by Shen, L. J.
“Neither do you. So pay up. I’ll be seeing you at Thanksgiving dinner. You can pay me then.” Ash smoothed her dress, which was now stained in Becker’s blood.
Right.
The world still turned on its axis, and our families continued to play nice with one another, oblivious to my vendetta. Other than Troy, who knew better than to ever let it slip.
The Fitzpatricks were hosting a Thanksgiving dinner next week. I wouldn’t miss it for the world, but for all the wrong reasons, and none of them had anything to do with their cook’s stuffed turkey.
“Now if you excuse me …” Nix ducked under my shoulder, trying to slip away. I pushed forward, pinning her in place against the wall. If it wasn’t for the slight quivering of her chin, I could have sworn she was cool as a cucumber. But that small shake betrayed her, and I seized the opportunity to tilt said chin upward, forcing her to look at me.
“How about a kiss?” I coaxed, my palm sliding from her wrist to her waist, down the curve of her firm ass, squeezing as I pulled her closer to me. I didn’t like the power shift between us and wanted to remind her who was the boss. I felt her thighs shaking against my sprawled fingers, ready and wanting, shivered into me as I gathered her close. Her body was soft, smooth, feminine. With hidden curves I had no business thinking about and was paid to ignore.
Her heat radiated between our clothes, and I stifled a groan, yanking her braid, extending her neck and forcing her to look at me.
“Would a kiss be a sufficient form of payment?” I murmured, my lips gliding down the side of her neck.
She said nothing, her heart slamming against mine erratically, begging for more.
Rearing my head back, I crashed my mouth against hers punishingly, resenting her for my need to taste her—and myself for yielding to temptation.
It was a brutal kiss, with teeth and claws and tongue, designed to humiliate her, to remind her which one of us was in control.
Aisling’s lips molded over mine immediately, compliant and soft. She moaned gently, her tongue meeting mine thrust for thrust, like we were fucking each other, her fingers curling around the collar of my shirt, drawing me closer. I bit her lower lip until I split it open, her warm, metallic blood trickling into my mouth. She tensed but didn’t break the kiss.
Break the fucking kiss, Aisling.
Show me I’m too much for you.
I sucked on her blood, pulling her entire lip into my mouth, and she let me, the little monster that she was.
“You taste like an ashtray,” she purred into my mouth. Viper-like, her words dripped venom while she still devoured me hungrily, not letting go.
“Maybe so, but you taste like an easy lay, my least favorite flavor of woman.” I chuckled darkly, putting more pressure on her lips, kissing her harder, tasting her blood and her tears and her anguish and enjoying all of them because they were mine.
So fucking salty. So fucking sweet.
I was hard. So hard, I knew I was in real danger of taking her on the surgical table she had used just minutes ago to stitch up the two morons on my payroll. I tore my mouth from hers, brushing my thumb over her cheekbone. She stumbled forward, losing balance. I let her fall on my chest but didn’t help her right herself.
“Now we’re even.” I shoved the wallet back into my pocket, surprised to see that despite feeling her tears earlier, her face was dry and calm.
“Oh, you thought a kiss would be your payment as opposed to the eleven grand you owe me? Oh my…” she clutched the pearls on her neck, twisting them exaggeratedly, like her mother would “…my apologies, Mr. Brennan. I don’t accept sexual favors as payment. That would be my father’s specialty, and I very much doubt he’d be interested in what you have to offer. I would still like the money at Thanksgiving. What’s the common interest your loan sharks use? Forty-five percent? That suits me. Now, have a good rest of the day, Mr. Brennan, and do take care.”
The eleven thousand dollars was waiting on the nightstand in my bedroom the following morning, stacked high and neat, pinned with a golden bullet. There was also one penny right beside them, and a note scribbled messily in bold, long strokes.
Here. Buy yourself something pretty.
It should have terrified me.
The fact that Sam had been in my vicinity—in my room—while I was sound asleep. He could’ve slit my throat if he wanted to. Instead, I felt white-hot thrill washing through my veins as I imagined his imposing, colossal figure casting a shadow over my sleeping body, his hands that could snap my bones like twigs so close to my spine.
