McQUEEN:Las Vegas Bad Boys(15)

“Stop, JoJo. Don’t leave like this.”

I back out of his driveway, watching as he kicks a garbage can over.

Then I drive away.





Chapter Twelve





JoJo


After parking the car at the house, I walk to the front door, forcing myself to remain calm. My palms are sweaty, though, and I know my face reveals every anxious thought that crosses my mind.

“JoJo, you finally made it home,” Peter says, opening the front door for me. My brothers, Peter, Paul, and John, are carbon copies of my father. Short, cropped reddish-blond hair, freckles sweeping their cheeks, dimples even—not that you’d ever see those indentations. They’re hard as hell to get to smile. They aren’t friendly, not even mildly warm. Not remotely considerate.

Yet they’ll do anything for me if they think it’s in my best interest.

“Sorry it took me so long. Lucy was out of it and I slept in. Hope Dad’s not mad.”

Mary, thirty years old, is the oldest of the siblings. Peter’s twenty-eight, then Paul twenty-seven, John twenty-five, and then me, the baby, twenty-three.

My mom was Catholic as can be—raised us on Hail Marys, but none of us ever took to it. Dad never willingly set foot in Mass, that’s for sure.

But we did our part, growing up, to appease Mom. Hell, my brothers were altar boys, we had our first communion  , even went to confession once a week … but since she’s passed, none of us have been back.

Sometimes I miss it. The routine. Priests swinging censers, sending clouds of incense through the air. Lighting a prayer candle. Taking communion  .

But as Peter holds the door open for me, I think what I really miss is Mom’s hands on my back as we waited in line to take the Lord’s Sacrament. Mom’s careful thumbing through the pages of the hymnal, pointing to the words for me to read.

Mostly, I miss Mom. She added a softness to our family of men, a softness I can’t seem to replicate. Her passing made them callous in ways they weren’t before. Sure, they had always held men at gunpoint and ran underground gambling circuits … but when it came to Mary and me, they were protective, but not to the point that they forgot we had a voice.

Now I walk into the house knowing if I didn’t think I had a voice before, I sure as hell will never have one again. Not once I tell them what I’ve been doing.

Who I’ve been doing.

“So, your girl Lucy doing okay?” Peter asks, closing the door behind me.

“Why do you care?” I ask, following him into the kitchen where Paul and John are eating a late breakfast.

“He just wondered why you had to stay there. Can’t she handle her alcohol?” Paul asks.

“Give it a rest,” I tell him. “Lucy is my closest friend. Don’t get all judgey on her.”

“Of course we judge her,” Peter says. “Who you spend time with matters; it could affect our family.”

“I know, God.” I scowl at them. My attitude reverts to that of a teenager any time I’m in their presence. It’s really obnoxious, actually, the kid-sister role I adopt at home. Like I’m incapable of being an adult around them.

I pull open the fridge and grab an Odwalla smoothie. Their words touch too close to the truth. This is exactly why I’m here, wanting to fill them in on my life. I know how important it all is. “Where’s Dad?” I ask. “He said we needed to talk?”

“He’ll be here.” John checks his phone, doesn’t even bother to look up at me when he answers.

As if on cue the front door opens, and we hear Dad yelling at the security guard, Max. “Go find someone to track down Connor and bring him here. Now.”

He storms into the kitchen and Mary is with him, carrying a crying Justice in the car seat.

“What’s going on?” John asks, taking in the angry scene that just entered the mansion we call home.

Mary yells into her cellphone and Dad is still giving Max instructions, “I don’t care who goes, just fucking find him.” Turning to the kitchen, where all his kids are, Dad shakes his head, fuming. “We need more hands. This isn’t fucking cutting it. Too many people to keep tabs on, and you girls are adults. Why am I solving your problems?” he yells at Mary, who throws her phone on the table.

“This is your problem,” she yells at Dad. “You’re the one who wanted me to marry Connor. The one who forced me into being his bitch. But someone needs to talk sense into him. I can’t fucking do it all on my own.”

“Mary, you need to back the hell up,” Paul says to our sister. For once in my life I agree with Paul. She does. No one talks to Thomas O’Malley like that.

