Ed cleared his throat and worked up a frown. “So, you interested?”
I couldn’t help it. I was about to get in the shower when he knocked on my door. I was just wearing a bathrobe over my panties and bra. I tugged loose the sash and let the robe fall down my arms. Ed swallowed hard when he saw my big tits covered only by the lacy bra. I came around the bar to stand between his knees. I could smell the sweat forming on his upper lip. Bless him, he was trying so hard to be good.
I cupped my hands to my breasts and cooed at him.
“I’m interested. Are you?”
Ed slid his hands around my waist and dug his fingers into my ass cheeks. He said, “If you come to work for me, we can’t do this anymore.”
“You sure you’re willing to make that trade?” I asked, sliding my arms around his neck and planting little kisses around his jawline.
Ed sighed in my ear. “I can be good if you can.”
“Oh, Ed, you know me,” I said, my tongue wetting his lips. “I can be very, very good.”
Sean
When I graduated from Harvard with a law degree and the desire to take on the world, I had no idea that I’d end up working for my father, the notorious Irish gangster, Patsy O’Connor.
I refer to him as “notorious Irish gangster” because that’s what the press and the cops have called him for if I could remember. Even growing up, the neighborhood kids treated me differently just because I was the son of Patsy O’Connor.
Even the neighborhood bullies gave me a wide path, only working up the nerve to talk to me to offer their services for protection, enforcement, or vengeance.
If you ever need anybody’s ass kick, Sean, you just let us know.
Uh, sure. Will do. I mean, what do you when you’re ten years old and the bullies want to work for you.
I’m sure most kids would have thought it was cool. To me, it was just an embarrassment. I didn’t tell anyone that I was Patsy O’Connor’s only son because I didn’t want anyone to know. I would have preferred to fight my own battles in anonymity than to be known as “Patsy O’Connor’s boy”, the little Irish gangster of Wilford Brimley Middle School.
I’d never experienced the notorious side of Patsy O’Connor. He was never anything but warm and kind to me. I was the apple of his eye and I thought he hung the moon. Period. Of course, I had no way of knowing back then that after throwing the ball in the backyard with me he’d have to rush off to service his mistress or break some poor schmuck’s arm for not paying back money he’d been lent or paying for protection he’d been offered.
I didn’t know exactly what my dad did for a living until I was in my teens, when my best pal Joey Boots worked up the nerve to ask what my dad did for a living.
“He’s in import/export,” I said without having a clue what that even meant. We were probably ten or eleven, sitting on the stoop eating ice cream to battle the summer heat.
“My dad says your dad is a gangster,” Joey said. “I mean, don’t tell your dad that my dad said that.” He paused with tears suddenly filling his eyes.” I wouldn’t want my dad to disappear or anything.”
I remember frowning at him like he was a dog with two heads. The ice cream dripped down my knuckles because I wasn’t eating it fast enough. I scowled at him.
“What are you talking about?”
Joey looked left and right, then over his shoulder at his front door. “My dad said there was a story in the paper about your dad being arrested for something, but he didn’t say what.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said angrily. I had no idea if he was lying or not. I wasn’t allowed to read the papers or watch the news. I had never wondered why until that moment. I must have given him a hard look because I remember the blood draining from his face as the vanilla ice cream ran down his chin.
“Hey, you’re right,” he said. “I was just messing with you. Come on, I’ll buy us another ice cream.”
When I asked my mom what dad did for a living she said to go ask him. When I asked him, he just shrugged and said, “Whatever the fuck it takes to put food on the table.”
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. How could I not know that my dad was the head of a notorious Irish gang?
One word: denial.
Of course, I knew it, but I refused to believe it. To me, he was just Patsy O’Connor, the best dad in the world. I knew there was something more to his personality, something a little dark and mysterious, but I refused to speculate on what that might be.
It wasn’t until years later, after the dawn of the internet when I was probably sixteen or seventeen years old that I worked up the nerve to type “Patrick Patsy O’Connor” into a Yahoo search bar.