He’d been there when I was in my flimsy nightgown, my hair fanned over the white satin pillow, dreaming of his crushing weight above me, making love to me.
I knew he would not send anyone else. No. None of his soldiers would do. He would never allow them to get anywhere near me. He violated my space, yes, but I knew there were limits between us. Unwritten rules that made me feel safe.
I picked up the bullet—cold, metallic, and heavier than I expected—mulling it over as it sat in my hand.
Did he stop and stare? Did he replay the kiss we’d shared at the clinic in his head? We’d almost tore each other’s mouths apart.
I could still feel a faint pulse against my lips.
Sometimes I suspected Sam felt it, too. The wild electricity buzzing between us every time we were in the same room. Whenever he looked at me with those silver moon eyes as they slanted just so, zeroing in on me, watching.
Other times he would be in my vicinity, having a meal with my father or a beer with Devon, Cillian, and Hunter, and ignore my existence so thoroughly, so convincingly, I’d forget I was in the room, too.
He was a mystery, and mysteries were meant to be unearthed, uncovered, and unfolded. I’d finally caught his attention—snatched it against his will—grasping onto it with bloodied fingers, and I had every intention of keeping it.
I was going to fight him tooth and nail, go head-to-head with the underworld’s king just so I could have him. Prove to him that I was worthy of his attention and his love.
So I did the only thing I could do, knowing that I had an entire week to wait until Thanksgiving dinner, when I’d see him again.
It was crazy, and dangerous, not to mention illegal, and yet, so classically Sam I couldn’t resist the temptation. Show him I was Nix through and through. A cunning monster who just happened to look good in a gown.
The night after he put the money on my nightstand, I drove to Badlands, found the back door to the place right behind the building, by an alley and stacked monopoly money—11k of it—and pinned it with the lone penny he’d left for me. Then I drenched it in gasoline and set fire to it.
I knew he would never know the difference. That he would think it was really the money he had given me, but I’d donated that money to my charity of choice. Something Ms. B would have wanted me to do.
I ran back to my car, ducking behind the window as I peeked to see the back door opening as the stench of burned paper seeped through the cracks. Sam appeared, accompanied by Dumb and Dumber. Dumb ran back to the office to bring a fire extinguisher while Dumber desperately tried to defuse the fire by pouring water and handfuls of snow on it, his arm still in a sling.
Sam just stood there and grinned devilishly, watching the money burn.
He didn’t need a written note to read the fuck you in what I did.
He knew.
The Fitzpatrick clan had always been huge on Thanksgiving.
I suspected it was because we had so much to be thankful for.
Not only were we one of the richest families in the country, but we were also blessed with nieces and nephews, all rosy-cheeked, healthy, and barely into their toddlerhood.
The day of Thanksgiving butlers fretted about the long table in our dining room, rearranging maple leaf bowls made out of gold, pumpkins, champagne glasses, and ornaments. The centerpieces were bursting with fall and winter fruit, and everything was laced with gold and silver. Warm and inviting candlelight
illuminated the room, and the scent of cinnamon and sugared dough traveled from the kitchen, tickling my nostrils.
Pacing back and forth in my off-the-shoulder orange Givenchy dress—I knew wearing it would please Mother, who had recently been quite the pain to serve and dote on—I stopped by the window, watching my brother Cillian unload his family from his car, an imperial frown on his face.
He opened the door for Persephone—Persy, that was what we called her—scooping little Astor into a BabyBjorn he strapped over his shoulders. My breath caught, and my heart squeezed at the sight of my brother doing something so fatherly, so caring, in such a natural manner despite his usual cold and aloof demeanor.
The minute Astor was secured close to his chest, Cillian leaned down and pressed a kiss on his son’s head.
I realized I was jealous. Jealous of my good friend Persy, who deserved this life more than anyone else I knew—and still, I wanted what she had for myself.
