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“Paddy says I’m not to leave the apartment. I’m not even allowed down to the laundry room.”
“Aye, Paddy’s an overprotective stubborn bastard,” he agrees, and well, he’s not wrong. But I kind of like being protected by Paddy. It’s very…pleasurable.
“So….” I purse my lips. “I’m sure you understand why I won’t be going anywhere with you then?”
“I’m afraid Paddy’s been overruled on this one, lass.” He seems almost apologetic, glancing down at my sundress and sneakers. “Yer shoes don’t match yer dress. D’ye need to change them then?”
I look down as well, frowning at my white tennis shoes. “I don’t have any others.”
“Aye, well, grab yer purse.”
The look in his eye warns me not to disobey him. He remains in the doorway, looking forbidding as I slowly drag my feet into the bedroom, fetching my pocketbook out of the closet. I haven’t gone anywhere since I arrived here, so I haven’t had much need for it.
Weighing it in my hands, I swallow. Paddy’s been overruled? By who? Where are they taking me? Why do I need my pocketbook? I feel immensely uneasy as I step back out of the bedroom.
Strawberry blonde’s eyes follow me, looking amused. I’m not imagining things, they slide over me, checking me out – whatever that’s about.
“Let’s go, lass.” He gestures for me to lead him to the elevator bank, closing Paddy’s door behind us. My stomach twists as the lock clicks. I don’t have keys. I haven’t needed them. I’m not supposed to leave the apartment.
He doesn’t offer an introduction or an explanation as he leads me down to his SUV, holding the door open for me. At least he opens the front door. You don’t normally let prisoners sit up front.
I wouldn't be doing this if he hadn’t been with Seamus Fitzpatrick at the fight. I’m trusting that he won't sell me out because he seems to work for Seamus, with Paddy. I hope I’m not misplacing my trust.
There still isn’t any talking happening. I look out the window, watching buildings whip past. We’re not going to Dot. That has to be a good sign.
I blink in surprise when we pull into the parking lot at Oracle, the strip club run by the Irish mafia in West Boston.
“Am I being put to work?” I try to keep my tone dry, but nerves creep into it. I can’t dance. I don’t want to be a stripper.
He is in the process of holding my door open and glances at me in shock.
“Absolutely fecking not,” he snaps. “Paddy’s woman doesn’t strip for other men.”
His large hand closes around my upper arm, and he jerks me toward the large, looming front doors, leading me up the stone steps. I follow him, barely taking in my surroundings. I’m a little dazed at being called ‘Paddy’s woman’ by one of his crew. Hello, warm and fuzzy feelings.
I get some curious looks from patrons as he guides me through the main bar, along a corridor into a smaller, more intimate bar, and through a door into an industrial-looking hallway. It’s empty, and I let Strawberry blonde lead me to a nondescript wooden door with a handwritten sign and a disgruntled, good-looking blonde lounging against the wall beside it.
“Hey!” I perk up and point at him excitedly. “It’s Sandy from the fight.”
His emerald green eyes turn on me as he emits a low growl. Holy crap, he’s a wicked scary dude.
“What did ye call me?” he asks, and I shiver in fear. I don’t want to die tonight.
“Um, Sandy?” I squeak. “Because of your hair. He’s Strawberry.” I jab a finger at my tall shadow, and Sandy blinks in surprise, the corners of his lips tugging up into the barest hint of a smirk.
“I’d rather ye call me Niall,” he drawls. “But ye can keep calling him ‘Strawberry’.”
Strawberry splutters from somewhere above me. “No, she fecking can’t! It’s Ronan.”
“In ye go, lass.” Niall jerks his head in the direction of the door. I get a good look at the sign as I turn the handle. What’s written has me giggling, distracting me as I step through.
The door behind me snaps tightly shut, and I’m faced with three women, who are all looking at me like I am a circus curiosity and they are paying customers.
The glowing dark-haired beauty seated in the desk chair speaks first.
“You must be Lauren,” she beams at me. “I’m Tiggy Fitzpatrick. Seamus’s wife.”
Fitzpatrick. Seamus must be “Fitzy,” the drool-worthy brunette from the fight. She has a giant fuck off diamond on the fourth finger of her left hand, along with a plain gold wedding band. No wonder Fitzy had his very own bodyguard. He’s clearly someone important within the Irish mafia. I wonder if he’s related to… no. That’stoo highin the Irish mafia to be interested in little old me.
