Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Colm
“Yes. Yes, sir. I understand. I’ll—Yes, I’ll keep an eye on him. He’ll be safe with us. Of course.”
I don’t even know what words are coming out of my mouth by the time I finish my ream of platitudes, but my ear is on fire from the tirade of profanity that was just hurled my way over the phone. As if any of this is my responsibility.
Mafia bosses are not exactly known for their cool tempers and rationality, but still.
It’s not my fault he lost his… kid? Pet assassin?
I’m still not clear on the relationship there, and unlike Fallow—who I can understand when I’m not distracted by drooling at him like a desperate wench—old man Murphy’s accent is impenetrably thick.
Once I told him Fallow had turned up unannounced on my doorstep saying he had a message for me from the boss, Murphy told me that he was in fact very much not supposed to be here, and now we’re all in the shit.
So maybe the message is ha ha fuck you, we’re all in trouble now, bitch.
At least I had the sense to take a shower and get dressed before I called, so I’m not still covered in gore and bodily fluids.
I put on tactical pants, cleaner boots, and a thick black long sleeve under a flannel, because I have an abrupt urge to feel as covered as possible.
Like if people look at me too closely, they’ll be able to see what I did today.
I’m not ashamed, per se. But even beyond the actual consequences of someone in the Banna knowing—which would be potentially catastrophic for me—it’s exposing as hell. None of this is like me.
Which makes me wonder immediately how much Murphy knows about who Fallow is and what he gets up to when he’s unsupervised. Because everything we did certainly didn’t seem like it was his first time, and none of it was behavior that goes down well in our circles.
Once I’m dressed and have received my verbal hiding, I have no excuse to put off going downstairs any longer. I trudge back down, looking for the guys and finding them all—for once—gathered in the war room, like I’d told them to.
All except one, that is.
“Where’s Fallow?”
Their eyes widen, and I realize I hadn’t actually introduced him earlier. Today really isn’t my day.
“That’s Fallow?”
There’s so much derision in Lucky’s voice, which I’m assuming means he thought Fallow would be some kind of brick-shithouse killing machine.
Rich, considering Lucky is one of the shorter guys here and well-muscled but not exactly a bodybuilder, and still insists he’s the baddest motherfucker this side of badtown or something.
“Yes. He’s our guest now, for the time being. Where did you put him?”
I don’t hide the lack of patience in my voice, and I can already see some of the guys are getting nervous. I’m not a particularly murdery boss, but I will be if I have to get my point across.
Briggs appears in the doorway to the war room, the same scowl on her face that I’m used to seeing.
I’m assuming she wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine before she lost her husband and ended up living with a bunch of new criminals she mops up after, but if she was, she certainly isn’t anymore.
She has deep lines on her face from a lifetime of smoking and glaring at people, made more noticeable by how tanned she is.
Her skin has that weathered quality from spending every day outside and never having touched sunscreen.
Her hair is bleached almost white and also brittle from the sun; but she has a steady, reliable presence to her, and while she’s not exactly soft, there’s something about her that gives a hint of the maternal.
Or maybe what guys like us perceive as maternal.
Meaning she cooks for us, cleans up after us, and has no problem yelling at us when we get in her way. It’s close enough.
“I gave him some clothes and pointed him in the direction of a spare room to shower. He stank worse of blood and guts than the rest of you combined. Where the hell did you scrape that one up? Floor of the pork processors out on the 140?”
Her arms are crossed, and she’s leaning against the doorway like she has no intention of leaving. Technically, Briggs has no business being in here. She’s only permitted to live in her house as a courtesy but is unaffiliated with Banna operations.
Unofficially, she runs this house like she always has. I don’t fight it. There’s no upside for me trying to crush her spirit, she keeps the house together and keeps the boys in check. Suits me fine, if that’s what she wants.
I can’t stop myself from huffing as I turn and leave the room, pushing past her to go find Fallow. I stomp around the house with long strides, looking into room after room until I find him in the kitchen.
As soon as I walk in there, I forget why I was driven by some angry intensity.
Fallow is sitting on the counter with one leg tucked beneath the other.
He’s wearing mismatched clean clothes that don’t really fit him, and somehow manage to make him look gangly, even though I know for a fact that his body is anything but.
