He raises a brow at me like he doesn't believe me, and I look away.
"I'm in grad school, thank you very much."
He laughs.
"And where are you from."
"Why on earth would I tell you that?"
"You worried I might come find you and carry you back to my loft and tie you up?"
My eyes dart to his face to see him grinning a cocky, smug grin.
"Oh, right, I've already done that."
"Why are you such an ass?"
"Why won't you just answer the question? Prove me wrong, princess. Tell me you're from fuckin' Detroit or something, and take away all my little preconceived notions of you being this perfect little-"
"Fine, I'm from Shelter Harbor."
He starts to laugh.
"Oh fuck you."
Of course, I'm from the most quaint, adorable seaside town on the Massachusetts coast you could possibly imagine. A haven for city tourists in the summer, a destination spot for retirees going leaf-peeping in the fall, a "New England wintery wonderland" in the cold months, according to the Travel and Leisure article that came out a few years back.
I am from the most non-edgy, safest, vanilla, small-town in the world, and for some reason, I hate that he was so right about that.
"You're from Shelter fucking Harbor? Of course you are."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"The place where you can ride the ferry, and eat fuckin' lobster rolls on the pier, take the walking tour of the old Benjamin Franklin house?" He smirks. "Of course that's where you're from."
"John Adams."
He frowns. "What?"
"It's John Adams's house, not Ben Franklin."
Connor snickers.
"Oh fuck off. This doesn't mean you know anything about me."
"Oh, trust me, I still have plenty of questions."
"Well, good for you."
"Like why I could smell gasoline on you last night and maybe why you have soot under your fingernails?"
I swallow, immediately covering and twisting my fingers in my lap to hide my nails.
Connor sighs. "Look, you want some coffee or would you rather sit there petulantly. Here's a spoiler: you refusing my coffee doesn't actually hurt my feelings, princess."
My head throbs with the hangover, and the coffee addict inside of me screams at me to just shut the hell up and accept what's being offered.
"Fine," I spit.
He chuckles. "Jesus Christ, I'm from Southie and I've got better manners than the girl from Shelter fucking Harbor. Don't they teach please and thank you on the Ben Franklin tour?"
"John Ada- forget it. Can I please have some coffee," I mumble.
"Oh, but of course," he bows sarcastically. "But listen, Ms. Shelter Rich-Girl Harbor, I think I might be out of silver platters upon which to serve you with-"
"Fuck you."
Chapter Nine
Connor
She resists, but it's less so this time when I tie her to one of the tall chairs at my kitchen counter.
"How do you take it?"
"Milk."
I glance up at her, raising a brow with a smirk on my lips. I see her scowl, and I know how badly she wants to defy me on this, and how badly she seems to want to take every opportunity to spit in my face. But I can also see how much her eyes glow at the sight of the mug of coffee.
"Manners, princess?"
Her lips purse. "Milk please," she hisses.
I grin. "Of course, your highness."
I pass her the mug and then check the knots at the back of the chair.
"I'll be right back."
I've just gotten a text from Damien that he's downstairs.
"Where are you going?"
Her eyes go wide as if the prospect of me leaving her here alone is somehow weirder than me being here.
"Out. I'll be right back. Try not to destroy any of my lamps while I'm gone."
"Thanks for coming."
"No worries, man." Damien scratches his chin. "I'm just glad to hear you're okay."
We're downstairs in the old truck depot in the basement of my building - the spot the Saints used to use for stolen cars way back in the day. Today, it's where one of my oldest friends in the world and basically a third brother is bringing me groceries and a bunch of prepared foods.
Damien Gallagher essentially became my brother when his family took my brothers and me in after Aela's father made sure we didn't go to the foster system. Saints take care of their own in Southie, and Mike and Colleen Gallagher took on three other kids besides their two like it wasn't a problem at all.
Because Southie born and raised is family, and family takes care of family.
But, here I am keeping secrets from him, and lying. He thinks I need groceries because I'm ducking the heat from the Ukrainians last night and can't go out. And he's right, but it's not the whole truth. I haven't told him about Sierra. I haven't mentioned the witness tied up at my kitchen counter upstairs to one of the closest friends I have.