Not who she had it with, obviously—I was crazy, but not the shade of crazy who was okay with incest—but I wanted it with someone I couldn’t have. Sam.
Turning away from the window, I pretended to busy myself by rearranging perfectly arranged ornaments at the center of the table.
Sam was going to arrive soon, and I needed to gather every dollop of strength to face him with my head held high and my back straight.
“Ash?” I heard a voice wonder behind me and turned around to find Persy tucking a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear. She was wearing a romantic evening dress with a beautiful floral print, holding a wide-awake baby Astor in her arms. His marble-blue eyes glittered at me with delight, a shock of chocolate hair covering his tender head. He threw his chubby arms in my direction, and I scooped him up with a thrilled squeak, pressing him to my chest and inhaling his intoxicating baby scent.
“Hey, Pers…” I rubbed my cheek against Astor’s silky strands, marveling yet again at how much he looked like his father “…how are you?”
“I’m great. You looked thoughtful through the window. Which was why I bypassed the usual hugs and kisses routine to see how you were doing. Your mother looks … preoccupied.” She took a seat at the table, eyeing me curiously.
Preoccupied was a very nice way of putting it. My mother was working me to the bone these days, asking me to help with her bath, read her books, and drive her around because she didn’t want to converse with her usual driver. But I wasn’t in the mood to talk about that.
“Where’s Cillian?” I walked around the room with Astor, who wanted to reach and touch everything.
“With Gerald in his office. I can’t believe he did that to your mom.” Persy bit the inside of her cheek. She had always been nice and gentle, and I knew she spared me the more blunt words I was bound to hear from Sailor and Belle.
“I can.” I put Astor down on the carpet, allowing him to explore his surroundings.
“Sailor told me Sam asked for your number,” Persephone continued, scanning me with eager eyes, as if looking at me would inspire me to spill more information. Merde. I knew my friends were invested in my quest to make Sam Brennan notice my existence, but at the same time, I hated how they treated me. Like I was a silly, naïve girl incapable of bagging the man of her dreams.
I felt especially pathetic, considering Persephone was happily married to my brother, the catch of the century according to People Magazine, and Sailor was married to my other brother, who treated her like a queen. Emmabelle (who was Persephone’s sister) might not have been married—but it was by choice.
I was the odd one out. The doomed girl mourning her unrequited love.
And I definitely didn’t want them to know about my current relationship with Sam, which put me in a less than a favorable position.
“It was nothing.” I waved a hand around, following Astor to make sure he didn’t bump into anything or decided to stick his fingers in outlets. “He just needed some help. Something work-related.”
“Huh.” Persephone sprawled in her seat, tapping a finger over her chin thoughtfully. “But maybe it’s a start? He never contacted you before, and you’re hardly the only person he could turn to.”
Persephone was such a romantic, anything short of Sam trying to maim me with a machete would register in her mind as a prime example of his undying love for me.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re grasping at straws, Pers.”
“Weirder pairings have happened. Look at your brother and me,” she said eagerly, making her case. “You just need more patience as you pursue him.”
“Cillian always had a boner for you. He just hid it like a thirteen-year-old. Sam is not pursuable,” I concluded, feeling like a phony since I was definitely waist-deep in this cat and mouse game with Sam.
But I didn’t want to jinx things or jump to conclusions. Plus, if nothing came out of it—which was likely; my plan was farfetched—at least I wouldn’t have to deal with more pity from my friends.
“If your brothers are pursuable, so is Sam,” Persy determined, putting her foot down. “You should go for what you want.”
“But what if what I want is everything that’s bad for me?” I turned around, finding her gaze. “What if I’m stupid to want Sam Brennan? He is a gangster. A murderer. An underground boss and my father’s right hand. So many things can go wrong. If they’ll go in any direction at all …”
“You just described love.” Persy grinned. “Love is a risk. It’s a storm that either disrupts your life or clears your path. Sometimes it does both at the same time. Focus on getting the guy. Everything else will fall into place.”
An hour and a half later, the evening was in full swing.
Everyone was at the table, digging into the delicious food Cook had made.
