9. Ava
Ava
N one of the dresses that I haveare perfect.They're either summer dresses,or work dresses. Not something I want to wear on a date with Connor.
My small closet is stuffed with everything I own. Brooks ruined my best dresses, ripping them when he grabbed me in the throes of some argument or covering them with blood spatters when he hurt me even worse.
It’s just another way he leftwreckage in his wake.On some level it feels good to be pissed instead of scared. I feel more like my old self.
Looking in the full-length mirroron the bathroom door of my studio, I give a little shrug.The simple black dress and heels,set off with my mother'sgold hoop earrings,will have to do
It’s hard: I’ve seen the totally glamorous women who pour out of Intrigue, with their upmarket fashion, Pilates bodies, and three-hundred-dollar highlights.
A law student and waitress on a tight budget can’t manage that level ofsophistication.
Not right now, at least. Still,I have a feeling that Connor’s not going to mind.
His face was so hopeful, his eyes so warm, as he asked me out.
I’d been so conflicted. If Brooks saw us together or caught windthat I was going on even a casual date,he’d unleash a world of hurt.
Still,as I looked up at Connor’s blue eyes, I decided.It’s not that I don’t care or am not scared. But for the first time in a long time, my own desire for something – for spending time with Connor - is stronger than my fear of Brooks Stacy getting mad.
Rhonda, the other waitress who often works the night shift with me, was willing to trade so I could get a Friday night off. Her eyes lingered on my face and then she’d said in her heavy smoker’s voice, “Honey, you get on that or I will.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
There’s a light rap at the door, and momentarily I freeze. No one should be able to get in here without buzzing. That’s the whole reason I moved to the tiny studio, even though it stretched my budget to the limits. There’s an outside security system, and a part-time doorman.
A few seconds later, a light tap follows. “Ava?”
Immediately, my shoulders relax and I move to unlock the door. Deadbolt. Slide bolt. Bottom lock. Just to double check, as if I can’t trust my own ears, I keep the chain engaged and pull the door open.
Connor stands on the other side of the door, legs spread wide and his broad shoulders blocking the view of the hallway beyond him, When our eyes meet, his whole face lights up with a smile.
Oh, lord, those dimples. I undo the chain, taking in how good he looks.
Dark slacks, a white shirt and a black sport coat.
Freshly shaved. The man smells fantastic, and my whole body gives a little shiver of anticipation.
He steps into the apartment and glances around. I cleaned every inch of the place until it sparkled, shoving my belongings into drawers, under the bed, into the closet. But it’s tiny and it’s old—especially compared to his gorgeous space.
But he doesn’t comment on the apartment. Instead, he pulls a bouquet of flowers from behind his back and hands them out to me. These are no corner store carnations, but an absolutely stunning bouquet with lilies and roses in an expensive crystal vase.
“Thank you,” I breathe. He steps in closer, putting the flowers on my little folding kitchen table and then taking my hand.
His eyes sweep me up and down, taking their sweet time in an appreciative way.
“You look stunning.”
“You don’t look bad yourself.” I can’t fight back a smile. Immediately, I’m horrified. Was that supposed to be playful? What kind of a compliment is that? I don’t even know what’s coming out of my mouth around this man.
But he’s still smiling, his eyes crinkling at the edges and dimples flashing. Other, lower parts of my body warm up in response.
If we’re going to go on an actual date, we have to get out of here now. Or I’m going to have this man on the futon, which is the least sexy thought I can imagine.
He clears his throat and surreptitiously adjusts himself. It’s not just me then. “So, about our plans tonight.”
A tentative note gives me pause. I’ve been looking forward to this all week. But I have no idea what a man like Connor envisions as a date. Dancing at his club? Dinner at a fancy steakhouse? He’s probably got some signature move.
“Do you like art?”
Okay, that’s definitely not what I am expecting. “Yes, absolutely.”
“Perfect.”
A few minutes later he’s holding the door open for the passenger side of his Mercedes, and then we’re driving to Beacon Hill. Looking wistfully around, I gaze up at the historical brownstones lining these narrow streets. Someday.
