Chapter 13
13
FIONA
I ’m balancing a shrimp on my chopsticks when my phone rings, so I don’t bother to answer. The only person in the world I want to talk to is Aunt S, and she’s never using a cell phone again.
I ordered all her favorites from the Chinese restaurant around the corner. Pan-fried crab dumplings. Mu shu pork with extra pancakes. Hunan broccoli with brown rice. Eight treasures lo mein.
I don’t care that it’s enough food for a small army. Aunt S would do the same in my memory, if I’d been the one to kick off first.
Plus, I thought Moran might be hungry when he got back from his errands.
He said he’d be back by the middle of the afternoon. He lied.
It’s five minutes after seven now. I waited half an hour after dinner was delivered to put the food on the coffee table. I took out two bowls. Four lacquered chopsticks. I only started eating ten minutes ago.
I did not spend the extra time skimming through local news stories on my phone, looking for news of gangland warfare erupting in Southie. I just wanted to see if anyone was talking about Da, if his death is being discussed by people outside the Crew.
And I didn’t check the traffic report to see if a Land Rover was involved in a major crash that was snarling all the roadways. I only wondered if the roads are clear from Logan, so anyone flying in for Saturday’s funeral has an easy time getting in from the airport.
And I definitely didn’t search for reports of a desk clerk being assaulted at a downtown Hyatt, or Hilton, or whatever-the-hell type of hotel. I’m merely curious about how hard it is to find lodging, in case funeral visitors need some help.
My phone rings again. It’s on silent mode, so it rattles against the granite counter in the kitchen, jittering close to the edge like it’s trying to commit suicide. Ignoring it, I catch some broccoli with my chopsticks.
The ringing stops but immediately starts again. Annoyed, I drop my chopsticks onto my plate. Whoever’s calling has won themselves a lifetime block.
The call is from Patrick .
For two full rings, I don’t recognize the name. Then, the connection finally clicks. It’s Moran. He entered his first name when he added his information to my phone. I don’t know why that tugs at something in my chest, but it does.
I consider letting the call go to voicemail again. It’s what he deserves, when I expected him hours ago. But I don’t want him to know I was worried.
I answer on speaker. “You’re late.”
“Throw down a key.”
“What?”
I cross back to the three tall windows at the front of the apartment. Sure enough, the Land Rover is parked across the street, in front of a fire hydrant.
“You’ll get a ticket, parked there,” I say.
“Fuck it,” Patrick says. And then he repeats: “Throw down a key.”
“Where’s the one I gave you?”
“I don’t know. I thought I had it when I left this morning. Maybe I lost it. Maybe it’s in my suit pocket, up there. Throw down the feckin’ key, Fiona.”
Patrick Moran. Warlord of the Fishtown Boys. Cujo to the Old Colony Crew. Can’t keep track of a house key.
I end the call and pluck my key from the bowl on the counter.
The window shrieks a protest as I open it. I brace my hands on the sill, displaying the boned bodice of my corset. It was a pain in the ass to lace up the back on my own, but now I know it was worth my time to get the ties even.
“How do I know you won’t lose this one?” I call down.
I can tell this isn’t the first time he’s run his fingers through his hair because it’s standing on end. “Give it a rest,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear.
“What if you don’t catch it?”
“Enough, Fiona.”
“If it falls in the storm drain, we’re in all sorts of trouble.”
“I’ll show you trouble,” he grumbles, and something catches deep beneath my belly.
I dangle the key like I’m teasing a kitten. “I’m not sure I like your tone,” I say. My own tone is surprisingly breathy. I must have laced my corset too tight.
“What the fuck do you want from me?”
My brain is suddenly flooded with an image of exactly what I want: Patrick Moran standing at the edge of the bed. One hand tangles in my hair as I’m splayed before him on hands and knees. The other hand grips my hip as he pounds home with enough force to make me scream .
And I know exactly what it would take to get it. There’s only one word I have to say: Daddy.
Ask nicely, Daddy.
Here’s the key, Daddy.
What will you give me if I’m your good girl, Daddy?
But I’m not going to call any of that from the fourth-floor window of a Back Bay townhouse. I’m not going to say any of that ever. Anywhere. To anyone.
“Catch,” I say, and I toss the key before I make a mistake I’ll regret forever.
I’ve closed and locked the window by the time he’s climbed all four flights of stairs. I’m standing in the middle of the living room. The lace pants that match my boned corset have a scalloped hem. I cock my leg to one side, knowing that angle will accentuate my silky black boy shorts.
Patrick closes the door. Locks it. Crosses to the kitchen counter and puts my key in the bowl.
Only then does he look at me. He swallows hard enough for me to hear him, and his hand finds his hair again. “Let it go, Fiona.”
“Let what go?” I add just the right amount of pout to the words.
I know he wants me. I can see it in the tight lines of his throat. I refuse to let my eyes drift south of his belt, but I’m certain if I did, his jeans would prove I’m right.
But he only shakes his head and goes down the hall to the bedroom.
I could follow him. But I’m Fiona Fucking Ingram. I’m not chasing after any man. It’s his loss, if he doesn’t follow up on what I’ve offered.
I hear him move things around in there. I’m pretty sure that’s the sound of his duffel bag being tossed on the bed. Yes, those are the zippers being pulled, each of them, slowly, then all of them, more rapidly .
He goes into the closet. I hear him sliding the hangers—his dress shirt, his suit jacket, his pants.
I’m not sure why he bothers, but he slams into the bathroom. He rummages in his Dopp kit, and for just a moment, I picture gold foil squares raining from his fingers. But he’s not looking for rubbers, because he stomps back to the front of the apartment and heads straight to the kitchen.
He empties the bowl on the counter. Pulls open the silverware drawer. He checks the cupboard that holds the mugs, and the one with plates and bowls. He looks in the refrigerator, and then the freezer.
And when he’s done, he braces both hands on the counter. He stands there—legs spread, head down. And I wait for him to explode.