When I look back, it’s not to get one last look at James O’Rourke’s stunning face. The person whose expression I want to see is Clare Duffy’s. And I do.
If looks could kill, I’d be pulseless on the floor.
Fuck.
I don’t think she’d try to sink my application on the basis of the last few minutes. Not after I’ve spent five weeks as her personal assistant, hanging on her every word and running all her errands. The past few days, she even started to open up and offer advice. I was sure she planned to recommend me.
The memory of Jamie’s strong fingers imprisoning mine raises all sorts of intriguing feelings. They’re almost enough to make me not care whether Clare’s angry.
Then, as I reach the front door, the reality of my situation comes roaring back. Despite the appeal of his “I’ll fuck you senseless” vibe, gorgeous rebel Jamie O’Rourke is completely wrong for me.
There is no way I’ll let him, or any guy, get in the way of my entry into the Briar Club. No doubt he’d be an awesome one night stand. But a one night stand isn’t worth sabotaging the rest of my life over.
2
JAMIE
I’m ahead five hundred bucks when the game breaks up. The other players offer me a ride home, but I decline.
My motive for joining the poker game tonight wasn’t social. I was trying to distract myself from an anniversary that drags my mind to dark places. There’s no real escape from the old memories, but counting cards gives my mind short breaks.
Now, play time’s over, and I have to face my demons. For that, I need to be alone.
I button my coat as we walk down the driveway. Despite having a Massachusetts driver’s license and access to an SUV, in the US, I rarely drive anything other than a motorcycle. I reckoned there was no point getting used to driving on the wrong side of the road since I’d be going home soon enough. That’s not how things worked out. I’ve been in America for more than two years, and my prospects for going home are as grim as ever.
Amidst the goodbyes, Clare catches my sleeve. “You shouldn’t walk home. It’s freezing out.”
“I’ve got the Jameson’s to keep me warm.” I wink. “Besides, it’s only half a block to the bus stop.”
“The bus?” she scoffs. “Seriously? This from a man who carries bundles of cash in his pockets?”
Pulling my sleeve free, I exhale a small laugh. “What can I say? I’m full of contradictions.” With a shrug, I stride away. The cold’s not troubling me yet, but I don’t fancy standing around on the sidewalk, either.
It turns out I meet the six-a.m. bus just as it pulls up to the stop. My timing couldn’t be better.
Once on board, I ride toward St. Benedict’s, a Catholic church near the southwest edge of campus. God and I are not on the best terms, not for years, but today I need to visit a church.
The short ride gives me a wee minute to wallow in my guilt. I came to America with one purpose in mind. Vengeance. But as my time on this side of the pond stretched on, I had to take a job in my cousin’s criminal empire. The work landed me at Granthorpe University in a three-man gangster sleeper cell.
It’s a prestigious university and, if you add in my rowing scholarship, from the outside looking in, I seem destined for wealth and success. None of that matters, though. Especially today.
With last night’s whiskey wearing off, the corner of my mouth throbs as I exit the bus. I stroll to St. Benedict’s and climb the church stairs. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, I’m greeted by a rush of warm, musty air. The dead likely feel at home when they pass through.
It’s two hours till morning mass, so I’m alone, and the quiet swallows me up as I dip my fingers in Holy Water and cross myself.
Heading up the left center aisle, I glance at the stained glass windows. My scan stops on the seventh station of the cross where Jesus falls for the second time. I can relate. I came to the States with fresh leads to run down. When they amounted to nothing, I ended up stuck here, on a seemingly endless path of pain and sorrow.
Reaching the front of the aisle, I stand over the votive candles. I light one, the red glass shimmering like blood.
“Hey, Jude, it’s me.” The whisper is loud in the solemn silence. “I’m thinking about you today.”And every day.
Normally, I don’t talk directly to my brother when lighting a candle for him, but I’m short on the humility necessary to pray.
My attention shifts to the altar. It’s been ten years since I sat in another church, miles away, and swore at God under my breath. On that day, with my brother’s small coffin filling my vision, I promised God if he didn’t avenge Jude, I would.
I didn’t really expect God’s help. If he’d wanted to give any, there would’ve been better moments. Like when I was nine and prayed to him with every drop of blood in my heart to help me get to Jude in time.
He didn’t help me then or at any point after.
