The Wharf is a building that Code Enforcement forgot about and where all the bad men like to drink. It’s one of our businesses, though what we do here, I couldn’t tell you. Most of the bad men met here, the kids my father used to run drugs took refuge here after their shifts. Currently, it’s being used for my father’s celebration of life, where made men from all the various fractions have come together to pay respects to a leader gone.
Ironic, since most of the men here hated him.
It’s nothing more than a tactic to judge the new leadership. Namely, Maeve.
Holding the heavy glass tumbler to my mouth, I look into the overhead mirror, locating my oldest sister by the back entrance. More men in wool caps and grey hair surround her, all harshly spewing words into her face. But she doesn’t react.
Whatever they’re telling her, she’s unaffected.
I take a large gulp, the liquor burning its way down my throat and snapping me back to the bar, where chaos swirls around me. My cousin Meghan moves with practiced ease, slinging beers and pouring shots without missing a beat.
Pressing my red nose into the empty glass, I inhale the rich amber and citrus scents of the old whiskey. Whiskey Pops used to drink and would never give me a drop.
This is my final fuck you to the man.
I gesture to Meghan for a refill, listening to the booming laughs and old Irish shanties around me. It’s a jovial crowd, people celebrating when normal people would be mourning. People like my older sister, Collins, in a group of old ladies, all cousins, patting her arm as if to say ‘there, there.’
Of course, they’re worried about the perfect sister. No one bothers to check on the screw-up of the family.
The whiskey flows, halting my thoughts. I’ve got to be three deep by now, but I’ve lost count. The warmth, the buzz is slowly unraveling inside my stomach, highlighting a devious pink along my cheeks and neck.
Meg opens her mouth—to offer condolences, to check on me, I’m not sure—but I cut her off, waving her kind sympathy away. I don’t want it. I’m not sorry Ferguson is dead. I just feel nothing, and I need more booze to keep the buzz going, to feel as if I matter.
Most of the people here don’t care Ferguson is dead. Most want a piece of his empire, want what my father and sister built from the ground up. No one will miss the ruthless clan Captain, nor will they shed tears for him. I’m in good company.
Turning in my stool, I scan the bar, taking in the dingy blue slate tile floor and chipped black stained bar. The crowd behind me is still surging through the door from the wet outside, a gust of cold air nipping at my cheeks.
Gradually, that buzz turns into a hard ringing in my head, the expensive whiskey running in my veins, muddling my thoughts. Everything falls away, and I lean into it, head tilting back as I just enjoy the calm the drink brings.
This is why I party, taking drugs and alcohol until the room blurs. It heightens my mind, turns all the bad thoughts off and instead of feeling numb, I get to feel that buzz and euphoria. It ends the loneliness; it allows me to smile and just be.
A warm body slips onto the barstool beside me, pulling my attention from the soft hum of liquor in my veins. He brings with him a blistering heat that has my nerves tingling with awareness, fighting off the buzz. The soft smells of cashmere, spice and the hint of bourbon waft over me and I inhale greedily.
He smells like sin and that’s exactly the type of person I could lose myself in, really amp up the distraction I need to escape reality.
He chuckles with Meghan, his rumbling voice asking for another. My body heats with delight, the voice accented and deep. It’s the kind of voice women drop to their knees for.
I turn subtly, letting my gaze drift over his wavy dark hair, the strands curling just beneath his ears in effortless disarray, then to the sharp cut of his rain-slicked cheekbones. His jaw is unshaven, a dusting of dark hair that accentuates the firm lines. As he speaks, his eyes flutter, the lashes thick framing deep amber-brown orbs that reminds me of the bourbon he’s sipping. So lively, they look to ignite with his laughter or darken with his thought.
This is a man who could sway the burliest of men to do his bidding, all with one look.
I watch as he takes the glass, lifting the rim to his full, feminine lips, pale pink tongue darting out to taste the bourbon, vanilla and caramel drifting between us. He savors it, allows it to sit on his tongue, soak into his mouth, before he swallows a large gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
I blink, transfixed. What I wouldn’t give to be that liquor, tasted, devoured with reverence.
He drops the glass with a heavy thud, his leather gloves gripping the edge of the bar. My brows furrow, trying to understand the meaning. Wearing gloves isn’t unheard of in Boston, but inside? Odd fashion choice.
I lean against the bar, back arching as he looks down at the glass. If I cared about such things, I’d almost think he looks lost. He’s searching the glass for an answer it can’t give him.
Thankfully, he’s distracted enough for me to take in his body. Black, tailored suit, all designer by the stitching and cut. He has a pair of polished Dior shoes and a simple Vacheron Constantin on his wrist. He’s dressed well enough to show he has money, but nothing that flaunts it. A stark contrast to what my father wore, or forced us to wear.
“It’s rude to stare,” he comments dryly, reaching for the bottle of Pappy Van Wrinkle bourbon behind the counter. Meg doesn’t look at him so either she doesn’t care, or he’s high enough in the food chain that he isn’t someone to tell no.