He also must have shaved while I was on the phone, because his face is smooth now, matching the rest of his body.
It makes the arch of his cheekbones and the dimple in his chin look even more pronounced, and brings an ethereal sort of quality to all those delicate features that already reeled me in.
He’s pretty. Beautiful, maybe, and it’s layered over a bunch of muscle and tension and bloodlust in a way I’ve never seen before.
Even the sunshine is insisting on dappling through the goddamn window right now, casting him in a golden late afternoon light and completely confirming the derailment of my thoughts.
Why? Why now? I’ve spent my entire life without ever gazing adoringly at someone while they sit in a sunspot, so why the fuck is my brain searching for poetry for the first time now when both our lives are potentially on the line, I’ve got a house full of gangsters to run, and Fallow has made it clear that if I touch him again, I might lose a testicle?
Grossly unfair, universe.
“What?” Fallow asks, interrupting my internal whining.
He has half a sandwich in his hand, and his cheeks are full with it as he chews, so the word comes out garbled, but doesn’t even put a dent in the whole avenging angel imagery. I’m still ensorceled.
“You made yourself at home, I see.”
He swallows an unnecessarily large mouthful before he answers this time, swinging his one leg in the air in front of him like a little kid and looking more relaxed than anyone has any right to be in a situation like this.
“Yep. The nice lady with the very damaged hair gave it to me. Here,” he says, nudging the plate sitting next to him, “she made enough for both of us.”
Without thinking it through, I step closer to him. I am starving, my stomach on the verge of cramping from emptiness and my body sorely in need of refueling after the day I’ve had. As I approach, he smiles lasciviously and tears into his sandwich again, taking another oversized bite.
I step closer and closer to him, beckoned by his stupid grin around the food even though I can tell he’s mocking me a little.
Electricity is still pulsing between us, whether I want it to or not, and I can’t help the way my eyes trace the length of his body again as he continues to perch in front of me.
I’m careful to stop short of actually touching him.
But I end up standing barely an inch away, drawing myself up to my full height so I’m standing over him, even as he’s sat up on the counter.
I hold his gaze, trying for intimidating, or maybe serious, but probably giving off an air of horny and desperate because his smile never falters.
Like he knows he has the upper hand here and isn’t losing it any time soon.
I continue to stare at him as he chews and swallows, even while I reach for one of the sandwiches and shove half of it in my mouth at once. I don’t care what’s in it. I just need to eat.
Fallow doesn’t speak. He keeps smiling and swinging that leg, careful not to kick me or even brush against the fabric of my clothes and looking all the while like he’s considering devouring me whole.
Although it’s impossible to tell if it’s in a sexual context or if he wants to literally eat me for dessert.
“Hang on,” he says, looking at the bottom of my face with a quirk of his eyebrows.
I don’t move but keep chewing, and there’s a second while he grabs the bottom hem of the soft black borrowed long-sleeve he’s wearing–not dissimilar to mine–and stretches it up until it’s coming towards my face.
Using it almost like a glove, he has the fabric over his thumb before he wipes at my mouth, cleaning whatever smear of BBQ sauce I must have gotten there.
Why he chose to use the bottom hem of his shirt instead of the sleeve, I can’t say for sure.
Of course, I can guess. Considering it gives me a very close up, very distracting look at those abs, all perfectly defined like he just walked off a movie set and that golden tan that’s so even he either sits out in the sun to get it that way or is actually sprayed on.
I don’t care. All I can think about right now is how much I want to cover his chest in BBQ sauce and then take my time licking it out of every divot between the individual ridges of muscle until he’s the one squirming instead of me.
“Uh, boss?”
Fucking Lucky.
I have the presence of mind not to jerk back like a kid caught stealing, but I do try to subtly put distance between myself and Fallow, as if I only stepped between his legs just now to grab a sandwich and now I’m retreating in an appropriate, heteronormative timeframe.
“Yes?”
My tone implies that there’s nothing hinkey going on here, even though we all know that there definitely is.
“Are you coming? We’re all waiting in the war room,” he says, still staring between me and Fallow with a bewildered expression like he’s trying to put the pieces together.