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“Fuck if I know. Stopped fishing around when it looked like I was doing more damage than good.” Connor forced out a laugh, but it was clear the dumbass was hurting more than he was letting on while earning himself a one-way ticket to infection.
I shook my head and spun him back towards the bedroom. “I’m assuming your uncle has a first aid kit?”
“Nah, I keep gauze and tweezers in my pocket for whenever my girlfriend decides to piss off a bunch of mobsters.” He offeredme a stupid grin, quickly dropping it when I shoved a finger into his open wound.
“First of all, not your girlfriend. We fucked—twice-ish.Second, keep being a smartass and I’ll just let that arm of yours rot and fall off.”
“Who said I was talking about you, baby girl? Unless youwantto be my girlfriend. That’s it, isn’t it?” The smirk was back as I shoved him down on the toilet seat a little too roughly.
“Not happening,” I hissed before swinging open the medicine cabinet and pulling down a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol and a pair of rusty tweezers.
“Okay, what about fuck buddy? Fugitive with benefits?”
I refused to take the bait, but that didn’t seem to stop his rambling.
“Or how about I get myself a bike and you can be my ol’ lady?”
Instead of answering him, I unraveled the bandages around his arm, poured a heavy dose of alcohol onto the gashes running up and down his right bicep, and watched his eyes widen as he cursed under his breath and squirmed on the creaky toilet lid.
“You gonna behave or should I flush it out one more time?” I asked, and Connor grunted in reply. “That’s what I thought. Now, let me see if I can get some of this glass out so you stop whining like a little bitch.”
By the time I’d finished extracting the tiny pieces of windshield with the precision of a skilled surgeon, watered down blood was running down Connor’s arm and he looked like he was on the verge of passing out. To his credit, he didn’t moan and groan all that much—though, judging by how tight his jaw was set, it was evident he wanted to.
“Now, just alternate between leaving it covered and letting it breathe. Doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches, but keep an eyeout for any redness or pus. The first sign of infection, and we’ll have to shoot your ass full of antibiotics.”
He flexed his upper arm before eyeing me from across the small bathroom. “It actually feels surprisingly better,” he said, and I shook my head.
“Yeah, I mean, who woulda thought that removing the jagged pieces of glass before covering the wounds would actually help?” I replied, my voice thick with sarcasm.
“Right, well, the shower’s yours if you want it. Though I’m not sure if they’ll be any hot water. And I changed the sheets on the bed.” Connor stood to his full height, towering over me, as he reached out his good arm to push the bathroom door open. He brushed past me before pausing at the threshold. “I’d offer to take the couch. But I’m not a gentleman and we’ve already established you’re sure as fuck not a lady. So I expect to see your ass in that bed, Dani.” He grinned, and I watched the muscles in his back ripple with each step he took as he walked away.
20
Since I was old enough to listen, my da stressed the importance of finding myself a good woman and settling down. I was the only son, the heir to nothing but the family name and a fondness for the black stuff.
Common sense should have told the old cunt that the last thing we needed was more mouths to feed. But my da was traditional, straight off the boat Irish, and the fact he and my ma only had one kid might as well have been a curse on his bloodline. Ironic, considering the man loved fuckin’ and fightin’ and not so much the family life. But his name—that was a thing of pride—and I was expected to breed like the rest of 'em.
“Connor,” he’d say in that thick brogue of his, which got thicker with the more whiskey there was under his belt. “First, ya need to taste 'er ale pie.”
Get your mind outta the gutter. He didn’t mean that kinda pie.
“Second, ya need to see how she keeps 'er house. Never marry a lass whose floors you can’t lick.”
Yeah, not the best choice of words there either, Da.
“Third, ya watch how she is with the babes. Marry the lass ya want rearin’ yer wean.”
Okay, I was startin’ to see a theme here. But us Irish were a different lot—everything we said sounded dirtier than it actually was. We liked it that way.
The point was Daire MacCullagh painted a very specific picture of the type of woman he wanted brought home to Sunday dinner with a horde of yougins in tow. And Danica Rossi was not it.
Didn’t know if she could cook, but something told me I was more likely to get a pot of boiling water tossed on my lap than a hot meal served at my table.
As far as licking her floors? Pretty sure the only way that would happen was if her boot heel was digging into the back of my skull. Though, add a little bondage, and I wasn’t totally against the idea.
And when it came to children, my girl seemed like the type who’d throw the babe out with the bath water. And listen for thesplat.
All of which, my old man could have looked past… if only she were Irish. That part went without saying.
