by P Mulholland
“Bet on the gigis together?”
“No.”
“Go to games together?”
“Ah yeah. They do that.”
“There you go. It’s a man-friendship over sport. Nothing to worry about.”
Later on that evening, I asked Brydie if she knew a Sean Doyle.
“I know of a Doyle who works with Isaac,” she said, piling up my plate with rice, vegetables and chicken and marinated tofu for herself. Yuck!. “His first name is rarely used. Why?”
“A friend of Mac’s wrote a thesis on renowned Chicago families and the Malones and Lucianos were part of it.”
She laughed. “You mean he wrote an article on Chicago mafia?” She’s no fool, but that was the first time I’d heard her use the word mafia in connection with her half-family.
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t mind reading it,” she said. “It might educate me.”
I shoved a fork scoop of the rice and vege into my gob and found it utterly tasteless. “I’ll cook tomorrow night,” I said. She shot me a look, then handed me the salt and pepper to flavor it some more.
“He was the one who froze my bank accounts on Isaac’s orders,” she added, as she piled up a plate of food for Pete, who was sitting outside the door.
Chapter Forty Nine
Brydie
I felt a strange calmness.
It’s a feeling I hadn’t experienced for a very long time. I was in no hurry to go anywhere because I was where I wanted to be. Farrah was diagnosed with terminal cancer, yet she chose to spend her last few months living and not dying. You wouldn’t think to look at her that she was even sick. But I knew better than anyone that Farrah was damn good at pretending. She was the mother, the wife, the business woman, the nurturer. There was no time to be sick.
I loved getting back into our routine in the apartment; the routine we had when I was his babysitter and he was my pain in the ass. The only difference was that we made love most nights, and whispered into each other’s ear how much we loved each other.
Jake Austin wore me down…in a good way. He scraped away at that Shawshank stone wall with his teaspoon and eventually broke through. My hero. Most men would’ve given up months ago, but not my Jake. He had a point to prove and was steely-eyed determined to achieve it.
Before my eyes, he grew from a selfish, spoilt playboy to a brilliant and beautiful man. When he’d stand before me in his Tom Ford suit and stubbly beard, I found it hard to believe he was the same man. Then my knees would buckle and my heart flutter like dragonfly wings and I’d sink into his arms.
I’d found love again. Who would’ve thought. Believe me, I tried hard to avoid it, even left the country to shake it off. Didn’t work. Love came after me in his tee shirt and jeans and newly inked tattoo. I was done. It was all over. It was time to stop running. It was time to breathe.
What I needed to understand was that sometimes love doesn’t come in the form you expected, or hoped for. Sometimes it’s black instead of white, fat instead of thin, rough instead of smooth. Sometimes love is young, younger than you.
I left the gynecologist with my head in a spin, and sat in the back of the car for several minutes wondering what I should do. It was 2.12pm and Jake was at work.
“Take me to the Malones, please,” I said to our driver.
I was only there that morning, had a coffee with Farrah before she ushered me out of the house, muttering that she had lots of work to do and that I needed to get on with my life.
Daz thankfully, decided to take me back on a part-time basis to work in the office. That’s fine. I was prepared to do anything. But the work didn’t start until the following week, so I still had plenty of free time on my hands. I took Jake’s advice and volunteered down at the Assisi shelter and almost adopted a dog every day I worked there.
“How about a friend for Newman?” I suggested.
“He’s got us. No more dogs, Brydes.”
“What about just for a trial period?”
He banged his head against the kitchen counter several times.
“Is that a no?” I asked, playing dumb.
The house was quiet and seemingly empty when I turned up. I knocked several times but when no one answered I panicked and found my old key in my bag to let myself in. I expected to hear the usual droning sounds of the sewing machine, so I assumed she was hand stitching or taking a break. I eventually found her lying on her bed fully clothed, even with her shoes on.
I lay down next to her and held her tiny hand in mine. She opened her eyes and grunted, “Baby girl. I’m just having a rest.”
“Close your eyes,” I whispered and gently massaged the back of her hand.
“What are you doing back?” her voice rattled, as if pebbles were locked inside her throat.
When I failed to answer, she turned to look at me.
“What’s the matter, baby girl?”
“I’m pregnant.”
There was a moment’s silence before Farrah gasped, then covered her mouth. “This is perfect, baby girl.”
“Perfect? How?”
“The circle of life. As my soul leaves, your baby will enter this great world.”
“I haven’t told Jake yet. He might not want to… I just found out about it from the gynie. I had to have a pregnancy test which is normal procedure before having an IUD put in.”
A deep, croaky laugh rose from her. “This is the best news I’ve heard in so long. Brydie, you’ll be such a wonderful mother.”
“How do you know? We haven’t decided if we’re going to keep it-”
“Of course you’ll keep it. Don’t give me that crap.”
“Jake doesn’t even know yet.”
A wide grin stretched across her face as she closed her tired eyes. “The light is too sharp.”
I leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Live on to meet her.”
Chapter Fifty
Jake
I’d rehearsed this in my mind a thousand times.
