It’s like kissing a brick wall.
No, that’s not right. Let me rephrase.
It’s like kissing a frozen, angry brick wall that hated you and everything you stood for, had been nursing a lifelong grudge against you, and had made a vow of honor that it was going to kill you to avenge the murder of its father.
Declan’s mouth is hard, cold, and unyielding. Somehow, his lips transmit that they’d rather be injected with the Ebola virus than suffer the absolute disgust of meeting mine.
He curls his hands around my shoulders and pushes me away. Holding me at arm’s length, he glares at me like I’m a puppy who just shit on his favorite pair of shoes.
Thunderclouds gathered over his head, he says darkly, “Don’t. Ever. Do that. Again.”
“I won’t. Apologies.” My laugh is small and embarrassed. “Sometimes my self-confidence goes a little overboard.”
“You think?”
“Um. Yes. It’s not my fault, though.”
“Don’t elaborate. For the love of god, don’t say another word.”
“It’s just that most men are sort of…easy. I guess you’re not.”
“No,” he snarls, lip curled. “I’m not.”
He’s holding me away from him like I’m contagious. Like he’s wishing there were an open window right behind me. Or a bottomless pit.
Needless to say, it’s deflating. I’m obviously losing my edge. Or maybe it’s my mind I’m losing. I could’ve sworn he looked at me with longing.
I turn away and sit on the edge of the bed, folding my hands between my knees and avoiding his eyes.
Without another word, Declan spins on his heel and walks out.
When he returns many hours later, he brings another man with him.
“The doctor,” he announces, then leaves the two of us alone.
After the door slams shut behind Declan, the small man in the blue suit removes his hat and sets it on the coffee table. He sets his black bag beside the hat and removes a stethoscope.
“There’s nothing wrong with my heart or lungs. It’s my head we need to be worried about.”
The doctor straightens and looks at me. He’s about sixty, with white hair and a kind smile. “Just following orders to be thorough, dear. I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh. Right. Where do you want me?”
He gestures to a chair, which I sit in. “So you’re a mafia doctor? That must be an interesting line of work. How many gunshot wounds have you stitched up?”
The doctor turns and gazes at me, looking like he’s enjoying some private joke.
“What?”
He says warmly, “Mr. O’Donnell warned me that you were chatty. There’s nothing worse than a quiet woman, I told him, because it only means they’re up to no good. He seemed to think you were up to no good regardless.”
He puts the buds of the stethoscope in his ears. “Careful about getting on his bad side, miss. He’s got a bit of a temper.”
“His bad side?” My laugh is dry. “You say that like he has a good one.”
“Draw a deep breath, please.”
The doctor presses the end of the stethoscope against my back. I inhale, he listens, then moves it to the opposite side of my spine. I draw another breath, and he listens again.
“He does. He’s one of the best men I’ve ever known.”
I say drily, “You must not get out much.”
He moves to my chest and listens to my heart. Then he produces a blood pressure cuff from his bag and wraps it around my arm.
As it’s inflating, he asks me about my periods.
“They’re regular. Like I said, it’s my head that’s the problem.” Though my ovaries have been acting strange lately, I’m not about to tell Declan’s doctor that.
When he’s satisfied my blood pressure is normal, he shines a light into both my eyes.
“Ow. That’s really bright.”
“Your pupil response is normal. Where is this lump Mr. O’Donnell mentioned?”
“Here.” I show him. When he touches it, I wince.
He makes a soft sound of sympathy. “Yes, I’d imagine that hurts. You’ve got quite a lot of swelling. Have you had any headaches?”
“Yes.”
“Nausea?”
“No. Actually, I take that back. I felt sick on the plane when I woke up. But I figured it was from the ketamine Declan gave me.”
If the doctor thinks it’s strange that Declan administered me a drug that made me pass out, he doesn’t mention it. That’s probably the least strange thing he’s seen treating one of Declan’s patients.
“Are you seeing flashing lights? Any problems with your hearing?”
“No and no.”
“Recent memory loss?”