Shit. “Huh?” I fumble. The man smirks, eyes lifting to meet mine as he pours.
“You’re staring. It’s rude.”
“Rude, maybe.” I bite my bottom lip, watching him sip from the glass. It’s sinful how his tongue runs the edge, his eyes never leaving me. “But some people like to be stared at.”
He huffs a laugh, breaking eye contact. “Some people. Not me.”
I tilt my head. “Why? You don’t think you’re pretty?”
That smirk grows. “Not particularly, no.”
I shrug, turning around, my crossed legs hitting his thigh. He’s solid, a man who is built from daily exercise with thick legs, broad shoulders, and tight waist.
“Shame. It’s always the handsome ones who never know how good they look. What’s with the gloves?”
I continue to stare at him as he swirls the bourbon, his leather fingers griping the glass. I’m not going to apologize for staring, it’s not in my nature.
A dutiful daughter, the one my father always wanted, would be mourning the loss of her father. I won’t pretend to be her, now.
Not to mention, how fun it might be to anger my father from the grave by taking a hot stranger into the bathroom for bar sex? It’d be the highlight to this whole tragedy.
“Is this how you cope?”
“Cope?” I tip the glass into my mouth, enjoying the last bit of the whiskey.
The stranger doesn’t look at me, staring up into the mirror. I see our twin reflections, he’s a dark shadow compared to my bright locks and bright red lips. I’m not a tiny girl, my curves thick and wide, but his size dwarfs me, making me seem frail.
“Your father died and you’re here trying to get a date?” He smiles, sipping from his glass. “Seems to be an odd time for that, no?”
I swallow thickly, wide smile plastered on my face as I drop the tumbler to the bar.
“It’d be pointless to ask how you knew it was my father.”
He cuts me a quick glance. “The red hair gave it away.”
Of course it did. “What I do or don’t do to mourn my father isn’t your concern.”
“Maybe not.” His head turns, leveling a sensual look over my whole body, that’s more of a branding. He’s pulling every layer back until he can see who I am at my core and instantly, my body ignites with desire even though I want to hide.
I usually prefer women because they seem to know what they’re doing. But this man? He certainly looks like he can handle a woman like me and there’s a big part that’s ready to say, to do anything for that escape. Just to get a taste of what he can do.
Another part of me, the larger part, puts up more of a fight.
“Have a problem with how I handle my grief?” My smile dares him to comment further.
He grins slowly. “I have a hard time believing it’s grief you feel.”
I wink, uncrossing my legs, letting my toes trail along his calf. Just enough to make sure he knows exactly what I’m offering.
“Everyone has their vices,” I say, slowly moving my foot. “Some like drugs. Others, booze. Hell, some people like to run to take the edge off. I just choose a different avenue.”
This man watches me. He doesn’t move to stop me, but he doesn’t lean in either. He’s too controlled, too pretty and refined to belong in this tavern. He can’t be one of my father’s guys—they’re almost always in stained shirts and dirty jeans. He’s got to be in one of the two families in the area.
Which makes him dangerous. Powerful. The kind of man my father would never approve of. Maybe even my sister, now that I have to follow her rule if I want to stay with my family.
I should stop. I should pull away and think about my future. But I can’t. I want this escape—him too much to think rationally.
“And you’re looking for company?” His voice vibrates over my arms, gooseflesh pebbling and I fight off a shudder. That voice should be illegal.
“I wouldn’t be opposed to it.” I give him my best doe eye impression in my arsenal.
He nods, almost knowingly. “Let’s see how you feel at the end of the night.”
Before I can push the conversation more, a hand clamps onto my shoulder dousing the growing flame of attraction.
“Ace wants to see you.”
Glancing back, I look up to into Haye’s deep blue eyes and frown. The dutiful soldier; he’s been my sister’s only friend for as long as I can remember. The errand boy, he’s never not done something Maeve has asked him to do.
Including wrangling her siblings when she’s too busy to do it herself.
“Of course. We mustn’t keep the Captain waiting,” I mumble sarcastically, sliding off my stool, heels slipping just as I step down. The man shifts, hand catching my elbow almost as a reflex, halting my fall.
At the contact, my body stiffens, the urge to melt at the touch and rip away warring within me. It’s a completely different type of buzz, so different from the one that’s quickly disappearing from my body, that I’m intrigued. And scared.
“Careful,” he murmurs, letting me shift away. “This place would love to see you fall.”
He doesn’t know the half of it. Most of the people are here to see what Maeve will do, but they’re also here to see what the resident screw-up will do now that Pops isn’t here to force me into submission. As much as these people want to lay eyes on Maeve’s first choices as Captain, they want me to make a mess for her to clean up even more.
Saluting slightly, I wink at the stranger, making a mental promise to come back and finish what I started here.
