Page 95 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

“But, Da.”

Our Dylan turned up at the crack of dawn and is currently pacing the floor. Our second youngest never gets ruffled. But that’s exactly what he is.

“Dylan, there’s nothing that can be done now, son. We gave you a week to get your head around it, and you never said no to the girl.”

“You mean I had a choice?” He stops and stares at Fergal, wearing a look of dismay.

“Yes. Unlike Paddy, you had a choice.”

“I didn’t know that, Da,” he whispers in disbelief.

“We told you at the time.”

“I assumed….”

“We all know what happens when you assume, Dyl. Look, I’m sorry, son. You know I hold young Jessie in high regard. You know how much we appreciate the work she’s doing for our organization. If you had enlightened the rest of us to the fact you were fucking her then….”

I elbow Fergal in the ribs. Well. There’s no need for such vulgarity.

“Sorry, Roisin.” He looks at me sheepishly before turning his attention back to our boy. “If you had mentioned you were seeing her, then we could have considered her.”

I listen to their back and forth as I pour myself a cup of tea from the white bone china teapot that’s resting on the coffee table. I glance around the sitting room. It’s barely used. But it’s the last Sunday of the month, so the rest of the family will be joining us later to enjoy a traditional Irish lunch.

I take in the antique walnut furniture covered in countless framed photos of my boys over the years. I’m a proud mother. My lads are my pride and joy, and I want the world to know it.

Tasteful art hangs from the walls, and everything’s finished in green and gold, down to the heavy tapestry curtains and other accents.

Dylan’s resumed his pacing. He’s agitated. Emotional. It’s not like him. It’s not like him at all. He obviously cares a great deal for this Jessie O’Brien. And I feel for him. I do. But I’m glad it didn’t work out. If we added another biker to our family, we’d soon be referring to ourselves as The Hudson Dusters MC.

And who’s to say this girl would want to take the vows with him anyway. Most of those Neanderthalic heathens are unwed and choose to remain so. The men just pick a woman from a line-up and then refer to her as their ‘old lady.’ They then take them to bed, procreate and produce even more of their atheistic sort. Even if they do wed, the men continue to sleep with the loose women that hang around their clubs like it’s all some big disease-ridden orgy, and all while their ‘old women’ stay home raising their offspring.

That’s not a life I want my Dylan to be part of. I mean, I love Sarah even if she is a biker. She’s a good Catholic girl, and she’s rightfully earned her place in this family. She’s also given us little Caoimhe and, God willing, she’ll bless us with many more grandbabies. But unlike Cillian, our Dylan is a sensitive sort. He’s always been happiest at home or just doing his own thing. He doesn’t need to be mixing with their type. Getting himself involved in that hedonistic biker lifestyle where they likely practice paganism and engage in BDSM morning, noon, and night.

No. That sort of life is not for my sensitive boy. So neither is this Jessie O’Brien.

Grace is a good girl. She has the right background and comes from a wealthy Irish family that runs in the same circles as our kin in Ireland.

She’ll do quite nicely, thank you.

We need to bring this nonsense to a close and quickly. Draw a line under it and put Dylan out of his misery. I can see Fergal is wavering, sitting on the fence and getting splinters. He likes Jessie, and from what I can gather, she excels at the job she undertakes on our behalf. But aside from the fact she’s a biker, she also works with that Jaine Jones. I’m already trying to extract that poisonous woman from our lives using whatever means necessary. To welcome Jessie with open arms means opening the door to her business partner once more.

Fergal’s not thinking of the bigger picture. But I am. I may be breaking our Dylan’s heart, but he’ll thank me one day. All of my boys will.

Their future wives have been hand-picked by me, and it’s my opinion there’s no one more suited to each of them.

And a mother always knows best.

I interject. “I’m sorry, Dylan, but the decision’s been made and it’s final.”

Private Dining Room, Palace Hotel, Manhattan

I sip on my Bloody Mary as I watch two of my future daughters-in-law get themselves settled after getting the air-kissing nonsense out of the way.

I didn’t invite Grace along. It’s not that she’s not welcome, but she and our Dylan will do what’s required of them now, so I don’t want to scare the girl off by involving her in conversations such as these. At least not until she and Dyl are safely wed.

Molly’s looking pleased with herself today. Sophia quite the opposite. Things are obviously not progressing as well as we’d hoped with her and our Paddy. Maybe I’ll need to intervene and have a quiet word. It was never going to be straightforward with him. He’s the oneshe’sgot her claws sunk into deepest.

Still, he has a duty to fulfill. A Duster obligation. And perform it he will.

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