Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81374 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81374 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I wish to God she wouldn’t. She deserves more than me. She deserves to follow her dreams and her heart.
Her childhood was stolen from her. I won’t steal any more of what’s hers.
“Lach.”
Boner and Tully sit at the bar when I enter The Craic. Here, the kinkier Irish find their home, in the seductive call of the private club nestled in the back. I jerk my head in greeting and join them at the bar, sliding onto a stool next to Boner. Tall and lanky, Boner’s the Clan’s Labrador retriever, and a cousin of mine. Hell, I don’t even remember his christened name. Malachy gave him the nickname Boner when he was at St. Albert’s, and true to form, Boner rolled with it.
“Another round, Rafferty,” Tully orders in his gruff voice. Much bigger than Boner, Tully dwarfs the barstool and takes up half the counter, and his long hair and beard have a mind of their own. Tully’s older than me by a full decade, but like all men of the Clan, he’s like a brother.
I take the pint Boner pushes over to me gratefully, lift it to my lips, and take a long, cleansing pull from the thick, frothy Guinness. I sigh in contentment when I plunk the pint back on the bar, half emptied.
“Christ, I needed that.”
“Y’alright, lad?” Boner asks, a twinkle in his eye. Short of death or tragedy, Boner’s the most jovial of the lot, always ready with a quick laugh, a sordid joke, or a cold pint.
“Alright,” I mutter. I’ve already said too much. I lift my pint and drain the rest. Silently, Tully lifts a finger to Rafferty and orders me another.
“Saw you at the birthday party,” Tully says, giving me a sidelong look. I don’t meet his eyes, but take the second pint from Rafferty and begin nursing it.
“’Twas an excellent party,” Boner says with uncharacteristic soberness. “The girls did it up right, didn’t they?”
“Aye.”
“You reckon she was surprised?” Tully asks.
I shrug. I don’t want to talk about Fiona.
“By what?” Boner asks. “The party, or her brooding hero?”
Jesus.
He smacks my arm, and Guinness sloshes on the counter. I glare at him and deck him back, harder than he hit me.
“Fuck off,” I tell him. “Christ.”
I finish the second pint and order a third.
Boner’s eyes widen, and he holds up his hands in surrender. “Now, now, lad, keep it in yer pants, will ya? Easy does it.”
“Boner,” Tully says quietly. “Leave off.”
Boner shakes his head and gets to his feet. “Fine, then, I’ll leave you two pussies to drink up. I’ve got a much stronger appetite to fill than that.”
And he’s off, leaving me and Tully alone.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he says with an apologetic wince. “I didn’t know bringing up —”
“It’s fine.”
He closes his mouth and nods, looking away off in the distance as he sips his pint.
I feel better by the time I’ve finished my third pint. I don’t drink much, but like most men of the Clan, Guinness flows in my veins like blood, and occasionally I need my fill.
“Join me in the back?” Tully asks. He gives me a curious look. I haven’t joined them in the back in so long, he must wonder what I’m playing at, what he can expect from me. The back of the Craic is where the real action takes place, anchored with club safewords and a team of security guards. I’m tempted, but I’m not sure I can even think of another woman. Though there’s literally nothing between me and Fiona, it feels like a form of betrayal.
“It’s stress relieving to have your way with a pretty girl,” Tully says quietly. “Get a fucking blow job and forget about the seriousness of life, lad.” A low pulse of need begins low in my belly. Your own fucking fist in a shower’s like licking an ice cube when you’re dying of thirst. It slakes the need, but only for a moment. And Christ, it’s been so fucking long.
“No commitments,” Tully continues, feeding me the words I need to hear in small bits. “Go in, go home, no harm, no foul. They’ll lose their fucking knickers if you walk in there.”
Members here know the McCarthy clan, and the women are eager to please. It surprised me at first. We’re no fucking saints. Keenan explained to me we’re sort of celebrities here, and I’ve seen with my own eyes that he’s right. Though we’re criminals ourselves, we keep the seedier lot out of Ballyhock. The Clan is responsible for Ballyhock’s low crime rate and affluence. We give generously to the church and the schools, solidifying ourselves as benefactors. Robin Hood and his merry men, as it were.
Every man of the Clan is financially set for life, granted a home, the protection of the brotherhood, and damn near anything he needs. It’s also no secret that when a man of the Clan claims a woman, she becomes the epicenter of his universe. In turn, the women of the Clan are passionately devoted to their men.