Honey-roasted turkey, buttery mashed potatoes, pumpkin pecan bread pudding, golden baked apples, and savory sausage stuffing.
Candlelight danced around the room, casting playful glows on familiar faces, as chatter rang from all across the table.
Sailor and Persy’s au pairs sat in the far corner of the room with the children—Astor, Xander, and Rooney—gossiping and tending to the babies. Sam sat all the way at the other side of the table from me, and even though I could feel his eyes on me every now and again, assessing, daring, challenging, I made it a point to stick to conversations with my mother, Sailor, Persephone, and Emmabelle.
Normally, I would try to talk to him, ask him questions, form some sort of a connection. Not right now and not today. I was no longer the girl who chased him. Or so I wanted him to think.
“The concept of Thanksgiving is still jarring to me,” Devon complained from the other end of the table, next to Sam, in his imperial, posh English drawl. He cut his turkey into frighteningly even pieces and looked entirely too good for a man who didn’t model for a living. “Who exactly are you lot thanking?”
Devon was what Belle referred to as appallingly gorgeous. All soft blond, sandy curls twisting at the ears and the nape of his neck, piercing blue eyes, and the bone structure of a deity.
“Um, God?” Hunter threw a piece of sweet potato into his mouth, chewing. “You’re just bitter because we have stuff to be thankful for. Big-box stores, the First Amendment, Jewish deli food, and, of course, Scarlett Johansson. What do you have to be thankful for?”
“Footie, brown sauce, and being generally intellectually superior to the Yanks,” Devon deadpanned, regarding all the food at the table like it was suspicious.
“By footie you mean soccer?” My father frowned. He’d been fairly quiet the entire night.
“No, by football I mean football. The one where you kick the ball with your foot…” Devon patted the corners of his mouth unnecessarily with a napkin “…as opposed to holding it in your hand while running, crashing into random people like a barbarian trying to sneak the rival village’s best-looking maiden.”
“Keep trashing football, and the only thing you’ll be thankful for this Thanksgiving is getting out of this meal in one piece.” Troy o
ffered a stony smile, swirling his whiskey in his hand.
“So, Sam, you’re the last single man standing. Up for a quick trip to Sin City to play blackjack at the casino this weekend?” Devon changed the subject.
“You’re still doing that?” Sparrow darted poisonous arrows at her son through her jade-green eyes. “It’s dangerous, not to mention reckless. You’re already blacklisted from three hotels.”
Sam smiled, eating and pretending like the conversation didn’t swirl around him.
“Not surprised.” Hunter chuckled, raising his virgin Bloody Mary to his lips. “Do I want to know what for?”
“Winning too much money.” Devon laughed, pouring himself another drink. “Sam is the best blackjack player I’ve ever seen in my lifetime. A wizard with numbers, really. He makes all the calculations in split seconds.”
I thought back to the finite mathematics homework he’d worked out for me when I was still a teenager. Devon wasn’t exaggerating.
“What a great way to utilize your analytical talent,” Cillian drawled sarcastically.
“Better to waste a talent in the wrong place than not have one in the first place,” Sam pointed out.
“Your main talent is to find your way into rich people’s inner circle,” Cillian countered, his tone easy. “Which you’ve been doing very well since childhood.”
“Anyway, cards at Badland tonight,” Hunter said. “Right after dinner.”
I wanted to hear more about Sam, but my mother was desperate to draw me into the conversation she was having. She did that often. Lured me into small talk to save her from awkward lulls. She said she found socializing tiring, yet she threw events all the time and counted on me to do all the talking and fundraising on her behalf.
“I’m so lucky to have Aisling…” Mother patted her eyes with her napkin, sighing heavily “…I don’t know what I would have done without her. She is my anchor. No wonder she works at bringing life into this planet. She is my perfect angel.”
“She sure is saintly, ma’am.” Emmabelle flicked up a brow in my direction, giving me the stink eye. I knew Belle would love nothing more than if I showed my devilish side a little more often. “Too good to be true. Almost.”