Page 8 of Mob Saint

“You don’t need to speak to him in the morning. I don’t want that.” She shakes her head.

“I won’t whack him. I’m not even going to beat him up. But he is going to tell his grandma what he said.”

“His grandma?”

“Yes. She’s terrifying.”

“What?” Her brow furrows into deep lines that disappear when she relaxes.

“His grandmother is eighty-six and still walks three miles a day no matter the weather. She’s also as devout as the Virgin Mary. When she finds out he insulted you, she won’t have it. Nothing I could do would be worse than what Sally MacMillan will come up with, I promise you that. She was my fourth-grade teacher.”

“Emily wasn’t wrong, though. I was way more competitive than I needed to be. It was a scrimmage, not even an actual game.”

“But the point of scrimmages is to practice like it’s a game to be prepared for when it is. You did nothing wrong.”

“Thank you for the absolution, but I still could have dialed it back a few dozen notches.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Fuck me.

I tan well, but with my red hair and freckles, I look like a goddamn fire engine when I blush. I can feel the heat radiating from my cheeks. I need to muzzle myself. I can’t seem to shut the fuck up around her. She’s already made it clear I irritate her. She wanted to leave, and now I’m keeping her here for what? To tempt me with something I can’t have.

“Really? I’m pretty sure your other teammates believe what Randy and Emily did. I was over the top.”

“You talk to yourself while you play, don’t you?”

“How’d you know?” She shifts nervously. I’m prying too much.

“I could tell from the way you looked around. How you’d adjust course as though you were calling out signals but to yourself. You were predicting what would happen whichever way you would go before deciding where to position yourself.” I finish with a shrug.

“You played midfield. How could you see all that?”

“Mrs. MacMillan used to say I had eagle eyes because she was sure I could read the answer keys from across the room.”

“Could you?”

“Most of the time. But it was because I was tall, and she kept next to nothing on her desk.”

“Or you were already learning to observe everything.”

I don’t respond. We just stare at each other. She knows what I am. There I go again, but I keep ignoring my own warnings.

“Goodnight, Seamus.”

“Goodnight, cai—Tiernan.”

I don’t know why she hates me calling her that so much. I don’t think it’s because I’m a presumptuous arsehole for doing it. It’s the word itself that bothers her. But I catch myself in time for only her lips to flatten. Lips I’d love nothing more than to nip and kiss. It was just as well she stepped away from me when she put the arnica in her bag. If she’d moved a hair backwards, she would have felt my hard on. I have my gym bag positioned in front of me to hide the one I have now.

I was attracted to her last week in court. I was hard for her during most of the game—not a comfortable condition to be in when trying to run. I want to maul her now. I want to pull her against me, holding her arse in my hands as I push my cock against her pussy. I want to discover whether she’s wet for me. If she is, is she as wet for me as I am hard for her? I doubt that’s possible. I’ve got a fucking iron pole in my shorts, I’m so hard. I need to go home to an icy shower.

I watch her walk to the subway stop, and I’m tempted to follow her to make sure she gets home safely. But I reassure myself she’s been getting around on her own for years. Just because I want her doesn’t mean she needs me. That’s a kick in the balls.

When she disappears down the steps, I head to my car. Tomorrow is gonna suck so hard. And it won’t be the kind I’d look forward to with Tiernan’s lips wrapped around my cock. It’s gonna blow, and not like it would if she were giving me a BJ. And now I’m back to being hard again.

FML.

We’re finally to closing arguments. We’ve slogged through hours of testimony and a slew of evidence. We’ve endured Dickie Bird prattling for forty-five minutes while he gives his summation. This should be the final hour of this case, and it couldn’t finish soon enough. When it’s my turn to speak, I stand and button my suit coat before moving around the table to take my position before the people who decide my professional fate as much as my client’s.

Every win makes me more frightening to opposing lawyers. Any loss makes me a mockery—a shitty stereotype of mobsters who can’t buy their way out of everything.

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