Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
EMMA
It’s New Year’s Eve, the day of Anthony’s wedding. I’m hungover from Seamus’s whiskey, but I wouldn’t let a thing like that stop me from making a point.
Before I head downstairs to join Rosie and the other bridesmaids, I tuck his flask into my garter belt, liking the cool press of it against my inner thigh. I hope he enjoys the way I’ve decorated it.
Not that I have any intention of flashing him my thigh, of course.
Unless it’s to torment him.
I’ve decided I’m still angry with Seamus James, if only because I’m pissed off at the world, and he’s the latest man to have put a target on his back.
Was he right to turn me down?
Assuredly.
The last thing I needed to do was stumble down to my brother’s wedding, smelling like his brother-in-law. Or to deal with his knowing looks and comments every holiday. But he didn’t need to be such a dick about Jeffrey. I’m perfectly aware that I made a mistake. I feel the ache of that knowledge every day. I didn’t need a reminder from a man who likes to play fast and loose with life.
Sniffing to myself, I put on some red lipstick and then leave my bedroom. Walking downstairs, I take stock of the house. My mother has agreed that I can redecorate it while I’m temporarily unemployed.
Smith House is old, much-too-large, and filled with heavy old furniture better suited to people who’ve been dead for fifty years. My childhood home has always felt weighed down by its lengthy existence—as if every rich man who’d ever owned it still haunts the halls, gasping whenever someone forgets to use a coaster.
Not anymore. Maybe I can’t reclaim my own life, but I’m going to evict every last one of their ghosts. They can go haunt the retirement home across town.
I’m smiling at the thought when I reach the bottom of the steps and turn toward the room where Rosie’s getting ready, taking note of the threadbare patches on the expensive carpet runner. I take the turn too quickly, and walk directly into a hard body that smells slightly of smoke.
He turns to look at me, raising one eyebrow, and heat flushes through my body. That only pisses me off more. So does the fact that Seamus looks pretty damn good in a suit. Better than he has any right to. He reminds me of an evil jetsetter in a James Bond movie—one who looks so good you find yourself rooting for the wrong side to win.
“What are you doing here?” I ask pointedly.
“I was invited. Your brother might have asked Declan and me to stand up with him, but my sister comes first, and she wanted to lift a glass with us before she signs her life away. What are you doing here?”
He knows I live here, obviously. So I’m guessing he meant that as a blow. It lands like one, dammit.
“Interior decorating,” I reply, waving a hand at the statue standing proudly at the end of the hallway. It looks like a seventy-pound baby with gout. “I was thinking of having a tag sale. I’d give you a good price if you’d like to take that off our hands.”
The thought of a tag sale pleases me, because that would definitely piss off our ancestors.
This time both of his eyebrows wing up. “You’re really going to lie down and play dead?”
It lands like a blow, but I scowl at him and remind myself of that flask, strapped to my thigh. It’s proof that I don’t lay down and play dead, dammit. Not unless I have no other option.
“I’m biding my time,” I insist. “I’m going to fight him at the hearing.”
I’m proud of the way my voice doesn’t quaver, because I know Jeffrey has connections that might come through for him. I do not.
Shaking the dark thoughts off, I prop my leg on a decorative plant stand against the wall closest to me and pull the flask out of my garter belt.
I take a swig, my leg still hoisted up, and then return the flask to its place. I’m rewarded by the look Seamus gives me—and punished by it too. Because I can tell he wants to slam me against the wall and fuck me, and even if he’s aggravating as hell, I’d really, really like him to.
But he conceals his reaction quickly and then says, “The Hello Kitty stickers were exactly what it was missing. Good call. But I question why a thirty-two-year-old woman would have them.”
“I don’t believe in age-ism.”
His whole face lifts in amusement. “No, I guess you wouldn’t.”
