33. Saoirse
Saoirse
Taken
I’m housebound, like Rapunzel in her tower, only without the braid to wrap around a hook on the windowsill to use for escape.
Declan’s seen red. Like a bull in the ring, he’s charging at everything that moves, including me.
He takes me every night with religious regularity. If I want any favor—big or small—I must submit to him in bed.
No more nights in the guest room for me. No more excuses. Just sex. And then more sex.
Like he’s conditioning me to bow to his will.
Like he’s trying to set me straight.
Or maybe he wants to erase the memory of a ghost from my mind.
I should tell him that Finn and me are over, but I daren’t. Not because I’m afraid to admit to my husband that I cheated, but because I’m terrified of Finn finding out that I’ve quit him forever.
It’s so crazy, but Finn is forty times scarier than Declan could ever be. There is something very erratic in the way he blows hot and then cold.
At least with Declan, it’s always cold.
My husband doesn’t call me his pet any longer. Whatever animal he thought I was, he’s realized that I have teeth.
It should bother me that both Declan and Finn probably want me dead. Finn, because he can’t have me, and Dec, because he can.
“I must go to confession, Dec. Please let me go.” I’m sitting in bed, wearing a diaphanous pink negligée, and filing my nails.
My long hair cascades over my shoulders, more wild and free than I could ever be.
He doesn’t like me wearing perfume in bed, so I have Brazilian Bum Bum Cream moisturizing my skin.
Declan comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his taut midriff. The slabs of muscle covering his body are toned; I have to admit he looks stellar for a man close to fifty—if a woman’s into that whole silver fox thang.
He comes to sit on my side of the bed. Slipping his hand under the flimsy muslin cupping my breasts, he kneads my flesh like a connoisseur.
“Confessing to me should be enough for now, Saoirse.”
I mean, what else could I do after that fucking snake, Maureen, went through the medicine cabinet in the guest room, pretending she was looking for a painkiller? I know it was just an excuse to spy on my meds.
He doesn’t let me ride him anymore. His male pride is… testy.
Do I dare pretend that I’m sorry? I don’t think I’m that good of an actor. It’s safer for me to play the pity card.
He gets under the sheets. I turn on my side and run my sharpened fingernails through the hair on his chest.
“Mmm, you feel real good, Dec. Please remember what happened to me before we were married. I needed time to settle into the idea of being a couple.”
He faces me and slips the strap off my shoulder. His face is a mask, so I can’t read what he’s thinking.
“It’s not wise for you to remind me what you did, Saoirse.” He rolls onto me, traps my hands on the pillows so I can’t move.
He presses his mouth close. “You have a gift for pissing off the men in your life, don’t you?”
I get the tingles at the way his voice rumbles and the firm way he holds me down.
Strict, bordering on violence. It’s triggering… in a good way.
Declan continues. “I’ve got someone coming from Boston. They say they’ve got an image of the fighter called The Ghost. If I see a resemblance, I’ll send you back to Connemara on the first plane out of here.”
To my dear departed mam’s parents. Granny and Grandpa O’Hara.
Only the most devout Catholics in the world. They bought a farm outside Connemara with the money Patrick paid them.
Me and my Mam were just commodities in the end. Pretty girls bought and paid for like… damn it, like pawns.
I play it cool. “Ugh, Dec, don’t ruin it. Just fuck me. Enough with the threats.”
I’m ashamed to be wet when he sticks his cock in me. I’ve grown so used to a certain type of danger that it adds seasoning to my sex when I feel it.
I’m not just wet—I’m aroused too. Declan fucks me with those slow, deliberate thrusts between my legs, the contact guaranteed to rub me in all the right places.
I’m young enough to enjoy any climax when it comes. But I know I’m ruined when that image of Finn arrives in my husband’s inbox.
My orgasm tastes bittersweet.
***
“Psst, Mrs. M. Over here.”
I see Feargal most days. He’s got a seat at the table now. Patrick stays at the little office he’s got at the sandwich shop on Fourth Ave.
My father never attends meetings. He’s asked Feargal to tell him if anything important goes down, but other than that he’s pretty much checked out of operations.
“Yeah?” Feargal was driving me that first day I laid eyes on Finn. I wonder why he never told Declan that The O’Shea was back in town?
Maybe Feargal’s eyes were on the road and he never saw the man standing on the sidewalk. The big, bloody, and beautiful man on the sidewalk.
And Finn has changed a lot. Do I miss that gorgeous youth he once was? He lives rent free in my heart, never giving me the chance to miss him.
“I’m going to Damien’s bakery later, Mrs. M. Can I give you a lift?”
He has my attention.
“I dunno, Feargal. Can you?”
He chuckles. “Good woman yourself! Ah, Mrs. M, I never get to laugh anymore. Things are so serious around here now.”
