Chapter 7
7
FIONA
M y ears are ringing, but I can still make out the sound of an engine racing behind me. An engine, and Moran shouting: “Fiona! Move yer feckin’ arse!”
I stumble toward the car. One of my shoes catches on a manhole cover, and my ankle turns. That sends me tumbling forward, but the Land Rover’s there, the door open. I’m still fighting for balance when Moran grabs my wrist. He yanks so hard I think my arm’s coming loose from its socket. My already bruised ribs crash hard against the center console.
Tires squeal, and Moran peels away. My legs are half-in, half-out of the vehicle. Moran grips my biceps like a vise, anchoring my throbbing ribs against the gearshift.
He takes a corner wide. Slams down a block like he’s on the straightaway of a Nascar track. Turns left, then left again, hurtling down an alley.
He only releases my arm after he’s thrown the car into Park and punched the emergency brake .
“Close your door,” he says, voice surprisingly mild, like he’s talking about the weather.
“They fired at me!”
“Close your fucking door.” His tone is still perfectly even. I wonder if he’s some sort of sociopath.
I scramble clumsily, half-kneeling on the seat before I get my legs inside. Once I’m sitting, my stilettos force my knees to an awkward angle, too close to my chin. I realize I’m leaning forward, trying to draw a full breath against the constriction of my catsuit.
I close my door.
The instant it latches, Moran shoves the car into gear and flies down the alley.
“They tried to kill me,” I say, as he returns to a city street.
“Bullshit.” He ignores a stop sign.
“Didn’t you hear those shots? They wanted?—”
“To scare the shite out of you.” He soars through a red light too. “You were three feet away. If they wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now.”
Southie sails by—sagging houses and tired cars and dimly lit packies with beer signs hanging in their barred windows. “I didn’t think they’d?—”
“You didn’t think.” He cuts me off. “Period.” He finds one of the streets that crosses beneath the interstate. Shabby tents line the underpass.
“My father made me his?—”
“Your father did shite.”
“He—”
“Shut it.”
“I’m—”
“Yer a girl,” Moran sneers, his accent thicker than it’s been all day. “Yer nothin’ but a feckin’ girl.”
I smooth my catsuit. The action’s automatic, but I take some comfort in the feel of the smooth vinyl beneath my palms.
When I catch Moran looking at me, I arch my spine. I can’t help it. I almost laugh when I hear his hard swallow. I say, “I’m taking over the Crew.”
“Sure you are.” He’s humoring me.
“It’ll just take a little longer than I planned.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The captains will vote on a new general for the Grand Irish Union in one hundred days.” That’s the post my father held, the way he ruled over all the captains in the States. Tradition says all of us mourn, counting off the days, and then we act, choosing our new leader.
“And you think you’ll be that general.”
I shake my head. “Some of the captains have never even met me. It’s unrealistic to think enough will vote for me in just three months.”
“Unrealistic, eh?”
The Irish at the end of his question—a combination of good humor and raw doubt—makes me angry, but it locks in my determination. “Every man in the Old Colony Crew will swear his loyalty to me as Queen by the Grand Irish Union vote.”
I’ve watched a bunch of podcasts about achieving your dreams. They all recommend setting SMART goals. S—make it specific. M—measurable. R—relevant. T—time-bound. I’ve just done all that.
Yeah, there’s an A in there too. The goal’s supposed to be attainable. Moran’s going to tell me I’m being utterly unrealistic. I might as well say I’m going to win an Olympic gold medal in the decathlon.
But Moran doesn’t say anything at all. Which only makes me want to work harder to prove him wrong.
He’s slowed the car to a normal speed. We’re in a busier part of town; restaurants and bars line the streets. We’re getting close to the Commons, where tourists throng.
He nods toward the backpack by my feet. “You still have my clothes in there? ”
My chin juts defiantly. “Yeah.”
“Get dressed.”
I snort as I look out the window. “Here?”
“Just do it.”
Knowing it’ll drive him mad, I moan as I reach for the hidden zipper along my spine.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Just cover yourself. Put those on over your…whatever.”
“It’s vinyl,” I say.
“So help me God…”
I peel off my long black gloves, plucking the fingers one by one. I have to undo my seatbelt to pull his sweatshirt over my head, and an alarm shrills like the vehicle is about to self-destruct. I slip off my stilettos so I can negotiate the sweatpants. Moran mumbles something in Irish as I raise my hips, definitely making me wish I’d learned more Gaelic.
He takes a sharp right turn into a well-lit driveway.
“Where are we?” I ask, peering through the windows.
“A hotel.”
“Which one?”
“A Hilton. A Hyatt. What the fuck do you care? It’s somewhere not connected with you in any way. Your uncle won’t have any reason to look for us here.”