For about the five hundredth time, I think about what he said yesterday—about me calling men daddy . He wouldn’t know how close that bat-swing came to home. My father, the scion of the Smith family fortune, died when I was ten. He was a cold, withholding asshole who showboated for the public but treated his family with contempt and me with absolute indifference. Not that I’m complaining. My brother was unlucky enough to have held his interest. He used to beat him to “toughen him up,” something I’d only recently found out. That revelation has only added to the weight I’ve been feeling. Logically, I know there is nothing I could have done. I was a little kid. But the knowledge that I failed to protect him or even notice what was going on makes me feel even more powerless. Useless to everyone. My brother and my father.
Maybe Seamus was right, and there’s a lost part of me that longs for the approval and interest of older, withholding men. There’s no denying the only men I’ve dated seriously are quite a bit older than me. I wasted two years I’ll never get back on Jeffrey. And before him there was Tom, one of my professors in law school, who had the courtesy to wait until after I graduated to ask me to put on my brightest red lipstick and blow him.
I hate that I did it.
I hate how good it felt to be noticed and wanted by them.
If it’s a pattern I’ve unintentionally fallen into, I’m not proud of it, and I certainly don’t appreciate being called on it.
I lift my face, pretending I can look down my nose at Seamus. “You smell like smoke again.”
“Addiction’s a terrible thing, Emma,” he says with an amused tone.
I start moving again, going fast, but his long legs make it easy for him to keep up.
“So is being an idiot,” I say.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ll have to take your word for it.”
I glance to the side and give him a withering look as I pause. “Are you implying I’m an idiot?”
Grinning, he stops too and lifts both hands, palms out. I can hear Rosie down the hall, three doors down, laughing. She spills out joy as if it costs nothing.
“Like I said,” he tells me. “I’m no idiot. Only a fool would say something like that to a woman like you.”
“I used to think so, too,” I say with a sigh, opening to him again without meaning to. My throat feels raw, and my feet already hurt from the pinch of my heels. He watches me almost earnestly as he leans against the wall. The wallpaper in this hallway is a hideous dark red and gold pattern—the kind of interior design choice you’d expect to see in Dracula’s mansion.
“What changed your mind?”
“Jeffrey won, Seamus.” I glance past him, at the door. “I tried to fight back, and each time I did, it got worse. I’m the hysterical, crazy woman, and he’s a pillar of the community. I can’t get within fifty feet of him. Literally . All of my former friends have written me off.”
He watches me, his eyes unreadable. “I’ll break his kneecaps if you want. You can call it a wedding gift for your brother. I’d prefer to do that than shell out for a pepper grinder.”
Holy shit. I think he actually means it. My mouth drops open, a gasp nearly escaping it. I close it before the worst can happen, thank God. “How would that fix things?”
“It wouldn’t, but at least you wouldn’t be suffering alone.”
“I believe in law and order.”
He gives me a wry look. “But sometimes it needs a little push, don’t you think?”
“Why would you do that for me?” I blurt. “We don’t know each other.”
“That’s not true,” he says, his smile widening. “We’re about to become family.”
“And do you regularly break kneecaps for your family?”
Something flashes in his eyes, and he looks almost dangerous. My whole body becomes intensely aware of him—even my elbows seem to be screaming that this man is a predator. Apparently, my elbows also like predators, because my impulse isn’t to run but to lean in closer, more intimately. He waits for a few seconds, keeping me on alert, then says in a low, serious voice, “There’s no end to what I wouldn’t do for my family.”
Swallowing, I say, “Well, why don’t you prove it by going in there with your sister?”
He grins at me—a knowing grin—and raises one shoulder. “Shall we?”
I don’t want to walk in with him.
I don’t want questions .
I don’t want my horny elbows to create problems for me.
“I’m going to go look at that statue down the hall. I’ll be right there.”
He snorts, shaking his head, and passes me, his hand brushing against mine as he goes. I feel hot shivers pass up my arm and zip directly down between my legs. Dammit, I’ll bet he did that on purpose.
I watch him, soaking in the sight of his body. He has the kind of ass a man only earns if he works for it.