“Yes…and apparently, I fainted. But I don’t remember that.”
“Ringing ears or double vision?”
“No to both. Am I dying or what?”
“You are, but it will take four or five more decades.”
At least he has a sense of humor.
He packs up and puts his hat back on, preparing to leave.
“Seriously, though, what’s the verdict?”
“A mild concussion. Nothing to worry about, but make sure you rest for a few days. If you experience any more symptoms, or if your headaches get worse, we’ll need to get you a CT scan to ensure there’s no bleeding on the brain. In the meantime, ice that lump. It will help the swelling and discomfort.”
“Bleeding on the brain? That doesn’t sound good.”
“It isn’t. So please tell Mr. O’Donnell immediately if you continue to feel unwell.”
“I will. Thank you.”
When he leaves, I feel restless and unsettled. So of course, I have to send Declan a text.
The doctor said I’m dying.
I pace until his response comes back.
So my luck has finally changed.
Jerk. Will you please come in here and talk to me?
Why?
I’m bored.
If only that were lethal.
Stop being mean to me!
Give me one good reason why.
I chew my lip before answering, I think I’m scared.
He doesn’t answer. I don’t know why I was expecting he would. I pace around the room, chewing my lip and imagining what death by brain bleed would look like, until the door opens and Declan walks in.
With his hand still on the knob, he says, “If that was a lie, I’ll open that window and push you out.”
Why does he have to be such an asshole? Such a handsome asshole, which is somehow even worse.
“I’ve never been sick a day in my life, and now my brain is bleeding, and my memory is going, and I’m fainting like one of those stupid goats, and my head hurts like someone’s been jackhammering it, and I’m probably going to die with only you for company. Can you blame me for being upset?”
His eyes are narrowed, doubtful, arctic blue.
I throw my hands in the air. “I’m not invincible!”
“So that deal you made with the devil for the power to kill with run-on sentences didn’t include immortality?”
I stare at him with my heart beating hard and anger working its way up my throat. “You know what? Forget it. Go back to your fulfilling mobster lifestyle of kidnapping innocent people and murdering your enemies and generally making the world a much shittier place, and forget I said a damn thing.”
I turn and walk as far away from him as I can go, to the wall of windows on the opposite side of the room. Then I stand with my back to him and my arms wrapped around myself, trying for the first time since I was a fat little kid getting bullied on the playground to hold back tears.
I hate him for this. Nobody makes me cry.
When I hear the door close, I release a breath and bow my head, closing my eyes and cursing myself for showing weakness.
“It’s just that you don’t seem like you have a vulnerable bone in your body, lass.”
The voice is warm, soft, and comes from directly behind me. The bastard snuck up on me while I was busy feeling sorry for myself.
“Go away.”
“That’s not what you wanted two minutes ago.”
“Two minutes ago, I didn’t hate your guts.”
“No? I feel sorry for the people whose guts you do hate if this is what you not hating them looks like.”
I groan and bang my forehead against the window a few times.
He pulls me away from the glass and says softly, “Stop. You’ll hurt your head.”
“It’s already hurt, thanks to you.”
“I told you I wasn’t the one who dropped you.”
“Stop talking. You’re making my headache worse.”
His hands had been around my upper arms, but now they slide up to my shoulders and rest lightly there. He’s quiet behind me, as if he’s mulling something over.
“If you’re about to strangle me, just get it over with.”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
I’d tell you to go to hell, but it wouldn’t be a burn, considering that’s your hometown.
After a long moment when I’m silent, he says, “You’re too quiet for my comfort. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Your funeral.”
I’m surprised when he starts to laugh. He laughs and laughs, like he hasn’t enjoyed himself this much in a long time.
I look up at him over my shoulder. “You’re bipolar. Right? That’s the root cause of all your mystifying behavior. Bipolar disorder.”
“No.”
“Too bad. If you’d said yes, I would’ve been nicer to you.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because mental health problems aren’t a choice. You, on the other hand, are deliberately an asshole.”
His smile is so bright, it’s almost blinding. “You bring out the best in me, lass.”
