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All I know is Josh was murdered, and two weeks after his funeral, one of my neighbors cornered me and told me the Italian mafia had been sniffing around. They had broken into my apartment but were gone when I got home. I packed my duffel bag, taking Josh’s piece of paper with Paddy’s name within an hour, leaving and not looking back.
Andie makes a noncommittal noise down the line. “They’ve been around again. They broke back into your place. They trashed it this time.”
Shit. That’s not good. Andie’s apartment door faces mine, and she’s got a mouth on her.
“I hope you stayed inside your place and locked the door.”
A sniff down the line says she is rolling her eyes at me.
“No,” she gasps, sarcasm dripping off the word. “I went out and confronted them, guns and all.”
“Andie,” I warn her, but I need to practice my ‘dangerous’ tone because it’s got nothing on Paddy’s.
“Relax,” she snorts. “I hid inside my apartment. I didn’t even go into your place after. I only peeked in the door. I think they may have pissed in here,” she makes a disgusted noise in her throat, “because itreeks.”
“Gross,” I wrinkle my nose. My poor home.
“Yeah,” she agrees, changing the topic as she sighs and launches into a story about our weird-ass, creepy neighbor Dan who likes to flash the young women in the building.
Ah, god, I miss Dot. Paddy’s place in Back Bay is so boring by comparison. I bet they don’t have a resident flasher. I bet Paddy would stop that right quick if anyone ever started.
Chapter Nine
PADDY
Lauren is awake when I get home for the night. Some of Connor’s gamblers needed a second visit from Niall and me. That never ends well. I want a shower.
She is sitting at the breakfast bar, toying with a beer bottle, the remnants of her supper lying off to the side. When I let myself in, her eyes flicker toward the door, relaxing when she sees it’s me. The relaxed shoulders only last a second before she stills, her eyes widening as they dance over my shirt, and she pales, her freckles standing out against her stark white face.
“Fuck,” I curse low under my breath. I thought she would be asleep. Her eyes are fixed on the bloodstain soaking through the right arm of my button-down shirt.
‘Oh my God!” she gasps, finding her voice, jumping off the barstool, and hurrying over. “Are you okay?”
Why the fuck wouldn’t I be okay? I blink at her in surprise until I realize she thinks I’m injured.
“It’s not my blood, lass,” I reassure her.
Again, she looks relieved. For about two seconds before all the blood drains from her face again, and she stumbles back, away from me. Frowning, I take a step toward her, my hand coming up. Why is the lass running from me? Is she all right?
“Oh…who…um…. Oh…okay,” she mutters, backing up slowly until her back hits the breakfast bar, her eyes wide and glued on the blood.
Lauren snaps out of her stupor, turning away from me sharply, snagging her dishes and moving them to the sink, washing them with jerky movements as I close the door behind me, moving further into the apartment with slow, deliberate movements. I don’t want to spook the lass. Not with how jumpy she is. And she’s holding a knife. She might cut herself accidentally.
Fuck. I’ve never really had to deal with this. The only women I have ever slept under the same roof with were my mammy and Tiggy, and they both knew the score. I walk slowly up behind her, cursing myself for not realizing the light was still on and taking my shirt off outside.
Once her dishes are resting on the drying rack, Lauren turns and takes a deep breath when her eyes land on the bloodstain again.
“We should soak that.” She gestures half-heartedly at the red mark. “Otherwise, it’ll set in, and the shirt will be ruined. I’ll do it.”
Okay? She holds out her hand for the shirt. She wants my shirt? My blood-stained shirt? She’s no longer jerky in her movements, more calm and controlled. I don’t know which is worse.
Thinking it is best to go along with whatever is going on, I deftly unbutton and slip it off, holding it out to her. Lauren takes it gingerly, careful not to touch the blood with her fingers, walking stiffly into the bathroom.
Running water sounds from the bathroom. I move into the doorway, leaning my shoulder against the doorjamb, watching Lauren fill the basin, pour some laundry detergent, and drop the shirt in. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, wide and nervous.
“It should be okay to wash in the morning,” she tells me. I watch her silently. Is she going to flip out at some point? I think I should definitely keep her close tonight. Just in case.
“Well,” she squirms, “goodnight.”