Before he enters the room, he turns his head slightly to look at me, catching me watching, and winks.
A scowl slips over my face, and I head down the hall toward the hideous statue because I need a minute to collect myself. I’m pretty sure Seamus would actually destroy Jeffrey’s knees if I asked, and I’m alarmed by how tempted I am. I won’t do it, but the thought of that man writhing in pain brings a smile to my face.
The therapist I should probably be seeing would have something to say about that. They’d definitely have something to say about the hatred and anger seething inside of me, wanting to break through my powerlessness paralysis like magma. Here’s the truth: I dislike Ellie Reed, but I loathe Jeffrey Nichols to the bottom of my soul. I want my job and reputation back, of course, but there’s a part of me that wouldn’t be satisfied by that. I want to see him destroyed. Ruined. Shamed. The same way he’s done to me.
Reaching the statue, I feel a ridiculous impulse that I lean into. I pull a tube of red lipstick out of my purse and draw a smile on the statue’s face. There. Let’s see if anyone notices. A little pop of chaos that would have made my father red-faced with anger. But he has no power over me, my mother, or my brother anymore—and I’m going to find a million ways to show it. Ripping down the wallpaper, auctioning his treasures, giving his statues makeovers.
A voice in my head whispers that I’m putting lipstick on statues to get back at my dead father when I could be sticking it to the motherfucker who ruined my life. It insinuates that I’ve fallen into this state of arrested development because I’m afraid.
Which is when I turn back toward the now-closed door. I can hear the low rumble of Seamus’s voice, followed by laughter.
I don’t want to go in there.
I’m in no mood to make other people merry, but again, I like Rosie. I like her friends.
I like—
Well, like isn’t the right word for how I feel about Seamus, but I’m not sure what word would cover it. He’s aggravating. Full of himself. Dangerous. Sinfully attractive.
Dangerous is the word I should remember. I’ve already screwed myself over. Playing it safe is a phrase I should learn to love. Maybe I should take my vows at a nunnery while I’m at it.
Sighing, I fake a smile and open the door.
“Emma!” Rosie says with a huge—and genuine—grin. “Come in here and have a drink. Seamus brought me some special whiskey.”
He smirks at me over her shoulder, his gaze lowering to my legs. “Oh, she knows.”
I’m a bit tipsy, thank God.
The ceremony is over, and we’re deep into the afterparty.
I’ve held it together—smiling and saying the right things—because I love my brother and want him to be happy. My feelings about marriage may be mostly negative, but I saw the way he and Rosie stared into each other’s eyes while they exchanged vows. I hope they’re able to hang on to that. I need them to. Because I couldn’t help Anthony when we were kids, and I like seeing him like this.
Still, it’s been hard, acting as if I’m not falling apart.
The weight I’ve been carrying for weeks keeps getting heavier, and I’ve tried to swallow it down with help from Seamus’s flask.
It’s half an hour until midnight now, and I’m standing at the edge of the ballroom, watching as Anthony and Rosie sway to the music from the band my mother hired at the last minute. God, they look as happy as they did at that altar, whispering into each other’s ears.
It makes me smile, but my cynical side worries they’ll be part of that unlucky forty percent—happy now, miserable in four years. Sniping at each other over who bought what and whether Fluffy the dog could be happy living in an apartment, and how on earth are you going to take care of her anyway when you’ve never picked up a pile of dogshit in your life?
They don’t have a dog, but you’ll be surprised how many times I’ve seen that scenario play out.
I’ll have to remind Anthony to do his part in the event of a dog adoption.
My eyes seek out Seamus as I pull out the flask, which I’ve already refilled once, and take a glug. I haven’t talked to him since earlier, although I’ve caught him watching me half a dozen times. And a couple of hours ago, a very sweet older guy named Chuck introduced himself to me as Claire’s father. He needs a divorce, and apparently Seamus told him that I was “just the woman for him to talk to.” He proceeded to tell me a fifteen-minute story about the wife who’d abandoned him for a cult in the Pacific Northwest. I’ll be honest, I usually love listening to stories like that. His problems are the kind I am adept at solving. But I withdrew from the conversation, because it felt like a harsh reminder of what I’d been and was no longer.