But as I sat before him all those words vanished from my head in a puff of smoke. He impatiently tapped his pen against his desk, waiting for me to speak. It was right there on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t say it. I had disappointed my father so many times, that I had to claw my way back into his good books. And now that I had finally proved my worth, I was about to thwart him again with my irresponsible behavior. Except this time was different, much different.
“You said you wanted to speak to me in confidence,” he prompted.
I swallowed, still struggling to find the words I thought I’d memorized. He glanced at his watch.
“Pull off the Band-Aid quick, without thinking,” Brydie said to me last night over dinner, after she broke the news to me. “Early days, yet, so it may not come to anything.”
“I have to sit down,” I said.
“You are sitting down.”
“Son,” Red said, “can we get on with this? I’ve got a meeting in about-”
“Brydes and I are having a baby!” I said it so quick, I doubt he understood.
“You’re what?”
“Brydie is pregnant and it’s mine and we’re keeping it. Together.”
“Huh.”
“Obviously, it’s early days and…” I was trying to remember what she said to me, but it dissolved like an effervescent vitamin tablet in water. “I just needed to get it off my chest.”
“Huh.” He tapped his pen some more. “Isn’t it peculiar how life turns out?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Where was he going with this?
“Four adult children and it’s the youngest one that produces the first grandchild.” The speed of the tapping pen increased rapidly. I prepared myself to duck in case it flew out of his hand. “I’m not sure where your mother and I went wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
He stopped tapping, then glanced through his glass wall to Trent’s office. “Married since he was twenty five to his childhood sweetheart, and he’s miserable.”
/>
“Is he? We never talk.”
Red then nodded towards Corey. “Non-committal. I don’t want to know what goes on in his personal life. But he’s compensating for the fact he’s still not over Emma.”
“That was years ago.” My eyes were being pried open by a man I thought was too busy to notice.
Red shrugged.
Next Soph. He shook his head in disbelief. “Strange tastes.”
I chuckled. He knew his kids better than we gave him credit for.
“And then we have you the youngest, who likes to do everything in the wrong order.”
Wrong order. That’s one way to put it.
“Get that business degree, son.”
I nodded and stood up to leave. “You’ll let mom know?”
“No, I think you should tell her yourself.” The thin crack of a smile slid across his dial. “She’ll be over the moon, except for the fact that you’re unwed.”
I shrugged. “Like you say, I like doing things in the wrong order.”
As I walked through his doorway, I swore he mumbled, “At least you’re happy.” But I might’ve been mistaken.
The truth was I was deliriously happy and terrified all in one. Once it sunk in that Brydes was having my baby, a warm fuzzy feeling came over me.
“Was it the jungle sex?” was the first question I asked after she told me.
“Either that time or the other time in the Caymans in the shower, when you forgot to pull out. Or it may have been the day after we got home. What do you want to do about it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to keep it,” she said, flatly. She’d had more time to think about it. “If you don’t want a baby, I understand. We’ll have to discuss-”
“Your father didn’t want you. I’m sure as hell not letting my baby go through that.”
She smiled. “Whatever happens between us in the future, we have to promise that our child is still loved.”
I held my hand out for her to shake. “Deal.”
She took my hand and kissed it. I leaned back in the chair and stared at the wall, my head churning. “I’m going to be a dad.” I looked down at Newman. “You’re getting a new baby brother or sister.”
“Are you okay about this?” she asked.
“I’m stoked, Brydes.” I got up from the chair and took her in my arms and spun her about. I was madly in love with this woman and a baby on the way was the icing on the cake of a perfect life. Okay, so excluding the mafia shit and the fact that Farrah was terminally ill. Other than that it was the perfect life.
Continue to read the first chapter of Cold Blooded.
Cold
Blooded
P. Mulholland
Chapter One
Leon
Sweat seeped out of every pore in my body.
The drum pounded, hypnotically. Bong, bong, bong, bong. The beat pounding in time to the pulsating brick inside my head. Sweat stung my eyes and dribbled down my back, even my butt crack felt slippery.
Bong, bong, bong, bong.
I closed my eyes to let the rhythmic sound permeate my body. Images flicked over in my mind, rapidly and nauseatingly - the Indian that I lost that I’ll claim back again, little grey kittens what the fuck?, a bloody knife, her face, her face, her face, her face.
Bong, bong, bong, bong.
I detected movement and snapped my eyes open again. The steam was so thick and stifling; I could cut the throat of the chick next to me and no one would notice. In fact, I might just do that, since she’s getting on my nerves. She swayed and moaned, feigning her little trance, while her hand kept brushing my thigh. Fuck! Her head just landed in my lap. I grabbed her by the wet hair and pushed her over to the guy on her other side. She can be his problem.
A guy got up to pour more water on the scolding rocks that hissed and fired out more steam. The heat grew in intensity. Two people had to bail. I closed my eyes again, letting the heat punish me inflicting a river of burning pain that I relished.
Bong, bong, bong, bong.
The images flipped over in my head were too quick, like playing cards being riffled under a white light. I couldn’t catch any of them and the light was too bright. Too bright. Everything was too bright for my eyes that savored the dark. I started to feel sick…damn that chick’s head was back in my lap again. I’m going to cut her head from her body and drop-kick it onto the damn flames, if she didn’t sort herself out. I pushed her back. Last chance, bitch.
