Once Kissed: An O'Brien Family Novel (The O'Brien Family) (8 page)

I sit in my car for fifty-four minutes. Fifty-four goddamn minutes, waiting for Lu to show up. It doesn’t seem like a long time, except that it is—long enough to feel like a complete screwup. What the hell is wrong with me? Didn’t I tell Declan I’d keep my distance—keep it all professional? And just this afternoon—when he caught me eyeing her up—I assured him nothing would happen.

Christ.

Every bit of common sense warned me against kissing Tess. Well, where was that common sense when I needed it—when I all but dry-humped her against the wall?

Hell, though. Can you blame a guy? Her laugh, that smile, those legs, and the way her green eyes flare behind her glasses are like magnets hauling me to her. I wanted that mouth so I took it. I also wanted to grip that ass and yank up her shirt and bra so I could tug on her nipples with my—

Every swear word I know shoots through my teeth. Holy Mother above, I could kick my own ass for being this horny. The thing of it is, if I were just horny, I’d head down to the nearest bar, pick up a girl, and take care of business.

So why don’t I?

’Cause you want Tess, asshole.

I run a hand over my face. Yeah. Pretty damn bad, based on that kiss. That angel face of hers gets me every time, even when she’s shaking her head at my stupid remarks. Pissed or happy, stressed or relaxed, Tess is a knockout, and she doesn’t even goddamn know it.

Damn, it felt good to have her body glued against mine. And didn’t she know how to work it, giving me everything back as hard as I took it.

I know she means it when she says she wants to be construed as a professional. Problem is, Tess is a nymph in nerd’s clothing. The night we spent in college didn’t involve that spooning shit or the cuddle time girls are supposed to like. It was rough and fast. We couldn’t get enough of each other. Even when we finally finished, we didn’t cuddle. We more like collapsed in a mess of sweaty limbs.

Something occurs to me, and it hits me like a punch: I want her. But unlike when we were in college, it’s not because she’s a challenge. I like her. She’s smart, and she’s sweet. Yet for all she seems to have going on, something’s way off. The way she eats, how she dresses, and where she lives seem all wrong.

And for all the ways I can describe her, “happy” isn’t one of them.

She never smiles…except maybe around me. That thought shouldn’t make me grin, but it does. I like having that effect on her.

“O’Brien!” Lu bangs her fist against the window. “You gonna sit on your ass with that stupid smile on your face or are you going to give me some kind of report?” she growls.

Shit.
I roll down the window. “Why don’t you wave a sign over my head announcing I’m a cop—who happens to be the brother of the DA the mob is targeting—so any perp tracking us can just put a bullet in my head and be done?”

“Because I already swept the area for any unknown cars, called and checked in with our girl, secured the first, second, and, yeah, the other three floors of the building—in other words, did my job—while you sat there on your ass,
again,
with that asshole grin on your face.”

“Assholes don’t grin,” I counter.

“Fuck you” is her response.

“How about this one? Contessa?”

I’m looking in the same direction as Mallory when the boutique owner presents yet another atrocious gown. “It’s fine,” I mumble.

My stepmother sighs dramatically. She resents spending time with me and only dragged me here because my father ordered her to. “Will you at least try to appease your father?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Instead of typing the legal briefs Declan needs, and studying for my exam in Criminal Law, and prepping for my upcoming mock trial.

Mallory eyes me, surprised by my tone given how anything I say will get back to my father. At this point, I don’t care. She’s betrayed me constantly to stay in Father’s good graces, giving no thought to how it affected me, or how badly I needed a supportive parent in my life.

In fact, Mallory married Father six months after my estranged mother’s suicide. We’ve never been close. To her I’m simply a burden to endure in order to belong to a family of prestige.

She never realized what marrying my father would cost her.

At only forty, and twenty years his junior, she is well within my father’s grip. She sits beside me, ramrod straight as he expects, dressed in suits or dresses he selects, belonging to charities and clubs he’s forced her to join, and associating with only women he approves.

While she enjoys certain perks I lack, like a cellphone and a car, they come at the price of being married to a dictator. Yet she stays, holding tight to her lavish home and lifestyle.

“Perhaps something in more classic tones,” she suggests when I say nothing more.

I glance around the shop. Curran would call it an old biddy’s wet dream, or something to that effect. I smile to myself, thinking about all the inappropriate comments that would shoot out of his mouth if he were here.

Mmm. That mouth.

I pass my fingertips along my lips, remembering the sweep of his tongue and how the stubble on his jaw had grazed my skin.

Damn, it was an amazing moment, until it wasn’t.

Sorry,
he said.

I shouldn’t have done that to you,
he added.

I know he didn’t mean to insult me. Curran isn’t cruel. But his reaction was an emotional blow I didn’t need, and one that really hurt.

God, Curran.

“Are you all right, Contessa?”

“I’m fine,” I answer, keeping my eyes ahead.

Three more gowns. Three more atrocities. “Just pick something,” she hisses when I pass on something that resembles a bicycle reflector instead of a piece of clothing I’d slip over my head. “I have a Daughters of the Confederacy meeting to attend. You know how testy they can be when someone arrives late.”