I feel guilty for putting him off, but I tell myself that I’ll email him later, when I’m no longer tipsy and full of restless anger.
Seamus is nowhere to be seen, probably sneaking a cigarette outside or backing one of the guests up against an ornamental pillar.
The thought pisses me off, but that’s not exactly novel. All my thin skin needs is a scratch these days. I wonder if the injustice of what Jeffrey did has altered me on a cellular level.
“What’ve you got in there?” a woman’s voice asks.
I glance over and see Nicole, one of Rosie’s friends. She and her husband are private investigators, although you’d never think it to look at her. She has bright pink hair that’s between a pixie and a bob in length, and every time I’ve seen her, she’s had on the kind of outfit that attracts rather than repels attention. T- shirts with snarky sayings. Bright colors never found in nature. Tonight she’s wearing a dress that’s almost normal—unless you consider that we’re at a wedding and she’s wearing off white.
Not that Rosie, who’s in a golden gown, would care about something like that. She’d probably laugh it off and then raise a toast to her.
“Well?” Nicole presses, giving me a look that invites confidences.
Truthfully, I’ve thought about talking to Nicole about Jeffrey. I don’t know her, however, and she doesn’t seem discreet. If I told her about the restraining order, she’d probably tell Rosie, who’d inevitably tell my brother, who might very well spill everything to my mother—and then I would never hear the end of it.
“Water,” I say, lifting my eyebrows.
She laughs. “You like holding out on me, huh?”
“Whenever possible, I like holding out on everyone,” I reply. “The same way you enjoy shocking people. I’m guessing that’s why you’re wearing white to a wedding. Dick move, though, even if you cleared it with her.”
She gives me an approving grin. “Look at you, standing up for our sister-in-law.”
I roll my eyes.
“Will you tell me one thing?”
I tip my head toward her, wondering why she’s continuing this conversation. We barely know each other. “What’s that?”
“Why’d you let that old guy fuck you over?”
Rage fills my gut like a bonfire—a bonfire floating on top of liquid magma. I’m going to destroy Seamus James. Who does he think he is, spreading rumors about me?
He’ll realize what Reid Luther did, after telling everyone in middle school I’d kissed him behind the gymnasium—I bite back.
Everyone at school was talking about Reid’s freakishly large tongue for months.
Of course, Jeffrey hasn’t learned that lesson, as both Seamus and Nicole have reminded me of in the past few hours…
Call me salty, but I don’t like them for it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say coldly.
“Neither do I,” she says with a laugh. “I’ve been spying on Seamus to figure out what his deal is, and I overheard you two talking.”
“Excuse me?” I say, nearly dropping the flask. Instead, I take another gulp—I’m not nearly tipsy enough for this conversation—and turn toward her.
“Parched, huh?”
“Yes. You’ve been spying on him?”
She shrugs, as if it’s no big deal to spy on people. “I haven’t done a deep dive yet, but yeah, of course. His brother’s marrying my sister.”
Ah, so that’s how she’s connected.
“And you wanted to check him out.” I glance at my brother and Rosie, still staring deeply into each other’s eyes. A pulse of protectiveness works through me. “I get it. I ran a background check on Rosie.”
Her lips purse in amusement. “I’m guessing you didn’t do a very good job.”
“Are you angling to get hired for something?” I ask pointedly. Because I'm in no mood for nonsense. I never am, but my tolerance is at an all-time low. Besides, we’re starting a new year in a few minutes, and this obnoxious conversation isn’t the way I’d like to kick things off.
“Nope. I’ve got plenty of money. But I am getting a little bored. I really dislike being bored.” Her gaze turns assessing as she looks me over. “Judging by what you’ve been up to with the lipstick all night, you’re bored too.”