Her towel dropped away and her tits were out on display. Great. Just what I needed a spaced-out hippie high on hot steam. If she’s this bad on steam, what’s she like on a hallucinate drug. Maybe I should slip her one. Best case scenario it’ll stop her heart and solve both our problems.
I cringed when I pulled her towel back up, as I had no interest in seeing those big ugly things dangling in my face. The guy on the other side to her bailed, obviously hated big, ugly tits as much as I. This chick was ruining my day. I pushed her over to where the bailed guy was sitting and she slumped over, showing her bare ass to me.
Bong, bong, bong, bong.
I turned my back and closed my eyes again. A large ball of debris caught fire and rolled down a hill, rolling towards me, growing in size with each turn. I opened my eyes again when the hissing sound broke out. More water, more steam, more heat. Bring it on. Three more people bailed. Weak.
Bong, bong, bong, bong.
The horrible woman next to me got up and left. Good. See, she wasn’t so hypnotized after all. Fake trance from a fake chick. There were only five of us left, sitting in a circle, including the drummer. He broke into song, a song without lyrics that was both haunting and riveting. My skin prickled all over. It wasn’t until that moment did I feel something, other than irritation. His tribal song reached inside my chest, grabbed my heart and shredded it into tiny pieces. Then he ate it, bit by bloody bit. My blood ran down his chin and dripped onto the dirt floor, leaving the last trace of me. I was now nothing but a ghost.
Bong, bong, bong, bong.
There was a face in the dark, half hidden behind the opened door. I was in a windowless room, the floor was covered in my shit and piss and stunk to high hell. A shot rang out and the door slammed. I could hear rushed footsteps along the wooden floor. Another shot rang out, followed by a scream. My door swung open and a man stood over me, hands clenched into fists. No, it was a woman. A woman stood over me, the scent of her perfume mingled with my fresh feces making me queasy.
Bong, bong, bong, bong.
Her face, her face, her face. A face like hers will haunt me until my dying days. And I hoped my dying days came quick. She taunted and teased me, stroked my hair and fluttered her eyelashes at me. Countless nights I wished for her death, as well as my own. But the grim reaper preferred to play tricks of cruelty upon the son of a dissenter. It was the wrong woman. You marked the wrong woman.
Bong, bong, bong, bong.
I opened my eyes and she was sitting across from me. Her lips were painted a scarlet red and her eyes gazed at me longingly. I had an opportunity to take her now. The steam was so thick, no one would see. I raised my handgun and pointed it to her forehead, expecting to wipe the smirk off her face. But it remained, tempting me. She refused to believe that I could do it. She shot me a wink, as I tilted my head to get a different perspective of where I was going to plant the bullet. I squeezed the trigger. In that tiny moment, her smile dropped away and I felt smugly satisfied.
Bong, bong…
The drumming and singing fell dead. The steam had lifted and all eyes were on me. It took a moment to realize what I was doing. My arm was held out straight, my thumb and forefinger in the form of a gun and I was pointing to the woman opposite me. When I dropped my arm, the fear drifted away from her face. What did she think I was going to do? Fire a bullet from my finger.
More fucking women. I’m fed up with women and their overly dramatic reactions and wily mannerisms, and manipulating ways. A man should never fully trust a
woman.
Three women sat at the kitchen counter. Three. I wanted to speak to Farrah alone, but finding her without company was a rarity these days. My little sister came home every weekend and my half-aunt was back in Chicago and visited every damn day.
My half-aunt was the bane in my side. Her laugh was louder than a hyena’s, I could hear it down the end of the street, and she had a tendency to hold the attention of whoever was in a room with her beauty. She was exquisitely beautiful; I’d give her that, but was also a fucking pain in ass. When the three of them were in the same room it was like being in a chicken coop with all that clucking and squawking, constant chatter about nothing. Would someone slip me an opioid or three?
“Leon!” my mother called out when I entered their domain. My mother, Farrah Malone, the pretender. “How was the sweat lodge?”
“Sweat lodge?” my half-aunt, Brydie O’Neal asked surprised.
“Like being stuck inside Satan’s anus,” I answered. That wasn’t the truth. It actually blew my mind, the constant repetitive drumming and singing tapped into my ancestral roots and I left feeling confused and in a daze, with more questions than answers. However, all that hallucinogenic stuff was no use to someone with a lifestyle like mine. I needed a clear mind and steady hand, twenty-four seven.
“Your pores look clearer,” Farrah said, reaching out to touch my face. I pulled away. I hated people touching my face and hair, including my mother. I don’t know why she kept trying to do that, when she knew how I’d react.
I glanced briefly at my half-aunt, sitting on a stool. I always avoided looking at her, if I could help it. But I just had to inspect the size of her stomach. She got knocked up by the youngest Austin, a Chicago billionaire family that made their wealth by screwing over the poor and unsuspecting. People thought the Malones were bad news, wait until you take a look at the Austin portfolio.