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She healed from her hip surgery and walks around better than new, according to her doctors.
We’re shopping for a house, too. Or Jillian is. I don’t care where we live. I only care about the bedroom. I’d already bought a new mattress for the loft and love sleeping in our bed every night, one that I’ve only ever shared with my wife.
After two-hours in the air, on a flight that included an extraordinary amount of sex—in addition to two blow jobs, scorching hot anal sex in the bathroom of all places, because when my sparkles wants my dick in her ass, I don’t ask questions—the plane is on approach to Reid. To me it will forever be McCarran.
“I always get breathless when we land,” Jillian says. “Look at those mountains.”
“They are magnificent.” I grab her boobs.
“Not my tits.” She elbows me.
We land, and Trace Quinlan, Griffin and Shane’s cousin, originally from Waterford, greets us in the terminal and leads us to the Wagoneer I bought to keep here.
Jillian rests her head against my shoulder on the drive to the villa.
Holding her hand, I brush her fingers. “You need a new gel manicure, sparkles.”
I work for my brothers, but Jillian owns me. I manage every facet of her personal care.
We arrive at the Charter Hotel, and I stop at the concierge to set up grocery service for the week. Jillian is learning to cook and loves the huge kitchen in the villa. I’ll eat anything she makes. Over the past few weeks, I’ve swallowed some unholy shit with a smile, despite the challenges to my gastric system.
“Welcome back, Mr. O’Rourke.” The concierge manager offers me a smile.
I hand over my credit card for the grocery service. After the manager swipes my card several times and nervously checks his computer screen, I grow impatient.
“Problem?” I ask, a twinge of anger in my tone.
“Can I get another credit card, Mr. O’Rourke?” He hands back the failed card. “There’s a glitch in our system.”
Cautiously, I take out my wallet, annoyed that the internet disruption from Christmas week is lingering and making me look like a piece of shit who doesn’t pay his bills. All the family’s credit cards have no spending limit. One of the paralegals pays all my bills, but I approve everything personally.
The concierge takes my Amex and after swiping it, he swallows roughly. “Sir. I’m sorry, your card was declined.”
Anger floods my veins. “That’s impossible. Run it again.”
“Here, use mine.” Jillian hands over her Visa, a credit card I’ve not linked to our accounts because she wants to maintain some independence.
“That one worked.” Relief washes over the concierge manager’s face.
I’d heard the global disruption was targeted and we got hit. Balor and his team worked around the clock to secure our firewalls, but O’Rourke credit cards were rendered useless for a time and clearly some are still on life support.
I don’t mind my wife paying for me, but I need to get new cards. This shit is embarrassing.
Head held high, we head for the elevator that opens right to the villa.
Jillian yelps, and my eyes find a man in a suit looking out one of the windows in the living room. Wide shoulders, finely cut suit, close-crop hair. I’ve seen enough stone-faced men in my life and this one screams: Hitman.
“Jillian, that’s just Trace’s brother Rhys.”
A little whimper escapes her next, and I turn to see her jaw dropped at the Quinlan cousins. They’re formidable fuckers. Shane Quinlan returned to our lives after working with his twin sister for a few years in a Manhattan hotel, but now, he’ll be leaving us.
Griffin has some kind of deal going down in Manhattan.
For the first time in a decade, there won’t be a Quinlan working for us. And it looks like more Quinlans are pouring into New York to help with his ‘project.’ We just don’t know what the hell it is.
Trace’s cell rings, he answers it. “Alo. Aye, Balor.” His eyes find mine, blinking. “Uh huh. Uh huh.”
Jillian heads to the bedroom but stops walking when she hears the concern in Trace’s voice.
