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"Oh, my God," she said, facing forward, like she was imagining it. "He's really really hot and all, but still… You're going to be his sex toy?"
We sat in silence for a moment as it sunk in. "How can that be good?" she asked finally, turning to me. "I mean, if you hate someone, how can it be enjoyable?"
I shrugged. "He said hate fucking was actually pretty good."
"I can't believe it," she said, her mouth open.
Then, out of the blue, she laughed. When she looked at me, she covered her mouth.
"I'm so sorry, but I can't help it."
"Amy! It’s not funny…"
"I know," she said and laughed even harder. Her laughter was infectious and soon, despite everything, or maybe because of it, I laughed out loud as well.
"Oh, my God, Amy… I'm going to be a fuck toy."
"That's a first," she said. "He's seriously hot, though. I'd do him."
"Every woman would do him," I said sardonically. "Probably most our age already have."
"Not me," she said and we laughed even harder. Then, to my surprise, my laughter turned to tears and I sobbed out loud. The relief that Hunter was going to pay back Graham's debt, and the loan sharks and his ‘goodfella’ hitmen weren't going to kill Graham, finally hit home.
I covered my eyes and cried, the remnants of my makeup smeared on my cheeks and hands.
I wouldn't have my inheritance and would still have to work my butt off to afford to continue in law school, and I'd have to service Hunter like some call girl, but Graham would be alive.
Chapter 7
Five Years Earlier
Hunter
Saint's Gym sat between two old warehouses in Boston's historic district. It had been in our family for almost a hundred years, ever since my great-grandfather immigrated from Ireland and established his family there.
Both my father and grandfather were boxers. My great-grandfather started the gym and my father had a run at the middleweight championship decades earlier, but had to withdraw due to an injury. My older brother Sean had been a boxer and MMA fighter, but had a traumatic brain injury and had to stop fighting. Now, he managed the gym but he was really a caretaker, unable to really handle running the business. My younger brother was a boxer and Olympic hopeful.
Some Irish families sent their boys to seminary to become priests. My family sent us to the ring to become fighters. Our family was known as the Fighting Irish Saints. We fought our hearts out, scrappy, dedicating our lives to the pugilistic art.
That was the story, anyway.
The real story was that we'd been fighting for generations to keep out of the organized crime world, but had mostly failed—even more so under my Uncle Donny's leadership, or lack thereof. He laundered money and collected protection money for the Russian mob to keep them from burning down the business. My brother Sean provided muscle for the Romanov family, breaking legs and arms or whatever body part the family needed to get the money they were owed.
I refused to become involved. The exception to the family rule, I'd given up boxing and the family business after my grandfather burned to death in a crash outside of Boston—a suspicious single vehicle rollover and fire which my father claimed was the result of his mob ties. As a sixteen-year-old at my grandfather's funeral, I decided I would go clean and extricate myself from my family's business and influence.
After receiving an MBA from Harvard, I planned on starting a business with my best friend Graham. If all else failed, I'd join the Marines like my mom's father – the side of our family that wasn't tied to the mob. The side I wanted to emulate.
That weekend, I felt good about my life. It was Saturday and I'd been out surfing and when I arrived back at the beach outside our family house on Cape Ann, a considerable crowd of my friends from Harvard had arrived. It was the last week before we closed the beach cottage and I wanted to party hard.
When I saw Celia, I thought once again how hot she had become – so different from the skinny girl with braces and glasses who grew up before my eyes into a stunner.
Greg, one of my friends from Harvard Business, sat beside me at the makeshift beach bar. I'd pulled out all the stops for this final party before we closed the cottage down for the fall. I'd hired a bartender and had several kegs of beer brought in, several fire pits built, and a music system set up so we could party all night long.
Greg wolf-whistled when he saw Celia.
"Man, is she hot or what?" Greg said, turning to where she stood—a knockout brunette with dark doe eyes and a body that just wouldn't stop.
"She sure grew up. Girl's got it going on."