“Oh, go jump off a bridge.” I turn back to the window.
We stand there like that for a while, looking out at the view of Boston far below. It’s late afternoon, and I have no idea how long I’ve been here. One day? Two? Or the ten thousand it feels like?
When I glace at Declan’s reflection in the glass, he’s gazing at his hands resting on my shoulders as if he doesn’t remember how they got there.
I wish I didn’t find him attractive. I hate him, but I can’t deny he’s hot. Between those blue eyes and that strong jaw and that damn Irish accent…
“Why such a heavy sigh?” he murmurs.
“You’re still alive and breathing.”
“Not so long ago, you were thanking me for saving your life.”
“I know. I wish I could go back in time and kick my own ass.”
He’s laughing again. Silently, trying to hold it in, but I can see his shoulders shaking in his reflection in the glass. For some reason, that makes me even more depressed.
“Please go away. I promise I won’t bother you anymore. No more texts. No more talking. Just leave me alone.”
I sound sad and pathetic. This man is draining the badass right out of me.
He knows it, too, because his voice grows soft. “I’ll go if you answer a question.”
“How would I like to kill you? Something slow and painful that involves flesh-eating bacteria.”
Ignoring that, he continues in his gentle tone. “Why did you get involved with the Russian mafia?”
I consider not answering him. Because fuck him, that’s why. But ultimately, I decide to tell him the truth. I’m suddenly too tired to fight. “I didn’t know I was.”
In the short pause that follows, Declan’s hands tighten on my shoulders. He wants more.
If it will get rid of him, he can have it.
“When I met Stavros, he was just a cute guy who used to take my beginner’s class a few times a week. He said he worked in tech. Which was true, he does own a software company. What I didn’t know was that software was developed for illegal online gaming.
“But I guessed something was up when I saw his house on the lake. He has an estate right next to Zuckerberg’s with three hundred feet of private beach. The place is probably worth fifty million dollars. Then there was the private jet, and the passports from various countries, and his little buddies who all spoke Russian. So, you know, one plus one equals two. He never told me, and I never asked, but it didn’t matter. He was already past his expiration date by then.”
Declan digests all that in silence. “Because boyfriends are like koi fish: a time-consuming and boring hobby.”
“Exactly.”
“So when did you finally confirm he was in the mafia?”
“Not until that night at La Cantina when the Irish guys were talking shit and the bullets started to fly.”
He turns me to face him. It’s so abrupt and unexpected, I’m startled.
Staring down at me with blistering intensity, he says, “You didn’t know he was in the mafia when you got together?”
“No.”
“And when you found out, you left him?”
“Don’t make it sound noble. I wasn’t a conscientious objector to his lifestyle or anything. The reason I left him is because I got bored.”
Declan is incredulous. “He’s a billionaire. A powerful, rich, good-looking young billionaire. With billions.”
“I’m familiar with the word. You don’t have to keep repeating it. And I have no idea how much money he has. I didn’t conduct a forensic accounting.”
“Trust me on this.”
“Okay. And?”
“And you got bored.”
“Money isn’t what makes a man interesting. It’s not even on the list. Stop making that face at me.”
“Let me get this straight. You dated Stavros because you thought he was cute?”
“How is it possible that you can make that sound like a moral failing?”
“I just don’t get it.” He shakes his head. “He’s fucking rich.”
“So are you, by the looks of it. It doesn’t make you interesting, either.”
Judging by his expression, he can’t decide if he’s more surprised or offended.
“You’re telling me I’m not interesting?”
“You’re about as interesting as a koi fish. An old one. With digestive issues and a malfunctioning swim bladder.”
Now he’s outraged. His face is turning red.
God, that feels good.
Just to twist the knife deeper, I add, “Plus, you don’t even know how to kiss.”
His eyes flare. His jaw clenches. He growls, “Believe me, I know how to fucking kiss.”
“Sure you do. If it’s opposite day.”
When I smile at his obvious fury, he mutters, “Bloody little smartass.”
Then he grabs my face in both hands and crushes his mouth to mine.
