Chapter 23
Rhys
Iknock twice on Fallon’s door and adjust the sweater that showed up on my bed last night when I got home from a surveillance shift.
Never before would I be caught wearing a red sweater with a felt Santa appliqué on the left breast pocket.
But the upside to this indignity is that no one will ever suspect I’m a killer for the Irish Mob.
When there’s no answer, I press my ear to the front door and hear bickering.
“I only took three leaves,” Fallon huffs. “You’re being dramatic.”
I listen for a response, but there is only a beat of silence.
“Fine. Four. And you’re lucky I don’t let you blossom, you little grump.”
“Fallon?” I call out to her.
“Shoot! Quiet, everyone.”
The door flies open, and she stands there like a fever dream wearing a long green velvet skirt, a red sequined off-the-shoulder number covered in stitched golden reindeer. But it’s the red satin ribbons woven through braids in her wild red hair that’s got my blood moving.
South.
Jaysus fucking Christ, she’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.
“Who are you arguing with?” I ask, looking past her shoulder.
“Basil.” She waves at the plant on her counter, his leaves suspiciously sparse. “He says the people at Friendsgiving don’t deserve my cooking. That they’re not my real friends.”
I blink. “And yet…you spent all day cooking for them.”
And dragging me along.
Her chin tips up, defiant. “I committed. I honor my commitments.”
“Aye,” I murmur, stepping inside. “I’m proud of you.”
“The sweater looks great on you!” she chirps. “It fits you perfectly. I didn’t have your measurements. I told the man at the store you were six-foot-four and weighed 210 pounds with a 45-inch chest and 17-inch bicep circumference.”
My jaw hits the floor. “Where did you get those measurements?”
“I took them myself.”
“When?”
“When you were asleep.”
I already knew she was breaking into my flat, but I always assumed she did it when I wasn’t home. I sleep in the fucking nude. Christ.
“Oh,” is all I say as I tug at the sweater’s tight collar because she didn’t measure my neck.
The aroma of something delicious finally hits me after the wave of embarrassment of her seeing me naked washes away.
A picture-perfect rectangle casserole dish on the counter is filled with different colored sliced apples, smothered in syrup and cinnamon, and dotted with what looks like dried cranberries.
“Fal, that thing looks like something off a magazine cover,” I say before she snaps on a plastic lid.
“Thank you. I…um. This is actually my second attempt.”
“What do you mean?”
“Too much cinnamon.” She sniffs. “I was sneezing for days. This one is perfect, I promise.”
“I believe you.” Christ, I’m ready to melt. I wasn’t expecting her to be competent in the kitchen.
“I’m ready.” She points to the tray like a queen issuing orders. “I cook. You carry.”
And so I do. After I help her on with her coat, I take her apple dish in one hand and use the other to guide her to the door.
We ride down the elevator, and Fallon rests her head against my arm like it’s a pillow. She sighs a dreamy content.
“I’m so happy you could make it this year,” she says softly. “I’ve been telling everyone I have a boyfriend, and no one believed me.”
Guilt wraps around my chest. How she’s been living this fantasy. Alone.
“You’ve got me this year.” I pat the fingers wrapped around my arm like a koala’s claws grip bamboo trees.
“Manifesting really works,” she says serenely.
“I’ll have to try it sometime.” I don’t say that I’ll be manifesting a red sequined thong under that skirt.
It’s a busy Saturday, so we weave through the crowded sidewalk. I keep my eyes peeled for anyone with that skull and serpent tattoo who might come looking for me. There hasn’t been any more threats since I killed that dosser for Ares. But in my business, I can’t afford to let my guard down.
We round the block to a nondescript church that hosts the potluck dinner in the basement. A handmade banner hangs over the entryway: ANNUAL FRIENDSGIVING DINNER in letters shaped like carrots and turkey legs.
The second we walk in, the room goes still.
Fallon’s ‘friends,’ a mix of middle-aged couples, a few silver-haired women, a man with a long black braid and wrinkled skin, and two young women holding hands gawk at her. Then at me.
A whisper cuts across the room: “That’s Fallon’s boyfriend?”
“Where did she order him from?” the silver-haired woman says, adjusting her skirt. “I hope he’s available for New Year’s Eve.”
Another person snickers, “She’s the one who talks to her plants in her garden, you know. Whole conversations. I heard her scolding the roses when I walked by one day.”
“She’s crazy,” someone else mutters.
My jaw tightens.
Fallon glides through the dingy rec room like she doesn’t hear a thing. But I do. And every last one of these fuckers is on a mental kill list I could burn through in under a week.
“Where do I put this, love?” I ask, leaning into her, acting like I adore her, to drive these people as crazy as they think she is.
Hell, I’m not sure I’m acting, to be honest.
“Let’s put it next to the mashed potatoes.” She points.
I weave around crowded tables and reach the back of the room. As I approach, I overhear a guy by the cider station who called her crazy, lean into his buddy and say, “Don’t mess with that girl. You know who her father is.”
I put down the baking dish, letting the pan clatter loudly against the metal table. “Forget about her father, mate,” I say, my voice deep and serious. “You should be more worried about me.”
The guy pales and sips his cider. I better not be within reach of his open container because I will poison it.
While someone drones on about the lack of donations at a recent food drive, Fallon re-arranges the serving table based on dish sizes.
“Why doesn’t her rich daddy buy her nicer clothes?” someone blurts from the back.
