but soon, we were walking at the same pace, eight feet away from the rest.

  He was the first to speak.

  “Suffering from a jock itch?”

  I gave an unwavering smile that did nothing to calm my nerves but didn’t answer. His presence alone had me feeling disoriented, excited, and manic.

  “You’re awfully slow,” he continued. His husky voice trickled into my system, like sweet venom.

  “You’re awfully rude.”

  I stared ahead at our families’ backs. Cillian was standing in front of a portrait of Cormac Fitzpatrick, the first-generation Fitzpatrick who arrived in Boston after the Great Famine. Troy and Sparrow looked about ready to fling themselves out the French windows.

  “Found yourself yet?” he inquired.

  Not even close.

  I felt my cheeks reddening under my makeup. “I had a bad night that night.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.” He chuckled.

  Cillian shot us a frown. “Hurry up. And remember, Brennan, I’m watching you.”

  Sam smiled at my brother, who was only a few years older than him. “Like what you see, Fitzpatrick?”

  “Not even remotely.” Cillian narrowed his eyes.

  “A word to the wise: I don’t like being told what to do, but for the right price, I can be motivated into doing just about anything.”

  “And you’re proud of that?” Cillian drawled.

  “Immensely. You’ll be lining up for my services the minute Daddy isn’t able to pull you out of whatever bullshit you get yourself into.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” Cillian muttered.


  Sam slowed his pace. It didn’t surprise me Sam didn’t care about Cillian’s warnings.

  “My brother is a character,” I said defensively.

  “That’s just a nice way of calling someone an asshole. Sailor tells me you’re going to med school.”

  I nodded curtly.

  “Why?”

  “I want to help people.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  We officially lost our families. Cillian was too busy showing Sparrow and Troy the library, our family’s pride and joy. Sam stepped under a little alcove with a window overlooking our vineyard, snatching my wrist and tugging me with him out of sight.

  I gasped, digging my nails into my palms, half-crescents of anxiety and anticipation denting my skin.

  “You kept your mouth shut.” He looked at me like he wanted to touch me.

  I knew what he meant. I never went to the police. Never said anything about the man he killed.

  “I’m trustworthy.”

  “Most people aren’t,” he said.

  “I’m not most people.”

  “I’m starting to see that. Listen carefully now. Your daddy is a very rich and important man, and I’m a very ambitious and a very bad man. I want his business, and nothing is going to stand in my way, least of all you. So stay the fuck away from me and don’t give me those puppy eyes, begging to be fucked right there in front of your entire immediate family, like you are doing right now. You have no idea what you’re asking for. Men like me eat girls like you for breakfast. And not in a pleasurable way. You got that?”

  I did. The game was over before it had even started. Sam was a monster, and I was a princess stuck in an ivory tower, bound to be saved by someone else. His adversary, probably.

  I nodded, even though my head hurt and the back of my nose and eyes pinched with tears.

  “Yes. But …”

  He raised an eyebrow, waiting for more. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Yes?” he hissed, finally.

  “One last kiss,” I murmured. “I won’t tell. You know I’d never tell.”

  He seemed to consider this, before tilting his head down toward mine.

  “One kiss,” he whispered, his body brushing mine. “One last measly, stupid kiss. And don’t you dare come back for more again.”

  My lips fell open.

  He gave me a lustful, devastating kiss. It was bold and demanding and sexy, and it created a damp, cold spot in my panties. He sucked my lower lip into his mouth, and I whimpered, biting him desperately in response, not sure what I was doing but doing it anyway. My hands found his hair, tousling it. His tongue stroked mine. I wanted to feel it between my legs, and brushed my breasts against his chest, chasing the friction.

  He laughed into my mouth.

  “You’re feral.”

  “I know,” I grumbled. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I fucking love it.”

  Love. The way he said that word made my toes curl inside my pumps.

  He grabbed me by my butt cheeks and hoisted me so that my thighs encircled his leg. His fingers dug into my flesh as he ground me up and down his muscular thigh, giving me much more than the friction I was after. Each movement made my clit scrape against the fabric of my panties. It was like he was rubbing two twigs together to create fire, and the fire was a climax, climbing up my spine from my toes.

  “I feel like I’m … I’m …” I tried to articulate what it was, but I couldn’t. It felt like floating and crashing at the same time. I was quivering. I wanted him to do more of the things he knew how to do that would make me feel this way.

  “Empty?” he hissed into my mouth, his tongue wrestling mine.

  “Yes. That’s it. I feel so empty.”

  “I wish I could fill you with my fat cock.”

  “Oh,” I cried as he rubbed me against him faster and harder, and everything inside me clenched, my muscles bunching.

  “God … I’m … I mean, am I …?”

  There was nothing I hated more than not knowing. I knew everything there was to learn from textbooks and webminers. But I didn’t know this. It made me feel like a kid. Like a cliché.

  He laughed when it happened. When a wave of warm pleasure descended on my body, little earthquakes everywhere.