A uniformed attendant hovers by my door. I shove my shoes into my backpack and try not to argue with Moran. I’m barely successful, especially when he looks like he wants to de-nut the man who helps me out of the car.
Moran wrestles both of my suitcases out of the back and slings his own duffel over one shoulder. I see what it costs him when the valet asks for his car key. Moran doesn’t like giving control to anyone.
Once we’re in the lobby, he orders me to stay close to his side. There’s no one waiting to check in. The one clerk at reception is carrying on an animated conversation with a bellhop .
“And then—” says the clerk. His name tag reads Nelson . I don’t know if that’s a first name or a last.
“Excuse me,” Moran interrupts.
“And then ,” Nelson tries again. The bellhop has the grace to look uncomfortable.
Moran taps the corner of his credit card against the counter. It’s an American Express platinum.
Da carried a black card. I wonder if I can access his account. How long will it be before I get my own black card?
The clerk doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he angles his shoulders, as if he’s sharing a secret with his uneasy coworker. “I told her?—”
“Cut the crap,” Moran warns, his voice dangerously low.
Nelson isn’t quite as stupid as he looks. He raises his eyebrows in fake surprise. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says in a voice that is anything but. “I didn’t realize you were waiting.”
Negotiations for a room go about as well as I expect. There’s nothing on the highest floor. All the suites are taken. They don’t have anything with two queen beds. If we have special requirements like that, we should have made a reservation.
Moran finally settles on a fourth-floor room with a single king-size bed. Nelson eyes his computer screen with a spark of malevolence. “Are you eligible for any of our discounts?” he asks, flicking a dismissive glance at Moran’s disheveled gray-shot hair. “Senior citizen?”
Moran is Braiden’s chief enforcer. The Glock in his shoulder holster can’t be the only weapon he’s carrying. But he takes the insult, only gritting through set teeth: “No discounts.”
The clerk nods and types and blinks like he’s innocent as a newborn lamb. “And will your daughter need a key too?”
My laugh comes out as a sharp bark. Moran glares like he’s trying to incinerate the entire front desk. “We both need keys.”
“Very well, sir,” Nelson says. He puts two plastic cards in a paper sleeve. “Have a wonderful evening. Don’t hesitate to let me know if I can do anything to make your stay more pleasant. ”
Moran growls as he snatches up the keys. I need to jog to keep up on our way to the elevator.
The room door closes noisily behind us. The bed fills almost every inch of the stained beige carpet. A quick glance out the window confirms we’re facing an air shaft.
Moran throws his duffel into the only free corner. “Where do you want your bags?” he asks.
I snort. “The bathroom? Or maybe we should use them as pillows.”
This time, he swears in English.
Before I can tweak him again, he edges past my suitcases and stomps into the bathroom. I’m pretty sure he’s practicing deep breathing and maybe counting to ten. The door is thin enough I’d hear anything else.
I take advantage of his absence to wiggle out of his sweats. The only problem with this catsuit is that the zipper catches if I take too deep a breath. And I’ve done plenty of deep breathing since I left the rest-area bathroom.
Twisting my arm, I try to grip the zipper’s tiny tab. It moves less than an inch before it snags in the middle of my back. “ Motherfucker !” I say, because that’s the way I learned to swear.
Moran throws open the bathroom door as if I’m being attacked. Feeling a little foolish, I look at him from under my arm. “Hey, Daddy,” I say, channeling the asshole clerk who put us here. “A little help?”
His eyes go flat, like a rattlesnake eyeing a mouse for supper. “What did you just call me?”
I hear the warning in his voice, sharper and far more deadly than the alarm that rang when I shimmied out of my seatbelt. I catch my breath against the unexpected belly-swoop that jacks my heartbeat into overdrive.
Maybe it’s the aftermath of being shot at, the leftover adrenaline from fleeing the dún like a pair of action-adventure heroes. Maybe it’s rage at the Crew for not letting me in, or it’s how Moran was taken down by the desk clerk, or it’s because I want new memories to replace the shitty ones of Madden Kelly’s fists.
But I want more of this breathless feeling—of this sudden raw desire. I purposely soften my tone before I look up at Moran through my lashes. “Daddy?” I coo. “Won’t you help your little girl?”
He closes the distance between us like he’s been shot out of a cannon.
His hand moves with precision, fingers seizing the zipper tab like tweezers. His pull is steady and strong. The front of the suit compresses my chest, then my ribs, then the small of my back before he peels the vinyl down to my ankles.
I barely have a chance to snatch a full breath before he shoves me onto the bed. My feet are trapped as I balance on all fours. Moran orders: “Stay.”
