This time, my scream is catching like ice in my throat as he spins me around and yanks me hard against his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around my throat.
I try and scream, but the sound won't come. I try and fight, but it's like I'm drowning in ice water as the fear comes up to wrap its fingers around my heart.
The gun goes to my head.
"Not a fucking sound," he growls.
His arm tightens around my throat, and he kicks the door shut.
"You just walked into the wrong fucking room, princess."
Chapter Three
Connor
I frown as I step into the bar, eyes scanning the packed room of hipsters and college kids. It's been a slow build over the years, but it still throws me off to see a place like the Rusty Duck actually having customers. Let alone ones that are willing to pay five bucks for a shitty beer poured by a salty bartender who hates them, because of irony.
Jesus Christ, kids today.
Back when I was a kid, this place - and really the rest of Southie - was a fuckin' dump. And I don't mean a cool dump, I mean a legitimately terrible bar that even scummed out the scumbags.
I have absolutely no idea how the fuck they stayed open all these years, but the recent slow creep of gentrification in this neighborhood has suddenly brought business to their front door.
Fuckin' hipsters.
I tighten my jaw as I shoulder my way through the crowd, pushing guys with ironic facial hair and girls showing more skin than they should in this neighborhood out of the way.
I hate that the meet is set for this place, tonight of all fucking nights. It's been damn near eight years, and I'd still just as soon erase this date from the calendar year.
Tonight is supposed to be a peace talk, but still, there are entirely too many people in this place for this to be happening here. A glance at a neon piece of paper taped to a grungy wall tells me there's a band playing here tonight - a bunch of young guys who look like they're trying entirely too hard to look tough.
And it's not even this place that's got me annoyed at this fucking sit-down, it's that I hate meetings in general. I don't do meetings, and that's usually more than understood by people who know me.
Fucking Ukrainians.
I keep politics out of my job. The only times I give a shit who's got a beef with who is if it affects me, or the Dark Saints, or my ability to do a job. Under any normal circumstances, I couldn't give less of a shit about Anton Boiko - the head of the Ukrainian presence in Boston - having a bone to pick with the nephew of Vadim Petrov, the head of the Russian syndicate. I mean, I understand at a base level that Ukrainians and Russians get along about as famously as my Irish roots and the English, but that's where my giving a shit about geopolitics ends.
Until it affects my neighborhood, that is. Until Vadim, who the Dark Saints have a truce with, and Anton, who we don't, start tracking their bullshit blood feud through Southie.
Then it becomes my business real fast.
And seeing as I'm a captain these days, it falls on me to be the one to sit these assholes down and get this shit sorted out.
It's also on me because of the three head captains, I'm the only one who both parties involved will actually meet with. Liam's still on the shit-list with Anton after getting in a bar brawl with a couple drunk Ukrainians a few months back, and Damien - well, Damien has a way of putting his dick where it doesn't belong, and Vadim's nineteen-year-old niece is pretty much the definition of "where it doesn't belong."
So that leaves me. Tonight. Dealing with fucking politics.
I'm no diplomat or smooth talker. Hell, I'm not even much of a talker at all, because not being a talker goes a long way with what I do for the Saints.
I'm the fix-it man. No, I don't mean leaky sinks or squeaky doors. I'm the guy you call when you need a mess taken care of. I'm the guy that gets rid of the evidence, who cleans up the bodies, who makes the problem go away.
And somehow, it's on me to negotiate this peace agreement.
Wonderful.
Of course, we couldn't have this meeting at a quiet, out of the way place. No, we're at a goddamn rock show. Yes, this place was picked for it being neutral ground - the fact that it's on the edge of Saints' territory and not actually affiliated with us. But still. Someplace that wasn't full of people might be a better setting.
I push my way towards the bar to grab a drink while I wait for Mikhail, the Russian representative, to show up. After that, we can head to the back room to have this stupid meeting with Anton's guys.
I frown as this bubbly blonde girl with pink streaks in her hair careens into me, giggling as she spills beer all over my boot.
"Oh my God, I love your jacket!" she gushes.
Run along, little girl.
"Where did you get it?"
I frown. "A store."
She laughs. "Which store, sill-"
"Excuse me, I'm meeting someone."