I don’t deny it. Defacing the statue was fun, and I’ve added lipstick smiles to two old portraits of old men—one of them my great-grandfather, another some kind of uncle or cousin even my father couldn’t name. They look better in red.
My mother has asked who’s behind the lipstick mischief, but from the gleam in her eyes, she doesn’t mind. She wants to change things up too. After all, she’s spent the last few decades in this tomb. Maybe she can tear down the wallpaper with me. Anthony can get in on the action too. It’ll be therapeutic and shit.
Nicole probably wants me to take her case-cracking as evidence of her intelligence, but I’m tipsy enough that my fingers might be covered with the evidence of what I’ve been up to. If I check now, she’ll see me doing it. No way am I going to give her that satisfaction.
“This conversation isn’t making me less bored,” I say, pouring every ounce of my upbringing into the words. The Smiths are practically royalty in this part of the world, or so my father loved to claim. His one point of interest in me was to convince my mother I needed to be a debutante when the time came so I could learn “how to behave like a woman in my station.”
My mother actually went through with it, although she did it as a punishment after she caught me sneaking out of the house with a bottle of her gin. If it had been the bourbon, she might have let me get away with it, but as it was, I’d spent several Sunday afternoons learning to balance books on my head and eat like a bird with an excessive amount of silverware.
Nicole’s grin is nothing like the poised smile debutantes are told to model. “I like you.”
“I suspect the feeling isn’t mutual.”
“Maybe you’ll suspect differently when I give you some free intel about your new in-laws. Their last name isn’t James.”
“Excuse me?” I say, nearly dropping the flask again. I slide it back into the garter, doing it quickly because there’s no Seamus in here to tease.
“Their family had ties to organized crime, but they weren’t interested in continuing in the family business.” She shrugs. “So they changed their last name from O’Malley and moved out of the state. Still…it’s colorful.”
“You’re telling me she is involved in organized crime?” I ask in a doubtful undertone, nodding my chin at my brother’s delightful wife. It’s hard to believe she’d be capable of it. Sure, she’s tougher than she looks—I wouldn’t have let Anthony marry her otherwise—but she’s not hardened. Nothing about my bubbly sister-in-law screams guns and concrete shoes and cannoli.
True, I’m no true crime fanatic. My knowledge of organized crime comes from The Godfather , and Rosie does not fit that world. For one thing, she’s Irish American, not Italian American. For another, she’s sweet and sunny.
Seamus, though…
I could definitely see him being mixed up in that kind of shit, even if he hadn’t made the offer to kneecap Jeffrey. It’s there in his eyes and the way he carries himself, casual but aware, always aware. And I’d be lying if the thought didn’t turn me on.
“Did I say that?” Nicole asks, pointing to herself. “I didn’t say that. I said the family has ties to organized crime. Your brother knows, by the way, and he doesn’t give a shit. I mean, you can’t help who you’re related to. Ask my sister.”
I sigh, watching as Anthony dips Rosie. Of course he knows. And of course my love-struck brother has decided he doesn’t care. He did mention that she had something in her past she didn’t want getting out, and I’m guessing this handful of red flags is that something.
“But, you know,” Nicole continues contemplatively, “I’ve got this funny itch about Seamus. I’ve been wondering if he’s moved on as much as Rosie and Declan have.”
I wonder if her funny itch is because she overheard the offer he made me earlier. I’m tempted to ask, but a part of me feels weirdly protective of the information. I’m guessing Seamus wouldn’t want this woman getting involved in his business.
Which isn’t to say that I won’t be poking around in there with a magnifying glass and protective gloves. I want to know just who Anthony has hitched himself to.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, giving her a hard look.
“I figured you’d be interested too since you invited Seamus to come home with you last night.”
“What the fuck?” I say, beyond pissed. “I wasn’t…Were you hiding behind an evergreen?”