“What made you want to be a lawyer?” he asks, glancing my way as he drives just a little too fast. He’s always playing just a little too close to the edge, moving just a little too fast, and somehow it makes him even more attractive.
“My dad was a lawyer,” I find myself saying. “He worked the really tough cases. Defense for people who couldn’t afford to pay. Women who shot their husbands when they were being abused. Neighborhoods that corporations polluted. That kind of thing.”
“You want to be like him?”
“I don’t really remember him, to be honest,” I confess. “But my mom always talked about it, and I wanted to make a difference.” I leave out the part where he dumped us for his paralegal and used his legal skills to avoid paying fair child support.
“And now that you’re studying”—he pauses for a second, and then adds with a wicked grin—“riveting subjects like constitutional law, do you plan to still do that kind of work? Or do you see yourself doing something else?”
I shift a little in my seat. “Actually, I’m hoping to get a job going after organized crime.”
His whole body goes tense, his eyes cutting my way.
I add quickly, “Not like the mob. More like corrupt politicians. So yes, the same general thing, but just maybe on a larger scale.” It must sound insane to a man like Connor.
He probably thinks it’s a way to get back at Brooks, but I’ve been wanting to do this long before Brooks.
Watching my mother navigate corrupt legal and government systems to get the money and benefits she was owed while being constantly shot down by powerful men who said they knew my father was a good man who’d take care of his own was infuriating.
I can still remember their condescending smiles and fake concern.
I shake my head, moving out of the past.
We pull into a private driveway, and a valet opens my door. Connor takes my arm and escorts me inside. The place is a mansion, and once we’re inside, an elegant woman greets us. She seems to know Connor.
“Hello, Mr. Doyle,” she says warmly. She takes me in with a curious glance. “Welcome, thank you for joining us tonight. The exhibit is just up the stairs.”
As we’re standing there, I’m very aware of how large Connor is. With my hand looped through his arm, I’m feeling his muscles straining the fabric of his suit jacket. It’s very distracting. He starts moving confidently toward the stairs, and we ascend the sweeping staircase.
It’s not exactly that I feel out of place.
I attended upscale events with Brooks while we dated.
But those were always stuffed to the gills with people looking for something and weird unsavory overtones.
Just the thought puts me slightly on edge.
The patrons here are more diverse, and definitely totally engrossed in the artwork.
We stop briefly at the top of the stairs and then step into a side room.
It’s deceptive. The room is beautifully arranged, with careful lighting and exquisite portraits on the walls.
A single leather bench sits in the middle of the room.
He leads me over to the bench, helping me sit before lowering his considerable bulk down beside me.
The bench shifts a little, and I slide toward him, our knees touching.
“What is this place?” I whisper.
He’s studying my face, looking a little concerned. “It’s amazing,” I add quickly, and can’t help but smile when he visibly relaxes. There’s a touch of something almost vulnerable in his expression.
“It’s actually a private art gallery,” he says. “They do different shows. Big name artists have work that goes through here before it shows up at the Stewart Gardner Museum or the MFA.”
When I catch his eye, I tilt my head inquiring. Something simmers just below the surface, a sort of anticipatory anxiety. He pulls a card from his jacket pocket embossed with elegant script. “There are two exhibits here. These paintings are ancient Irish monastery art.”
My eyebrow shoots up. “The subject matter is a little heavy,” he admits. “But the other works they’re showing are actually a collection of art by Boston artists of Irish descent.”
He stands up suddenly, holding out his hand. I follow him down the hall, to the last room at the end of the corridor. Stepping in, I see a mix of paintings and photography. But his eyes immediately settle on one painting and he moves that way with purpose.
It’s a painting of a young woman, maybe in her late teens or early twenties.
She’s dressed in a loose-fitting dress, and it has a dreamy quality.
Even with my lack of art training, I can tell it’s good.
I Then I glance at the golden tag next to the door and then look closer.
It reads ’A self-portrait by Kathleen Doyle, Boston Massachusetts. ’
“Doyle?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“My mom painted this,” he says, his eyes on the painting. “She was a really talented artist, although she didn’t get to do as much after she married my dad. But this and a couple of other ones are still on display.”
