She’s not only here, but—a man shifts, and I glimpse her through the break—she’s dressed in a red dress that makes me want to arrest each man vying for her attention. Why is she here? Her blonde hair is curled into beachy waves, and when she flicks it over her shoulder, grin on her face, she entrances every man in the vicinity. She meets my gaze briefly, glossing over the fact that I’m standing a few feet away down the bar before she engages in more conversation.
I snarl under my breath, clenching my fist as I lean onto the countertop and gesture to one of the bartenders.
“Sir?”
“Strongest shit you’ve got. On the rocks.”
He nods and scurries off.
“Starting the night off strong?” Reed slides up next to me, eyes peeking over at Aoife O’Donnell, still flooded by people.
I look at him. He’s in a black tux and has opted for a bow tie instead of a tie, which looks stupid, but hell if I care.
A glass is set in front of me, the amber liquid sloshing.
“Cask-strength whiskey, sir.” The bartender nods and hurries off to take more orders, while I fist the cool glass. I spin my drink, the ice shifting with a low clink as I study it. It was a knee-jerk reaction to order this, but what the hell. I bring it to my lips, taking a sip. It scorches the back of my throat, and heat bulldozes my chest, but when I glance over at Aoife again, I take another.
Reed takes a sip of the imported beer he walked over with. “Why do you think she’s here? Is she not involved enough in this overrun city? It’s like no one at this damn charity event cares that the leader of the Irish Mob has waltzed in.”
It’s then Mayor Carroway strides toward her. He’s tall, in the lanky way, with a chiseled face and light scruff coloring his chin. Thick blond hair tops his head, which hides his gray, giving away that the man is really in his forties, not the thirties he tries to pretend he is. His wife is out of town according to the rumors in the department. Knowing they hint toward a divorce makes the swaggered walk toward Aoife and the perfect white grin plastered on his face that much more infuriating. He parts the other men like they’re the Red Sea, and he reaches for Aoife’s hand. She takes it—her lashes batting at a rate that makes me take another burning sip of liquor. She feigns modesty as he ushers her to the dance floor and wraps her in his arms.
“My point exactly,” Reed says, dumping his empty bottle on the bar.
I spin and peer at them over my glass. Back to the bar, I pretend to appreciate the band when really, I can’t stop staring. The way she tosses her head back and laughs, the lines of her legs tangled amongst his, or the curve of her hip as she sways.
Knocking back the rest of my drink, I blink as the haze of that final sip blurs the room. A cigarette. That’s what I need right now, not to sit here and imagine what the mayor could possibly say that’s so hilarious. With a push, I skate from the bar, move around the group of men as enraptured with her as before, and stride for the balcony.
In the hall, a massive, twenty-foot Christmas tree garners the attention of those strolling around outside the ballroom. It’s wrapped in gold and ivory ribbons twisted together and trimmed with giant red ball ornaments the size of soccer balls. Couples pose for the photographers in front of the fake wrapped presents under the tree.
I plow through the doors to the balcony, acknowledging another man leaning on the railing, cigar in hand. I don’t have a fancy cigar, but I fumble in my pocket for my pack of cigarettes, pull one out, and light it up. The inhale is therapeutic for a second, before I catch the top of her condo building in the distance. Only a shitty-ass second—this woman goes beyond infecting my mind; it’s damn near sepsis positioning in my bloodstream. I snarl, sucking in another long drag.
Why is she here?
The cold, earthy air seeps into my bones as I lean over the glass railing, stories above the Boston nightlife. It’s wet and sharp, but when I glance up looking for a star or two, the leaden charcoal clouds look like they’re about to break. Which means we most likely will have sloppy sleet rain on its way.
If Aoife rode her bike here, I could give her a ride home.
As soon as that thought enters, I retract it. She didn’t ride here in that dress. That damn dress that fits her like a glove.
“Enjoy your evening,” the man with the cigar says, turning to head back inside. Normally, it’d be too cold to stand around fuming, but I find I’m rather hot. That is until the next voice sends ice trickling through my veins.
“Told you he’d be out here, Brad.” My mother’s voice cuts through the hum of Boston traffic and the pulsating wind as I’m mid-exhale. I stare toward the harbor, my jaw aching.
I don’t want to turn to look at her, but I do, offering a modicum of respect for the woman who birthed me.
“Mother,” I say. She lost the name Mom long ago.
Her black hair is twisted into a neat, tight bun, and her face slathered in makeup while diamond teardrop earrings drip from her ears. Rosy-red lips frown when she spots the cigarette in my hand.
“I told your father you’d be out here smoking.” She approaches, sizing me up. Her dress is emerald green, modest with puffy velvet sleeves, and when I catch my father striding after her in a suit with a matching-colored tie, I smirk.
“Mother. Father. It’s good to see you. I hope you’re enjoying the evening.” I grimace at my rehearsed words.
“Grayson.” My father comes to stand beside my mother. “Heard you were working on a serial case?”
I nod, unsurprised they’d ask about it. The media has been all over this. The city is divided on whether we should be “wasting” department resources hunting a killer only going after organized crime in the city. A few weeks ago, I’m not sure I would’ve put up much of a fight there, but now … I’m not sure I’m ready to degrade myself with the rest of them. Deciding murder is bad only when it’s someone we care about it.
“Well,” my mother chimes in. “You could have been sitting on the board of the firm by now.”