She grins more widely. “The dumpster, actually. And if you’re wondering whether I heard everything, then the answer is ninety percent. There was a lot of would they or won’t they going on, which got tedious, and I also heard a bit about your personal problem. That wasn’t at all boring.”
“And you’re going to offer to solve it, I suppose,” I say coldly, circling back to the thought that this woman is angling to get hired.
She shrugs. “I’m guessing you’ll need help when you finally get off your ass and decide to ruin him. I figured I’d throw my hat in the ring. Some people like saving rescue animals or baking cakes that look like hamburgers. I like ruining motherfuckers who deserve it.”
I angle my head, taken aback and interested despite myself. “Oh?”
“Oh,” she says. “I have a pretty colorful history of it. I can send you some information.”
“So you are looking to get hired.”
She smiles and tsks, looking almost disappointed in me. “No, Emma dearest. I’m trying to be your friend.”
“I don’t need any friends,” I lie.
I’m not anti-social, precisely. I had friends in Charlotte, people I regularly had brunch with and met for drinks. But there’s nothing like a brush with infamy to show you who your real friends are—and it turns out, I didn’t have any. The minute word got out about the restraining order, I was the one they were talking shit about over their mimosas.
“That’s what I used to think too,” she tells me, then nods to her gorgeous husband across the room. He grins at her, his eyes full of warmth. “I was also wrong.”
“What’re you going to do about Seamus?” I ask.
“You’re deeply concerned about him, aren’t you?” she replies, her gaze back on me.
“Hardly,” I retort. Waiters have started circulating with silver trays topped with full champagne glasses. I grab two. Nicole, probably guessing, correctly, that the second glass isn’t for her, does the same. As soon as the waiter moves along, I say, “But it’s relevant. They’re family.”
“Doesn’t that mean we’re family?”
I scrunch my nose. “Only if you have a very broad definition of the word.”
She grins at me and knocks back the contents of one of the flutes. “I tend to define words as it suits me. And I’m going to keep an eye on Seamus.” She gives me a small nod. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
“You’ll be waiting forever,” I mutter.
She gives me a disappointed look. “I hope not. I don’t like to be kept waiting. Seems to me you could begin the new year broken, or you can focus on breaking someone else.” That dubious advice given, she flounces away, heading toward Anthony and Rosie. My sister-in-law grins and waves her in.
I wonder if she’d still be grinning if she knew her good friend just gave up her secret without any prompting. I’d be glad I hadn’t decided to confide in Nicole, who is obviously a poor confidant, if she didn’t already know everything anyway.
Dammit.
I take my champagne and mosey toward the door, smiling and waving to keep from getting drawn in to any conversations. Suddenly, I need to get away from the crowd. I don’t have the slightest desire to cheer in the new year.
The old year can end. Good riddance. But I didn’t have the greatest hopes for the new one, other than stripping the last of my father from this sagging, once-great house.
I leave the room but keep walking all the way to the front door. Once there, I balance the two flutes of champagne in one hand so I can let myself out. Cold air gusts in, but I step out into it—almost grateful for the way the chill breeze wraps around me and billows under my dress. It’s enough to wake a woman up, just like the polar plunge I did one year for charity, and I feel my buzz sliding away as I weave around the side of Smith House.
I don’t understand what drove me outside until I see him propped against the wall in his leather jacket, a cigarette in one hand. He’s barely visible, hidden behind the thick evergreen shrubs as he stares up at the moon with a bemused expression. Although he’s in a suit, it looks like he ditched the jacket in favor of his leather one.
I almost turn right back around, but then he sees me, and his eyes widen. He instantly stubs out the cigarette and pockets the butt.
He looks like a kid who got caught smoking on school grounds, and I lean my head back and laugh.
His expression darkens and he stalks two steps toward me. He has the pace of a predator, and I feel a prickle of nerves dance across my skin, but I’d be lying if I said excitement wasn’t dancing directly beneath it. Then he completes the journey and takes off his leather jacket, slipping his own heat over my shoulders.