Page 57 of Dirty Eoin

History is repeating, but with one marked difference. This time around, I’ll make it worth my while.

“Jaine.” It isn’t Sarah’s voice, it’s Jessie’s. I’m not going to throw myself a pity party this time around. Two years on, I’m able to hide the forever pain that became my permanent bed partner the moment I lost him from my life.

Today, I shall wear my very own mask of indifference.

Pain should never be displayed in this life unless you want others to know that you’re weak. I will show no weakness.

I take a second to compose myself.

Deep breaths. In for four. Out for four.

“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, partner?”

Am I sure?

Desperate measures call for extreme lengths.

Jessie is wearing her leathers like I asked her to. I’m a biker. She’s a biker. I will never be a mobster’s moll. Or at least not Eoin O’Connell’s.

“We’ve been through all this, Jessie.”

“But there must be another way.” She frowns.

“There is no other way.”

She stares into my eyes. She’s searching for evidence of doubt. A sign of second thoughts. There are none.

I know what I have to do. The reasons I’m doing it. Jessie only knows the ones I’ve told her about. Same as Duke. She thinks I’m doing this to protect Fin and JJ.

And I am. In the main.

Jessie nods in understanding.

She knows this isn’t about me. This is about doing what’s necessary.

My eyes glance over the tall, vaulted ceilings, the ancient wooden pews, and the abundance of stained-glass windows that no doubt look breathtaking with the sunlight streaming through. It’s a beautiful place. Serene. I feel its history wash over me a second time.

It’s then I hear the footsteps. I know it’s him.

My nemesis. My enemy. The antagonist in the story of my life.

“Eoin.” I stare at my future husband as his name echoes around Irish’s church.

Mr. Smug. Selfish. Pompous.

His face is impassive. He’s got the look down to an art form.

We’re both playing the game today, both of us experts at our craft.

I take in his expensive suit. It’s clear he’s taking this union seriously. I’m wearing my leathers. It’s clear I’m not.

Maybe I should have made more of an effort. Perhaps I should feel guilty for being so blatantly dismissive of this whole sorry affair. He is Irish Catholic, after all. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event. There’s no way out for him unless I grant him one. He’s waited thirty-eight years for this life-altering moment to take place. A moment I know he doesn’t want to share with me. A moment he wants to share with Molly McGrath.

Does he love her? I fucking hope so. Because when he’s married to me, she’ll be lost to him forever, and vice versa. Maybe then he’ll experience what it feels like to lose someone you love. What it feels like to face the rest of your life without them in it.

He has no option but to fulfill his Duster duty whatever that may be and whatever the cost to him personally.

Just like Irish had to.

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