Me? Well, I’ve always fixed problems. At first, it was “how to get us food” when Mom was drunk somewhere and Dad didn’t come home for a week. Later it was how to convince our teachers that everything was fine, and that, no, our dad wasn’t gone, he was just working double shifts these days, so there was no need to call CPS.
Fixing problems is in my blood. Cleaning up the messes, sweeping the dirt under the rug, and making issues go away is what I do, and I’ve done it well since becoming a Saint.
Gray, our youngest brother, was just too young when we all got caught up in this. When our dad finally took off, and when Aela’s father, Jack Reilly, stepped up and found a family in Southie to basically adopt us instead of letting us get lost in the foster system, it was an easy next step into the Saints. He didn’t recruit us, and to be fair, Jack was pretty against kids like us having anything to do with the life until we were old enough to make more rational decisions about our lives.
But then, you grow up fast on the streets of Southie, especially back then with the ever-present looming turf war with the Russians, not to mention the Feds crawling up everyone’s asses and knocking down doors every other day.
Liam and I fell into doing what we did well. Gray was too young, but he got caught up in it anyways. Caught up, chewed up, and spit out.
And now he’s in jail. Busted and tossed in the same night Sheila died.
I rise from the couch and stride to the small bar cart by one of the big factory windows. I grab a glass and a bottle of Jameson and head back to drop myself onto the couch. I pour and raise a toast to my youngest brother.
“Sláinte, buddy,” I murmur, gritting my teeth before knocking the drink back.
The booze courses through me, burning, erasing - trying to give me some clarity.
I set the glass on the coffee table in front of me and glance over my shoulder, frowning. I yank my t-shirt up over my body, tossing it away and twisting my arm to get a look at the wound. I’ll be fine. No stitches needed, which is always a plus.
I’m not shaken up from earlier, but that doesn’t mean my mind isn’t fucking racing. I’m thinking of the warning signs I should have seen - the meet set where it was, the fact that I walked into a meeting like that with a guy I don’t actually know that well as my side man.
The cagey way Oleg was acting the second we walked in that room.
Warning signs I ignored, just because I was still lost in my own head over the drunk, hot little innocent college chick who’d just shoved her tongue down my throat.
The one that’s currently tied to my fucking bed.
The one I just had squirming against me, pressing her ass back into my cock and wriggling in my grip in a way that just does things to a man.
I wasn’t lying, I’m not “that” guy. I’m aware I’m stronger than her, by a mile. I’m aware that she’s weak, and drunk, and tied to my bed, and I’m aware that the skirt she’s wearing rode up more than a few times tonight enough for me to catch a glimpse of those panties.
Red.
I’m completely aware of what I could do right now, but that ain’t me. Not a fucking chance.
But just the same, shit. There’s no denying how fucking hard I am. There’s no denying the lingering feeling of that tight, tiny little body of hers writhing against mine.
The sounds of her gasps.
The way her tongue felt. The way her lips tasted.
Fuck.
I reach for the glass, take another big slug of the whiskey, and give myself one more top-off before pushing the bottle away and leaning back into the couch with my drink.
The fuck is this, reverse Stockholm syndrome?
I made mistakes tonight. Big mistakes. And it damn well all started with that fucking kiss.
She snores across the room, and I grin, shaking my head. She fought pretty hard for being so drunk.
I sigh.
Tomorrow, I’m going to figure this out, but tonight?
I sigh, pushing the drink onto the table.
Tonight I’m sleeping on my own couch while my gorgeous little hostage snores across the room, tied to my bed.
Chapter Eight
Sierra
I wake up to the single worst hangover in the history of hangovers.
It’s not just the whiskey. It’s not just the feeling of being drained and wrung out. It’s not the cottonmouth and sore eyes or feeling like I fell down a flight or five of stairs.
It’s what happened to me last night.
It’s being taken, and bound, and brought here.
My mind remembers the night in blurry flashbacks - coming here, my attempt at escape, him grabbing me and tying me to his bed. I remember fighting it, and screaming and thrashing until I finally lost all strength.
I slept eventually, I guess. Who would’ve thought.