I repeat that to myself as I get out of my car and as I haul the tree into my apartment by myself. It’s a studio, stripped down tothe basics, so I easily drag the tree across the scuffed wood floor. Needles fall over the gray rug that delineates the living room from where my bed is smushed against the wall. The one thing Idohave for the tree is the stand, and I shove it in there, growling when the tree top bends at the ceiling because it doesn’t fit.
I told her it was too tall.
I can actually hear her pop that littlepof hers in my mind.
It takes several seconds of my standing there, glaring at the tree, to snap out of my engrossing thoughts of Aoife, and my phone dinging is the only reason I do. Grabbing for it, I stumble over the steel-legged coffee table and plop onto my overly flat couch. There’s a quiet jolt through me as I open my messages. Aoife and I have never spokenortexted on the phone, so I’m not sure why I respond as if it could be her.
I glance down.
It’s not.
REED
Did you know the Irish have twice as many men as any other crime organization in Boston?
I contemplate his message. No, I didn’t know that, but I’m also wondering why he felt the need to text that tonight. I respond with a quickhuh, then ditch my phone on the couch and move into my kitchenette.
It’s not fancy, not like Aoife’s place. My fridge hums between gray cabinets, and the puny sink inside the quartz countertops fits about two plates and a pan. My parents have been here once, and their only comment was that perhaps God was telling me I could’ve done better if I’d listened and honored my parents. They never came again.
I glance out of the bay window at the brick building nestled next to mine. It’s pointless to have blinds when the view is apatchwork of rust-red and brown. Next to the window is a thin desk, wide enough for my computer and a stack of case files I wasn’t supposed to remove from work. Above it, I’ve pinned a Boston PD calendar to the wall. Thick black Sharpie marks down the days in December, the remaining ones dwindling. Opportunities to get answers on this case before Christmas are also dwindling. I glance at the weekend with the charity ball, which is in sizable red letters.
My parents will be there. A charity ball has the Holtz name all over it. I sigh.
Focusing on this case needs to be my priority, Reed’s priority. I don’t have time to be chasing a fantasy about spending time with Aoife. Picking her up for random adventures, keeping her safe in the front seat of my car, or having her as mine. If she could even bemine. No, right now, I don’t have time to feel anything but alone.
CHAPTER 11
AOIFE
“What about this one?” I hold it up on the hanger in front of me, peeking over the top of it to stare at Summer on FaceTime. My phone is propped up on the plush velvet chair inside the dressing room at Luxe Atelier with her on the other end for some much-needed fashion guidance. I hate dresses. Or picking out clothes. Or trying those clothes on. Especially when it’s last minute.
“Oh, jeez, I like that one, too! I can’t decide. Kieran, come here and pick which one you think.”
I groan. “No. No, I don’t want his opinion. He’ll wrap me in a red garbage bag and call it good.”
She laughs.
I turn, swaying with the silky fabric in the mirror. “Where am I supposed to put my gun?”
“Aye,” I hear my dad comment from somewhere off-screen. “Now, that’s the question ye should be askin’.”
I’m glad I can’t see him. Somehow, it makes it easier. The fact that each time I speak with him and neglect to tell him about Finn … shit. I’m awful. There has to be movement on the case. I haven’t spoken with Grayson since the night he took me to pick out a tree for his apartment for him to tell me. Would he tell me?
The bullshit excuse he came up with about not having lights—I pause on that. You know what …
“I think I’m going to try this one on, so I’ll let you go. Love you!”
“Love you!” Summer echoes, and I shuffle over to click off the app. It takes a few seconds to pull up an online home store, then I place the order and smile as I do. I even add a gift note.
After tucking my phone away, I strip out of my clothes and tug on the dress, which happens to be a weapon all its own. The color is a bloodred that pours over my frame and clings to my curves. It’s perfect in the fits-like-a-glove way, and with heels—I won’t need it altered. The silk dips into a plunging neckline, sculpting my breasts enough to tease attention, but not demand it. The crimson shimmers in the light, as the fabric topples over my hips and hugs my thighs before breaking into a slit that allows me to walk like normal. For a dress, it’s not that bad. I stand on my tiptoes, checking that the hem trails just enough.
If everyone attending this charity ball tomorrow night took the money they’re spending on lavish outfits or suits and donated it to the charity they’re raising money for ahead of time, there’d be no need for it. Add to that, this “charity” does more backward work than the crime families in Boston, so I’m not exactly frothing at the mouth to attend. But I was invited by Mayor Carroway, whom I had a hand in getting elected. He sits in his chair because of me, not the voters, unbeknownst to him. Irish money greased the wheels of that election a year ago, and it wasn’t for gratitude or an invite to the biggest charity event of the season. Nope, he owes me access. Access to contracts funneled where I say, permits approved without delay, Boston PD looking the other way when my men need breathing room. That brass plaque may have his name gouged deep into the metal, but the power runs through the Irish.
I used to tell my dad that politicians were useful tools, that we needed to home in on the ones who’d let us dress them up and parade them around. He always wanted to stay out of it, though, willing to keep his underground boxing ring to stay out of the city’s eye, but it’s an investment, and sometimes they pay off.
So, I don’t want to play dress-up and attend this event on Saturday, but I also need to do my part and check up on my investments. Squeeze some assets. Put the pressure on. Whatever you’d like to call it; there’s something about having the leader of the Irish Mob watch you from a shadowed corner as you wine and dine, all the while you feel the weight of your sellout gnawing you in your gut.
With three more spins around in the dress, I take it off and place it back on the hanger, content to stare at it while I get dressed back into my riding pants and long-sleeve sweater. I leave the other dresses selected for me to try on in the dressing room and exit with only one.
