Page 11 of Broken Blood Ties

I should have my head checked. I’ve thought about it—going to the doctor—ever since I started seeing her about a year ago. It’s in the ring that I see or feel her. It’s why I’m here so much. I can’t describe it, and if I told someone they may have me institutionalized. But each punch to the side of my head blooms the outlined image of her in my mind.

It’s a different feeling than it was with Laura. It’s bone rattling how much this fictional woman occupies my thoughts. How much I crave someone to know me so well it’s like they live inside my head.

I spit the bloody mess in my mouth to the floor and move to the bench, where I drag my shirt back over my head and reach down for my towel. My phone clangs to the floor, and I forgot I’d put it there.

When I pick it up, I notice I have a voicemail from Ardenbrook Academy.

“Aoife,” I mutter to myself and quickly swipe to listen, worried something has gone wrong. I would’ve heard from Allie, wouldn’t I? I bring the phone to my ear.

“Hello, Mr. O’Donnell. My name is Summer Smith.”I snicker at the unoriginal name.“I’m Aoife’s preschool teacher at Ardenbrook Academy. We had field trip permission slips due today and Aoife did not submit hers. I know she’s looking forward to the Boston Aquarium, and since we have a policy aboutnannies”—she emphasizes the word with a hint of disdain—“signing said forms, it would be great if you could please take the time to look at her home folder this evening so she can return the form by Monday.”She rattles off her personal cell number in case I have any “questions” followed by “have a nice weekend”then hangs up.

I pull the phone away from my ear to stare at it. What the hell? This woman’s voice is seductively annoying and add to the fact I’m pretty sure she just insulted me about not paying enough attention to my daughter. Who does this woman think she is?

I’m on the damn board for crying out loud. I could have her fired with one phone call.

Something propels me to listen to it again, and this time I know the words, so I listen to her voice. It’s raw but smooth, and I can’t help the liquid heat rushing to my belly at her displeased attitude wrapped in her sultry young tone.

I fling the phone down in favor of my water bottle that I fist too hard. Water squirts in my eye and I snarl.

“Aye, what has ye in a foul mood?” Cormac runs over. “Looks like ye were doing well in there.”

He thinks I’m upset about being knocked down by Oscar in the ring, but no. That’s not it. My pride keeps me from telling him I was guilt-tripped by my daughter’s preschool teacher over voicemail.

“Aye,” I say. I roll my shoulders craving a shower and hot meal. I wonder what Allie has made for dinner. It’s Friday, so usually we do some sort of fish, much to Aoife’s dismay. That little lady could eat pizza and chicken nuggets for every meal.

Fight days are on Wednesday and Saturday nights. I made a point when Aoife was born to move from three fights a week to two. Most nights I’m here at the office late, then Saturday nights are fight nights. Fridays are my time with Aoife.

It needs to be more. It should be more.

Ye need to do better.

Miss Smith’s tantalizing yet condescending voice, riddled with judgment, sizzles in the back of my mind the entire walk to my office and then continues on my brisk walk home.

The more I think about it, the more I’m not sure I can let this young teacher off the hook. Did she call all the parents with the same attitude?

It’s later—after a salmon dinner which Aoife refused to eat, bath time, seven books, and twenty questions—that I’m in my office staring at the permission slip for Summer Smith’s pre-K4 class’s field trip to the Boston Aquarium.

I’m certain that Allie has taken Aoife before, so it’s not like she’s never been. But the fact I’m not one hundred percent sure grates on my nerves and irks me further. I snatch the permission slip then fall into my leather chair. It makes a sound as if it’s huffing out an exhausted breath from me planting my ass in it.

It’s not a fancy leather chair like you’d see in Hollywood movies depicting mafia men. Or an expensive one that sits in a billion-dollar penthouse looking like it’s never been sat in. Mine doesn’t shine, it’s glaring. With rustic green and brown patches, a botched attempt to mend the worn holes from three generations of O’Donnell arses.

It’s similar to my office.

The whole house is immaculate and designed, but my office is a different story. Its tattered vibe and sapped energy pulse is indicative of how often I’m in here. Which is often. Even on Friday nights—my supposed nights off—I’m here. Until 2:00 a.m. at the earliest.

I run legitimate businesses, so there’s never a shortage of work to be done. However, I also run the underground fighting here in Boston, which brings in a lot of dirty money. Luckily, the bar flushes out most of it and I can integrate it into the bar that takes in a lot of cash.

I stare out over my desk at the stately grandfather clock to the left of the entrance. Two chairs sit across from my desk, though they’re rarely occupied by anyone. Because of my daughter, I conduct most of my business at the office in O’Brien’s.

I sit taller, glaring at the permission slip and nearly crumple it in my hand. Pulling open my laptop, I bring up a fresh email addressed to Principal Green and cc a few of the board members on it as well. The sinking feeling that I’m being petty with this young teacher occurs, but it’s outweighed by the insecurity she may be right. And that’s a sucker punch to my pride.

I knew there was something I didn’t do the other night. Allie mentioned it. I’m slipping and Aoife is suffering. Regardless of whether there’s any truth to her assumption, she shouldn’t be demeaning parents over the phone.

My fingers pound across the keyboard with my demand for a meeting, and as I tilt my laptop closed, the door to the office creaks. Glancing up, two sky-blue eyes peer at me.

“Aoife? Everything okay?” I shift, trying to get a better look at her.

She nods, shouldering the door open a little more. Her rainbow mermaid pajamas are bunched up and cricked at her hips. She snuggles Mr. Cuddles in her arms close to her face, which appears heavy and tired.

---