Chapter 12
12
brAIDEN
S amantha looks like a child lost in the middle of a county fair. Staring at my hand, she shakes her head, wiping her palm on her skirt instead.
And that skirt…
She looks like some sort of fertility goddess done up in flowers. There’s enough cloth that a man could hide under there—and I’ve given it some thought since I saw her walk through the doorway.
My fingers itch to back her into the same corner where Madden had her. But I wouldn’t waste my time talking to her. I’d get a hand under those flowers and tease her till she’s soaking wet. Then I’d finger-fuck her till she hides her face against my shoulder to scream.
“Come on, Sam,” Fiona calls. “One quick limerick. Prove you’re one of the Boys.”
The crowd parts. Samantha stumbles forward as if Fiona’s got her in a trance .
I reach over and slap Madden’s head. “I catch you bullying her again, and we’ll settle it with fists.”
He scowls. “Not bullying, deartháir. Keeping an eye out for my Captain.”
The thing is, he might truly believe that’s what he’s doing. From his perspective, Samantha’s just a quick fuck I dragged to the church after knowing her for less than a week.
He’s never seen the work she does at the freeport. He wasn’t there the morning Russo bulled his way into her apartment, saying he’d have her wed by sunset. Madden doesn’t know I love her.
Truth be told, Samantha doesn’t know that last bit either. I didn’t realize it myself, until my arm was torn open by that bullet at the freeport.
It still feels too raw, saying those words out loud. Now that Samantha knows about Birte, it’ll sound like I’m trying to manipulate her: Sure, I’ve got a first wife, an Irish virgin I’ll never take to bed. But you’re the one I truly love. Drop those knickers, piscín , and let me fuck you blind.
Right. Sure. She’d be a fool to believe a line like that.
But I’ll tell her. In a way she’ll believe. Soon.
Fiona’s leading the lads in a chant, slicing the air with the edge of her hand like she’s holding a conductor’s baton. Half the boys in the room are drooling so hard they can hardly shout: “Sam! Sam! Sam!”
Fiona gulps from her glass of whiskey, leaving a ring of scarlet lipstick on the rim. When she passes the glass to Samantha, her eyes spark with a devilish challenge.
Samantha takes the whiskey. Downs it all. Swallows hard and looks around at the men hooting her name.
She takes a deep breath and says, “Jack and Jane went down the lane?—”
The boys start booing before she finishes the line. Fiona makes the sound of a game show buzzer. “Wrong meter. Time to drink! ”
One of the lads passes up a full glass. Samantha takes it automatically.
Fiona says, “Drink it down and try again.”
Samantha seems as dazed by Fiona Ingram as my men are. She downs the whiskey like it’s a requirement for getting paid.
The crowd settles to an unruly hush. Samantha closes her eyes and recites, “Mary, Mary, quite contrary?—”
Groans drown her out. Fiona calls over to Cormac, who’s closest to the bar. “Pass us the bottle, will you? Sounds like she’ll need it!”
Samantha flushes—from the alcohol or from embarrassment I can’t be sure. She tries to step out of the circle, but Fiona grabs her arm. “Not so fast!”
Samantha says something, but her protest gets lost in the boys’ roar. She looks around, confused, with just enough fear in her eyes that I know she’s hopeless as a poet.
She needs me.
And it’s easy enough to oblige.
I shoulder through the crowd and take the bottle Cormac’s handed over. The room falls dead silent as I raise it overhead.
“There was a young couple named Kelly,
Who met on the steps of a deli.
He fed her his cock,
Till she couldn’t walk,
And now she has twins in her belly.”
I suspect Kieran Ingram hears the cheers up in Boston. Fiona spins toward me, closing her hand over mine, where I grip the bottle. She raises the Jameson to my lips and sees to it that I down a shot or three.
When I wrestle back control, she laughs and tumbles into my arms. Her mouth lands on mine, hot and ready, her tongue taking advantage of my surprise to go deep. I find her hips and push her away, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth to clear away her lipstick.
Laughing, she takes the bottle and raises a toast: “To Himself!” My men echo her words, hooting and hollering like a flock of feckin’ jackdaws.
I finally manage to turn toward Samantha.
She’s staring at me like she’s the queen of England. Her spine is stiffer than I’ve ever seen it before. Her jaw is frozen in marble.
Her chin quivers just a little, not enough that any man would see it who hasn’t already carved her face on his heart. Her eyes gleam like the bottom of a whiskey bottle, unshed tears trembling.
“Come on, piscín ,” I say, pitching my voice just for her. “It’s a joke.”
She turns and flees the room, pushing her way through the crowd of my astonished men.
I take two steps, but that’s all I can give her. I can’t leave Fiona here, can’t trust whatever game she’s playing. There’s Madden, too—the fecker’s on my last nerve, and I don’t like the way he stared daggers when I caught him taking the piss out of Samantha.
That flower-covered skirt disappears upstairs. I stop short of calling after her just before she clears the landing. Instead, I shove the whiskey bottle toward my brother. “You’re up,” I say.
Fiona barely hesitates before she starts a new chant: “Madden! Madden!”
In the midst of the chaos, Fairfax is scoping out the food table. He’s brought out another platter of those yellow flower things, the fried ones stuffed with cheese. I catch him before he heads back to the kitchen.
“Could you do me a favor?”
He looks like I’ve just spoken in Swahili. I realize I don’t ask him many questions; I’m far more accustomed to issuing orders .
“Samantha’s upstairs. Can you check on her? Make sure she’s all right?”
“Of course,” he says. He was in the kitchen for my bit of poetry, but he’s too professional to ask why she wouldn’t be just grand.
I wish there was something I could give him to take to her. My ring, but she already has two of mine. A glass of whiskey, but she’s had enough of that. One of those flower things Fairfax just set out, but I suspect she’s too hepped up to eat.
Fairfax is my chief of staff. He cleans up my messes, day in and day out. I have to trust he’ll do his usual fine job tonight.
So I turn back to the crowd that’s cheering Madden’s limerick. I watch the bottle go to the next man. I see how Fiona has every lad in the room eating out of the palm of her hand. And I cheer my Fishtown Boys because I’m their Captain and they’re my men, and we’ll gladly give our lives to save each other, come whatever, fair or foul.