Taking a better look at her, I see that she looks more of a mess than she did last night when I tried to piece her house together with a vacuum cleaner and dishrag. Clearly she needs more than a housekeeper and a bath. Maybe she needs a Valium. Or a month alone in Puerto Rico.

Mary’s blouse is covered in spit-up. Justice is in a diaper again, wearing nothing else. Mary has her hair in a messy bun, but not a cute one. It’s an I-don’t-have-time-to-give-a-shit bun. And her eyes are rimmed in red, as if she’s been crying. Or screaming. Or worse. I look at the clock; it’s ten in the morning.

“Are Hardy and Bailey at school?” I ask.

“Yeah, Bailey has pre-K all day. But they aren’t the issue. They’re fine.” Mary stomps around the kitchen, looking through the cupboards and in the fridge.

“What do you need?” I ask, trying to think of how to help calm her down so we can get the story out of her. “Food? Coffee?”

“I need a fucking drink. Something hard.”

I eye my dad, who snorts. “That’s the first sensible thing this woman has said all day. Paul, get the whiskey.”

I let the boys sort out the beverages while I unbuckle the hysterical Justice from her car seat. Her diaper clearly needs to be changed, so I take her and the diaper bag to the living room to clean her up.

‘You’re okay, sweet pea,” I coo at her chubby face as I lay her on the thick carpet. “Let’s get you all cleaned up, ’kay?” I tickle her toes to distract her from the yelling in the kitchen. I see several of my dad’s guys pass through the front door, headed to the kitchen, and I take a deep breath as I pull out the baby wipes.

I came here this morning thinking I was going to make a big confession, but it seems whatever is going on with Mary has trumped that big reveal. Maybe it’s a sign; maybe I should just keep my mouth shut. Clearly no one in my family has gotten wind of the revealing photograph, and maybe McQueen was right … maybe I should just wait to see how this plays out before screwing everything up at home.

After Justice is changed, I pat her back, grateful to soothe my seven-month-old niece. She just needed some attention, and I don’t particularly want to take shots of Irish whiskey. Mary has never had a problem pulling her weight with the men of the family, keeping pace with them. But not me. In my secret life at Kit’s Gym, I may like to fight with the boys … but at home, I’m not that girl at all.

The moment I’m in our house, I’m meek and mild, a younger version of my mother. Mary may have the kids and the house and the husband, but she’s not happy, because that was never what she really wanted. Not that I know what she wants but, given the state of her life, I wouldn’t say this is it.

Even if the marriage with Grotto happens next month, I won’t be miserable. I can imagine a few kids and a nice home, and being the one in the family who hosts Thanksgiving dinner, who puts up the Christmas tree. Not that I know much about Grotto and his family traditions. All I know is that he’s as deep in underground crime as my father, and he’s Italian.

So I guess I’ll need to learn to make meatballs.

Also, he isn’t very handsome. But he isn’t awful either, just a little greasy, a little bald. A little regular. Nothing like McQueen. But it doesn’t matter what McQueen is or isn’t. He isn’t my reality.

Grotto is.

Once Justice is settled in my arms, I walk back to the kitchen, to try and piece together the drama.

Mary sits at the big oak table, flanked by my brothers and dad. Employees come and go, drop papers off with my father and give him one-word updates on deals I don’t know anything about. But the real deal is whatever is going down with Mary, because it’s gotten the attention of all the men in my family.

“I just can’t do it anymore,” Mary says, setting down a shot glass. “Connor treats me like a slave and you guys just encourage it. And what the hell do you know? You aren’t married.”

“Hey, easy there,” Paul says, taking the bottle from her as she goes to refill her glass.

“No,” she says, pushing him off. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about—you guys telling the women what to do. That’s why I’m leaving Connor.”

I walk to the table, completely shocked. Connor may be absent, and he may be an ass, but she made a commitment. A vow. She has a family to think about. Her kids. Their lives. She’s a frazzled mess, and this isn’t when she should be making any life decisions.

“Let me guess: JoJo showed up at your place, told you about her impending marriage, and now you are all spun up?” Dad asks her pointedly.