I physically push her aside, ignoring the huffing sound she makes as I stalk towards the bar.
And that's when I spot her.
Her.
She's gorgeous, in this fragile, delicate way.
Tiny.
Young.
My eyes narrow across the dark room at her, feeling my pulse quicken and my jaw tighten as I take her in. She's out of place, and innocent-looking in a way that places like this devour.
Blood thunders in my ear as I drink her in.
Dark hair cascading over her shoulders, curves in the very best places, and soft, pouty lips that brush against the mouth of the lucky fucking beer bottle in her hand. She's got the leather jacket, the tiny, flirty skirt, and the biker-style boots, but she's not the kind of girl that comes to places like this, I can tell just by looking at her.
And I am very good at reading people like this.
The thing is, she's trying too hard, like she's attempting to impress someone, even though I can't imagine a single dipshit here she should be wasting her time trying to impress.
Someone knocks into me from behind, and I growl as I whirl.
"Hey bro." The blonde kid is making I'm sure what he thinks is his best "tough guy" face. And I'm sure he thinks having two friends giving me the same look behind him is intimidating.
It's not.
"Can I help you?"
"How about an apology?"
"For?"
I give him a once-over, my face neutral but grinning on the inside at his skinny hipster jeans and the tattoo of a fucking owl on his forearm, which I'm sure literally means nothing.
This should be interesting.
"For pushing my girl, buddy. She asked you a simple question. No one asked you to put your hands on her."
I level my gaze at him. "That was me asking her to move. Trust me, if I put my hands on her, she'd have a hard time forgetting it."
His eyes narrow at me, his lip curling.
Oh, this should definitely be fun.
"You looking for some trouble, buddy?" He spits.
"Why, have you seen any?"
He bristles, clearly realizing I don't consider him a threat.
"Bro, there are three of us, just so you fuckin' know."
I smile. "Great. Now go find two more and we'll call it an even fight."
He laughs. "You want me to find two guys to fight for you?"
"For you."
He scowls, and even though I wish I could keep this up, this isn't the night for getting into it with hipster college douchebags. This is a work night.
I'm turning, deciding to ignore him and his little friends, when I feel the hand on me.
I bristle.
"Hey asshole, I'm not done talking-"
He freezes as I open my jacket and flash what's hanging in a holster at my side. It's a stupid move, but honestly, I'm fucking tired of talking to this prick.
"Whoa, dude." His whole look changes as he and his friends suddenly step back, blinking at me with wide eyes.
"Look, man, we just-"
"Boo!"
They jump about a foot off the ground, and I grin as they suddenly push their way through the crowd toward the door.
I shake my head.
Now where the fuck is-
I whirl when I feel the hand on my arm, my hand closing into a fist before I freeze.
It's her. The out of place girl. The too-innocent, too-wide-eyed, too-appetizing girl.
"Uh, hey." She tries to say it casually, but I can sense the tremor in her voice.
She's scared of me.
She should be.
"Yes?" I growl, holding her eyes firmly with my own.
"Um-"
And before I can say a single thing - before I can even open my mouth actually - she's reaching up, grabbing my shirt, yanking me down, and kissing me.
And hell if the whole place, this whole shitty night, and damn near the whole rest of the world doesn't just fade away. Damn if I don't lose my place in fucking time in that moment.
I'm surprised for about half a second before instinct kicks in.
Fuck it.
I kiss her back, and she's sure as hell not expecting it, I can tell. And I don't know what her plan was, but this is me running with it as I grab her tight against me and claim those lips with mine.
She tastes like whiskey and sin, and I want to swallow her down whole.
She freezes, but then suddenly moans as I force her lips open with my tongue. She opens her mouth, letting me taste her deeper, letting me growl into those lips. I kiss her hard enough to make sure she remembers this, and then I pull away.
She pants, her eyes wide as they stare up at me.
Any other night, and I'd be into this conquest. Another night, and I'd see how bad this good girl wants to pretend she is tonight.
But this is a work night, and I've got to get to it.
Suddenly, before I can even open my mouth to tell her to go get him, she whirls. And quicker than I can blink, she scampers away through the crowd.