Fallon hums to no one, “Because I don’t want to look like a doll.”
I cackle at how she doesn’t let these eejits upset her and takes it all in stride. Christ, she’s strong. I imagine taking her on a kill with that basil plant to freak the fucker out by letting her have one of their conversations in front of him. I can use a mental terrorist on my team.
A man with a black braid welcomes us and reminds everyone about the parade and the food they need for their pantry.
Fallon takes notes, jotting it all down. God, she’s so kind and giving.
“Let’s eat!” she chirps, pulling me toward the food line.
A swarm of older women try to flirt with me while we line up for food. The woman who came with another woman whispers that they’re looking for a man once in a while to join them.
In a church…
I brush them off with a harsh look and grunts sharp enough to cut their throats.
Fallon, thankfully, doesn’t notice. She teeters quietly in place as she waits for her turn.
I get to the front of the line and grab two plates for us. The food is unholy-looking. Gray turkey. Gluey-looking potatoes. Dry, over-cooked stuffing. Fallon’s apple dish is the only edible thing on the table.
Fallon piles on a modest slice of turkey and a teeny scoop of each side, including her apple dish. Food in hand, I steer her to a table with a few other people, but she shakes her head and plops down at the only empty one.
No one says anything to her. No one invites her to sit at their table. Fallon just offers me a napkin and begins to eat daintily, like being alone in a room full of people is perfectly normal. Like these people ignoring her is normal.
I hate it. Maybe because I’m Irish, and I come from a big, loud family.
So much for Friendsgiving.
I suffer through the food, but stop when Fallon’s face lights up.
“Someone brought my favorite cupcakes.” She points to the dessert table.
“Which one is your favorite?” I ask, mapping out a path where I will hopefully run a few people down.
Aye, in a church.
“I can never decide.” She licks her lips. “My favorite is the chocolate with vanilla icing. But the chocolate icing is so delicious.”
I make a mental note of the name of the bakery and plan to buy a tub of their icing and let her lick it off my body.
Sighing, she says, “They’re usually the first to go, and I’m stuck with store-bought apple pie.”
“Not this year, love.” I stand up and march to the front and scoop up the whole damn tray of cupcakes.
I return to our table and slide it in front of her. I’m not a big sweets person, but these do look delicious. They are small, easily devoured in two bites.
“I can’t eat the whole tray,” she whispers.
“Then let’s share your two favorites.” I sit down next to her, take one of the vanilla iced chocolate cupcakes, and slowly unwrap it.
Her eyes flutter, like a hint of a strip tease she could do for me.
“Open, love,” I command.
I watch her mouth, with those lips that drive me crazy, as she opens her mouth and closes her eyes.
Feeling playful, I bite gently into one side, holding the dessert, and bring our mouths together. When my lips touch hers, her eyes flash open, and she giggles. I bite down fully, and the other half tumbles into her waiting mouth. Her smile reaches those hazel eyes, and fuck me, I’m a goner.
“Christ, these are good.” I chew and swallow, wanting more.
More of everything Fallon loves.
Her eyes roll into the back of her head as she eats the cupcake, and I can’t help picturing if that’s what she would look like on her knees choking on my cock. God, I can’t think like that. I can’t touch an angel like her.
Angels don’t swing shovels at men who harass them.
Good point.
I look up and see people drifting over to our table, forming a line to get a cupcake. No one wants one of those other wrapped-up turds.
“Can we get a cupcake, man?” the poor sod at the front of the line asks me.
“Only if you ask me nicely, and thank Fallon for the only edible dinner dish here today.” I glare at each one. “And you’d better sound sincere.”
One by one, these ungrateful gits steal our cupcakes after they pour on their sugary praise. Fallon glows, soaking up the faint scraps of kindness for her hard work and delicious food.
With the sun setting earlier, it’s dark by the time it’s acceptable for us to leave.
She exhales and looks stressed. “I have to say goodbye to everyone. Some people want hugs. I don’t want that.”
I place a finger on her lips. “You don’t have to hug anyone. In fact, you don’t have to say goodbye at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hold that thought.” I get her dish back from the serving table, licked clean. “Ever hear of the Irish exit?”
“No.” Her eyes light up. “What’s that?”
I smile. “I’ll show you. Take my hand.”
Looking down at mine, she blushes, gripping our fingers together. “Okay.”
The contact startles me. The warmth, the electricity of our skin touching. I feel like I’m a better man just by holding her goddamn hand.
“Now face the door.” We swing around. “And we just leave.”
“Wow.” She lets me lead her. “This is cool.”
The perfumed scents from the candle room and gentle glow of their flicker have me wanting to bring her in there, lift that velvet skirt, and take her against the wall.
Aye, in a church.
But I don’t. Outside, even though we’re alone, and I don’t have to pretend anymore, I don’t let go of her hand.
Fallon stays quiet on the walk back to our building. “Do you…have any other friends, Fal?”
She makes a thinking face. And something fragile cracks in her expression. “No.”
My chest tightens. A cold, mean twist of guilt snakes up my spine. “Real friends are overrated,” I murmur, and press a kiss to her knuckles.
She exhales like a balloon deflating. “I guess.”
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m glad it’s over,” she says. “I don’t really like those people very much anyway.”
Relief loosens my chest that they weren’t really important to her.
“Good,” I say gruffly, tightening my fingers around hers. “Maybe I’ll let them live.”