He’s neither encouraging me to sneak away nor shutting the door on his suggestion.
“Okay, I’ll bite. How would I do it, if I were so inclined?”
“Slip into the garage and hide in the trunk of my car. Lie under the blankets I’ve got in there… you know… in case they ask me to pop the trunk.”
“Where can I get out?” I can’t imagine how it would look to citizens passing by if they were to see Feargal letting me crawl out from the back of his SUV on the side of the road.
“The cemetery? St. Brendan’s?”
I’m excited at a chance to get out of the boring Sunnyside estate. What’s the point of being married if I keep getting treated like a teenager?
“St. Brendan’s. I want to see Father O’Malley.”
Feargal gives me a thumbs up. “I’ll be leaving in half an hour, Mrs. M. If you brick it, I’ll understand. But if you take me up on the offer, remember. I never knew you were there. I never made you this offer.”
I give him the thumbs up. I can’t wait to get to my bedroom and find something subdued to wear. I’m not looking forward to confessing my sins, but it must be done to save my immortal soul.
“Mrs. M!” Feargal shouts after me.
I turn, eyebrows lifted. “Yes?”
He taps his phone. “Leave it behind, yeah?”
A nod to reassure him, then it’s straight to my closet.
I’m truly penitent about what I did; this isn’t a jeans and tee-shirt confession, no matter how hot it is inside.
I’m thinking Chanel… vintage… Yes. The black velvet gold chain-strap corset dress circa 1993.
Hair is pinned up in a classic chignon. Black coat? No, a dark green and yellow plaid shawl. I can drape it over my hair whilst praying.
Black patent leather Lady Z peep-toe Louboutins.
The less I work, the more obsessed I get with what I wear. I can sit for hours staring at my face in the mirror, all the while asking myself what Finn saw there that made him fixate on me.
It’s not like I’ll ever get the chance to ask Finn. I’m simply treading water until Dec gets confirmation of my perfidy anyway.
I’m in the mood to talk to God. I hope he’s in the mood to listen. I need to get so much off my chest.
Like, why do I sleep next to one man while dreaming of another?
My trinket box is crammed with jewels, but I don’t wear them during the day. A pearl necklace should be okay. Very Breakfast at Tiffany’s only without the cigarettes.
Feargal will be leaving in five minutes. And I’ll be with him. It’s kinda exciting to be going outside again.
The connecting door to the garage doesn’t have a guard posted outside it. They think the danger comes from outside.
I recognize Feargal’s SUV. It’s unlocked and the trunk looks spacious. I curl up under the blankets and wait.
Movement. Forward momentum. Yes.
When I hear us pass through the gates and drive off, I push the blankets away and shout out.
“Thanks, Feargal! I owe you one.” I try pushing the hatch folded over the SUV trunk, but it doesn’t budge.
Feargal must hear me grunting, because he apologizes. “Sorry about the hatch lid, Mrs. M, but I didn’t want the guards to see it wasn’t fixed in place.”
Shit. But I get it.
“Fine. But hurry. I’m creasing my dress.”
All the twists and turns make me travel sick. I shut my eyes and stare at the trunk lid.
Freedom. I want to use it well. “Feargal? Can I borrow some cash from you, please? I want to do some shopping.”
“Sure. I’ll stop at a cash machine. But my daily limit’s set at two gees.”
“Should be enough.” I wanted to splurge, but it looks like I’ll have to stick to a budget.
“Pah-pa-pa. Mm-hm-hm.” I’m humming under my breath, trying to take my mind off how wrecked my dress and hair are getting.
The thrumming and hissing of the highway fades. The offramp grids rattle under the tires.
We slow down, turn some corners, and finally, stop.
The driver’s door opens. And then closes.
There’s meant to be a handle inside the trunk I can use to open it from the inside. It was put there so kidnappers can’t abduct someone. But no matter how hard I look, I can’t seem to find the handle.
It’s a good thing I don’t need to use it.
I hear Feargal talking on his phone, too low for me to understand what he’s saying.
I hope that’s not Declan already trying to track me down.
The sound of his footsteps moving away irritates me. Fuck this shit. Time for me to find that handle.
My hands feel along the latch, looking for the mechanism. Nothing.
I kick at the door and the hatch lid. “Feargal! Let me out. I’m getting cramps.”
He ends the call and slaps the roof. “Sorry, Mrs. M. Letting you out at the ATM isn’t safe. I’m going to take you into an underground parking lot, ‘kay?”
No, it’s not bloody okay. “Hurry up!”
He doesn’t drive far. I feel a steep decline as the car tilts down. The interior goes dark as the sunlight fades to gray.
It’s pitch black. I can hear a garage door rolling down.
I can’t see, but I can hear. There’s a tap on the window.
A voice, confident and mocking, rumbles outside the trunk door.
“There’s no need to hide anymore, mo chroí.”