I’m tempted to woof like a dog. Instead, I look over my naked shoulder and say, “Yes, Daddy.”
I watch something snap inside him. He toes off his shoes like they’re doused in acid; he strips off his socks too. He pulls off his long-sleeve T, tossing his head like a bull once he’s free. He doesn’t bother pulling his belt all the way clear, just undoes the buckle, then his button and zipper. He pulls his boxer briefs down with his jeans.
He’s naked, except for a scattering of scars and the tattoos that cover his right arm. A lighthouse stretches from his shoulder to his elbow, wreathed in black clouds and thready lightning that boils over his biceps. The design is executed in exquisite detail; I can make out windows on the tower and every bar of the iron cage at the top. Storm-whipped ocean waves cover his forearm. The tattooed zigzag of a heart monitor races across his wrist, cut short with an unflinching straight line.
I reach for the design because it’s beautiful and it’s terrible and I can’t imagine how many hours he sat in some artist’s chair, getting the ink pumped under his skin.
He bats my hand away. I’m not allowed to touch .
For a single gobsmacked moment, I think he’s retreating to the bathroom again. But then I realize he’s tearing into his duffel in the corner. He’s digging into a leather kit, shoving aside a comb, a razor, and an amber bottle of pills. He comes up with a chain of foil squares, victory glinting in his eyes.
I twist to help him as he tears open a packet. I want to roll the condom over his cock. I want to run my fingers down the rubber, feel the length of him, hard and ready. “Please,” I say. “I’m Daddy’s little helper.”
He slaps my hand again and turns me around, his chest to my back. When I arch against him, I feel his dick between us, pressing hard against me.
His fingers close around the nape of my neck, and he pushes me forward, his grip steady and commanding. I balance on hands and knees again, but he wants more. He demands more. He lowers my face toward the mattress until I sink onto my forearms. My bare ass is full exposed.
“Is this what you want, Daddy? Is this how you want your little girl?”
I’ve never played this game before. I only say the words now because they’re sparking something deep beneath Moran’s surface, something fierce, something animal.
I need that savagery. I need to forget what Madden did, forget that Da died, forget the surprise of gunfire at the dún. I need Moran to fuck the last twenty-four hours out of my mind.
He digs his fingers into my hips, tugging me back until I feel the tip of his cock between my legs. I gasp—not because he’s hot and not because he’s hard and not because he’s bigger than any man I’ve ever had before. I hiss because his fingers find my bruises. They burrow into dark places where Madden shoved his fists.
Moran growls something, Irish again, ending with that word he calls me: Scáthach. He shifts his grip and folds an arm around my belly. He’s holding me tighter than he was before, but now it doesn’t hurt. He’s not pressing into my old wounds. He’s found a new way to pull me close.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I say, pushing back against him.
He reaches between my thighs and slides his thumb inside. I’m wet. Soaked. He must like how I feel, because he groans deep inside his throat.
He drives home like he’s staking a claim in a gold mine. I gasp at the pressure, at his weight, at his strength. He fills me, going deeper than any man has ever gone before. A flutter immediately starts inside me, a ripple, a swirl.
He eases back, slow and steady, almost pulling free. I need him, though. I don’t want to let him go. I whine, a silly, desperate sound, and then I whisper the same order he gave me: “ Stay .”
He stays. He tightens his arm beneath me. He shifts his weight and he fills me again.
It’s easy to find our rhythm. We move without shame, without awkwardness, without any of the little slips and stumbles new lovers make.
Sex with Moran is hard and fast and dirty.
He says my cunt is amazing. He tells me I’m strong. He says I’m brave, and no one has ever said that before, and I don’t believe him, I can’t believe him, even though I’m opening up beneath him, and I’m spinning…hanging…waiting…
I come.
I come with a man’s cock deep inside me.
An actual orgasm around an actual dick. No fake gasping and thrashing and calling on God. No toy, vibrating in a monotone until my nerves short-circuit. No fingers of my own, rubbing and pushing and pulling by rote.
I come with a man for the first time in my life.
And just as the seizing, grasping, pulsing begins to slow inside me, Moran comes too. He groans my name like it’s a magic spell or maybe like it’s a prayer. He finds some way to slide a little bit deeper. He spreads his hand wide across my back, claiming me, owning me.
When he’s done, when he’s empty and I’m full, he says that I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. I don’t know how it happens, I don’t know where my body finds the strength, but suddenly I’m coming again—and multiple orgasms are another thing I’ve never done with an actual man.
Every sensation is deeper this time and stronger and I stretch beneath him and take his weight on my back and I never want to leave this place, not ever, not for the rest of my everlasting life.