This huge man who drives too fast, who was quick to get into fights, who commands a crowded nightclub without effort, spends time with his mom’s paintings. And chose that to show me on our first real date. A study in contrasts.
“I just wanted you to see it.” His voice is very quiet, his eyes on the painting.
“Does she still paint?” I ask, moving in a little closer.
“She died when I was little,” he says simply. I reach out and take his hand. My throat catches.
“This is beautiful. She was such a talented painter. Thank you for sharing this with me.” For all the attention that this man commands, I suddenly wonder how often he is really seen.
We linger there a bit longer and then head out into the night. “Let’s walk to the restaurant?”
He doesn’t let go of my hand. My shoes aren’t great for trekking around the cobblestones of Beacon Hill, but I don’t really want to disrupt the night. To break the spell.
As we walk down the hill, I trail a bit behind him.
His shoulders seem impossibly broad. What’s it like, being a Doyle?
How much of his father’s legacy does he carry – and what does that even mean?
Brooks had been weighed down by his family’s corruption, and I always assumed that’s at least part of why he drinks so much.
Not that it excuses for a second anything he’s done. Not by a mile. But when you’re confronted by a monster, you have to wonder what shaped them.
My eyes go back to Connor, so very, utterly different. Completely different.
From the little bit of reading that I did about Murphy Doyle, what I could dig up, he’s a conflicted figure.
Definitely some underworld ties, at least early on, although that clearly hadn’t stopped Seamus from becoming a lawyer.
And beloved in his parts of the city of Boston.
Apparently a champion in a lot of ways, especially of the working class Irish roots he’d never gotten far away from.
I just don’t know how much of their business is above board now. Or how much it even matters.
Before I can follow the train of thought, Connor turns into a park and says softly over his shoulder. “Let’s cut through here.”
My senses flare on high alert. This is the kind of place that I’d learned to avoid after Brooks. My free hand slips down to the pocket of my coat. My inhaler is there, just in case.
Of course, I’m completely safe, because Connor’s here.
It’s more like a neighborhood garden than a park. Fairy lights hang from trees, casting a glow down over the grass and benches. Gently swaying tree branches catch the lights.
He leans down and whispers in my ear, “This is one of the most beautiful gardens in the city.” His breath is hot on my skin, and his hand proprietarily settles on my hip. I lean back against him, just soaking it all in. I can’t imagine how beautiful it is in spring.
Nearby, voices drift down from some rooftop party. Laughing and hushed tones. And over that, the strains of music float over us. I turn my face up to look at him over my shoulder.
“Damn, you’re beautiful,” he whispers. And then he surprises me again. “Dance with me.”
There’s no one else there. It’s just me, and this incredibly complex man, and a few notes of some song that we’re borrowing for one moment that seems out of time.
Folding me into his arms, Connor pulls me so close that I can once again feel the muscles of his body and how perfectly we’re in motion together through the thin fabric of my dress.
He’s solid, stable, present. Right now, I’m just here – happy to be here – in this moment.
That’s something that’s been missing from my life for a long time.
Something good. Something to stop my brain from racing ahead, rocketing back, constantly thinking and worrying. Connor’s anchoring me to this moment, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be.
The hardness of his cock pressing against my leg doesn’t escape my notice, either.
He leans in to kiss me as our eyes meet. Capturing my lips with his, he’s giving off a focused intensity that hints at the other activities he has in mind.
His dimples are back. “Ava,” he says, uttering my name like a prayer.
My arms circle his neck and I soak in the heat from his body. His hands slide down my back, seeking, demanding, promising. Goosebumps explode across my skin.
With great effort, he takes a step beck but doesn’t let me go. Connor tips his head back, and then looks down at me with heated eyes. “Ava.”
He clears his throat, and a wicked little smile twists his lips. “About our plans for tonight…”
One dark eyebrow arches up. “We have reservations at the best sushi restaurant in the city.”
Every good decision that I should make flashes through my mind.
Caution signs, about taking it slow and watching my back.
But my desire for this man, and my desire for something good in my life, are louder than the cautions for once.
Before he even speaks, I know sushi is not what’s on the menu tonight.
“Or I could cook for you. What do you say to breakfast in bed?”