"You all right?"
I shrug. "I'm fine."
He shakes his head. "Mr. fucking statue over here."
I smile, but I say nothing. Damien knows me well enough not to actually be bothered by my tendencies towards being stoic and maybe a little hard to read. I'm not Liam, who can't stop talking to save his fucking life. Or Damien, Mr. smooth-talking charmer with the perpetual grin.
"Everything go okay with the cleanup?"
He nods, running a hand through his blonde hair. "Yeah, I brought Jimmy Poole and Ian Shaunessy."
"Good, good. They're decent guys."
He grins. "Yeah, you know, shit actually does go fine when you aren't there, pal. The world does keep spinning without you showing up to make it turn."
"Asshole."
He smiles. "We took care of it, man."
"No trouble with the Ukrainians?"
He makes a face.
"Damien."
"Look, there's … " he clears his throat. "There's some heat from this man."
"No shit."
"No I mean, word is you've suddenly gotten real popular at the Ukrainian bath house."
I give him a look and he laughs.
"You know what I mean. Anton and his whole ‘Eastern Promises' bathhouse mob meetings shit. Look, Aela and Liam are worried, man."
"I'll be fine."
"No, Con, you're not listening. This isn't just the normal heat you'd get for shooting one of their guys. The guy in the tracksuit you shot? That was Anton's fucking cousin."
I groan. "Fuck."
"Yeah. Look, Aela's got outreach started but Anton's a cranky fucker."
"I did splatter his cousin's brains across the wall."
"Yeah, that is going to be a sticking point."
"Motherfucker," I turn and spit. "So what the fuck do I do in the meantime?"
"Well, you're right, you need to stay put here."
I clench my jaw. "What."
"Yeah, you need to lay low, buddy. Stay in your place. I mean," he glances around us at what looks to any random onlooker to be a condemned old factory.
That onlooker wouldn't be half wrong, to be fair.
"We don't think Anton and his crew know you're here, but let's keep it that way. Look, we've all got your back here. Liam's got guys keeping tabs from a distance, but we're going to keep that distance so we don't lead anyone to you. Oleg saw you that night, man, and he's making it his business to find you."
He also saw Sierra.
I keep that part to myself, but the thought sticks. What the fuck am I going to do with her? Keep her tied to my fucking bed for the next forever? Letting her go is a no-go, for one, because she saw me, and as cute as she is, that's a huge fucking risk. She could go to the cops the second I let her go and bring them to my goddamn door.
And there's a secondary factor now. There's the fact that the Ukrainians saw her last night, and now even if Damien and Liam and Aela don't know yet, there's gotta be a price on her head as well.
"Anyways," Damien sighs, breaking my thoughts. He steps around to the back of his car and pops the trunk, reaching in and lifting out bags of groceries and takeout food and handing them to me.
"You need a hand to bring this up?"
"Nope."
He cocks a brow. "You sure? Dude, I can-"
"Yep, I'm good."
He grins. "You scared I'm going to make you play me in pool again and kick your ass?"
"Simmer down, Gallagher."
Damien laughs but then sobers. "Hey, call me if you need anything man. Seriously. You see anything fucking weird, don't be you."
"Which means … "
"It means actually call someone and get help instead of trying to take on the world yourself. Stay vigilant, brother."
He shakes his head and turns when his eyes dart to my Charger parked a few feet away.
"Shit, man, what the fuck happened to your baby?"
My eyes follow his, and I instantly know what he's talking about. It's a dent, on the back of the painstakingly restored vintage car, next to the trunk.
I know it's from a size eight woman's boot, but I just shake my head. "Oh, yeah, some fucker clipped me the other night in a parking lot."
Damien scowls. "Too bad you didn't catch whoever did it."
I clear my throat. "Yeah, too bad. Thanks for the food, bud."
It's not until I'm back in my elevator that I let the breath out, feeling my thoughts start to spark through my brain.
Great, I've got a girl tied up in my apartment, I'm lying to my family about it, and now there's a hit out on both of us, courtesy of the Ukrainian mob.