  “I think you did.” He kissed me deeper, his hands everywhere on me, his thumb sliding up my torso, rubbing at my nipple under the fabric of my dress.

  “Huh,” I sighed into his mouth, “La petite mort.”

  He tore his lips from mine, frowning at me.

  “Say what, now?”

  “La petite mort,” I repeated. “A brief unconsciousness. A little death, in French. That’s what they call that beat after an orgasm, sometimes.”

  My French governess had told me that. Sam’s eyes twinkled with so much delight, my chest flared with pride. His smiles were like human handprints. Each one was just different enough to be completely unique.

  “You, Aisling Fitzpatrick, are a lovely torture.”

  He broke our kiss. Everything was blurry, and my panties were really, really wet.

  I pressed my fingertips to my lips. “Oh gosh, what did we do?”

  His lips were swollen and bruised, but otherwise, he looked cool and collected.

  “I assume that was rhetorical, so I’ll spare you the answer.” He was already fishing for the cigarette pack in his back pocket.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurted out.

  He chuckled, a cigarette clasped between his straight white teeth. “Don’t worry about my having girlfriends. I never will.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because no woman is worth it, least of all one that is the spawn of a man I’d like to bleed dry of his money.”

  He lit up his cigarette. His gothic, wintry gray eyes felt like ice cubes rolling down my skin.

  “You know, I would never tell if we hooked up.” I swallowed my pride. Even I didn’t know why I wanted him so badly. I just knew I did. He made me feel like I was in a parallel universe whenever we were together.

  “I just told you this was our last kiss.”

  “But why?” I insisted.

  “Because I want your father’s business.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  “You’re not worth the risk.” He shrugged, puffing away on his cigarette.

  “There will be no risk,” I said. A voice inside me warned me that that was enough. It was her.

  He doesn’t want you, mon cheri. Turn around and walk away.

  But I didn’t.

  So Sam looked down at me, frowning.

  “Even without the risk, you’re not worth it. You are too young, too innocent, and far too sweet for me. Now do your self-respect a favor and walk away.”

  But it was too late.

  My pride took such a beating, I had to retaliate, even though I had absolutely no tools to do so.

  “I feel sorry for you,” I said, feeling incredibly un-sorry for him, but incredibly sorry for myself.

  “You do?” He smirked, humoring me. “Why?”

  “Because you’re a half-literate, barely educated dropout. You probably don’t even know the multiplication table. That’s why you do what you do. You don’t have a choice.”

  “You’re calling me dumb?” His smile widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

  “You are dumb.” I tipped my chin up. “But it’s okay. You’re hot and ooze that look-at-me-I’m-dangerous vibe, so I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

  “Don’t forget rich.” He snapped his fingers.

  “Not by my standards,” I smiled coldly. Holy hell, it was like my mother took over my mouth. “Just try not to make conversation. You’re not very good at it.”

  “Based on you dry humping my leg like a bitch in heat five seconds ago, I’m sure I’ll be able to keep them entertained some other way.”

  His words were crass, but his nonchalant smile dissolved into a grim mask of coldness.

  “You … you … yo
u …”

  “I’m … I’m … I’m … what?” He clapped my mouth shut by tapping his finger to my chin, smirking. “Right?”

  Before I could answer, Sam vanished.

  He ignored me for the rest of the evening.

  Four hours later, I crawled back to my room, still in a daze from dinner.

  Sam had impressed everyone with his dry wit, sharp mind, and that aura that surrounded him. The one that promised a swift yet painful death if you crossed him.

  I found my finite mathematics textbook—the one I’d left open on my Queen Anne desk because I’d been stuck on the same problem for an infinite amount of time—glaring back at me.

  I groaned and reached for it, about to close it.

  “I’ll try solving you tomorrow. I have bigger problems to work out now.”

  Like how I cannot stop obsessing over Boston’s most notorious mobster.

  My hand stopped over the slick, chrome page. I blinked. The problem was solved, only not in my handwriting.

  In fact, all the problems on the page were solved. Every single one of them.

  How did he …?

  “Are you calling me dumb?”

  Yes, I did. But Sam wasn’t dumb. Based on this page alone, he was closer to a math genius.

  Angry with him, and with myself, and with the world, I slammed the math book shut with a thud. A note floated down to the floor from it. I picked it up.

  Was that, like, hard?

  He’d quoted Legally Blonde.

  And served me my own ass in the process.

  Ouch.

  Present Day.

  Age 27.

  I’m in.

  The thought momentarily derailed me from everything else teeming in my head. The noise, the pain, the second guesses.

  I descended the stairs to Badlands, the most popular nightclub in Boston.

  I’d been categorically banned from Badlands. I’d even been turned away at the door once, as the bouncer drawled, “Boss showed your picture around, jailbait. Said he’ll fire anyone who’s dumb enough to let you in.”

  I was twenty-six then, but that little fact didn’t deter him. From the moment Sam Brennan purchased this club two years ago, using it as a hub for all his bad seedy dealing, he refused to let me set foot in it, even though my brothers had been visiting here on a weekly basis.