I fold my hands on my lap and try to breathe. This is the future that awaits me if I don’t break free of my father. “Do you have something more trendy?” I ask the store owner. “Perhaps something in black?”

The poor woman nods, and shuffles to the back of the store. I don’t want to be here, any more than her or Mallory. What I want is to see Curran, even though he may not want to see me.

When the store owner returns and shows me the next gown, I almost can’t believe my eyes. The gown is reminiscent of a dark sky filled with stars, like midnight in the summer along the shore. It’s all black, covered in iridescent beading that circles the turtleneck and swirls out and into the long sleeves.

I cross the small space, hardly believing a gem exists in this sea of paisley and polyester. “It’s stunning. I’d like to try it on, please.”

“No,” Mallory insists, forcing a laugh as she addresses the owner. “Forgive me, but your instructions were for more conservative and traditional attire. This is too, ah, formfitting.”

She means sensual. “I like it,” I say, quietly.

I pass the stretchy material along my hands, examining it closely. With a smile, I lift the dress from the woman’s arms and place it against me, ignoring Mallory’s warning.

“It will look gorgeous on you,” the woman says, her face beaming.

Her kindness makes me smile even more. “I hope so. May I use one of your dressing rooms to see if it fits?”

The woman motions to the right. “Of course, dear.”

My first thought is of Curran, and whether he would like it. It’s a silly thought, but if he liked me enough to kiss me in my old-lady shoes and nerdwear, maybe he’ll reconsider that kiss and a lot more if he sees me in this dress.

“Contessa, your father won’t approve,” Mallory insists.

“It has sleeves and a turtleneck. What more could he want?”

“A daughter who would be more appreciative of his efforts and grateful for his generosity,” he growls behind me.

I squeeze my lids tight.
Shit.

Once again, my father arrived, unexpected and unwelcomed.

Panic replaces my shock. I don’t turn around, even when he reaches my side. “Why must you make such a simple task as picking out a dress so arduous?” he asks, his voice loud enough for the owner to hear.

Maybe it’s the humiliation, or the fact that I’m just so tired of taking his crap—whatever it is makes me snap. “Because it’s something I’m being forced to wear to an event I have no desire to attend,” I fire back.

My father hasn’t struck me in years. But if we were alone, he would have then. “Shut your filthy mouth,” he demands, seething with rage.

The sharpness to his tone causes the boutique owner to edge away. But from one blink to the next, the fury cutting ugly lines into his face dissolves, revealing the fine features of the gentleman he pretends to be. “We’ll take the blue one,” he tells the boutique owner, pointing to my left.

I make the mistake of looking, expecting the worst, and am not disappointed. There on a rack is a sexy number befitting most women in their nineties. I want to scream, but instead, there I stand, fighting the angry tears that come with being the daughter of Donald Newart.

The woman rushes away to fill Father’s order, falling all over herself to please him, as most do. It’s then that he leans in close, speaking through his teeth. “You walk a thin line with me, Contessa. Bite the hand that feeds you, and you’ll find it biting back.”

My stomach clenches tight.
Fuck you.

Despite my vicious thoughts, the venom in his voice causes me to recoil, exactly like it’s done all my life, starting when I was just a little girl who simply needed her father’s love.

I lower my eyelids and take a breath when he storms off. This fear, it doesn’t come on suddenly. It’s always there, lurking beneath the surface just as he intended.

When did it start? I don’t know. If I had to guess, it likely started in infancy.

My earliest memory is of him ramming his fist between my shoulder blades and wrenching my shoulders back to “teach me” to stand straight and not slouch. I couldn’t have been more than three. But I recall that moment, and remember the feel of his knuckles against my small spine, just like I remember my heart breaking and my mother urging me not to cry, because “you’ll make your father mad.”

He’d smack my mouth if I didn’t speak clearly, or if I used words he believed were too simplistic. He’d make me wait to eat until he finished his meal to demonstrate he didn’t owe me anything, not even food. I wasn’t allowed to play around him. I wasn’t permitted to speak unless spoken to, and I couldn’t “behave like a child”—even when I was one.

This isn’t a form of abuse most read about online, or catch on the evening news. It doesn’t cause “real” bruises, but it bruises the soul.

It’s real. It controls. It hurts. And it’s effective. So for me to argue or speak to him like I did is unheard of. But, God, I’m tired, tired of taking his orders, tired of allowing him to belittle me, and tired of permitting his mistreatment.

I’m barely aware of his voice, and of the small clicking noises at the register as he completes the transaction, his words and anger leaving me as weak as if he’d beaten me with his hands.

It’s all I can do not to collapse.

He leaves then, with Mallory close at his heels. The hideous dress is my first punishment. The abandonment is my second. My third will likely be waiting for me in my apartment, but I won’t find it anytime soon.

I’m on the other side of town, miles from my apartment. My father left with the person who brought me. He intends to make me walk so I can think about my actions, and so he can occupy my thoughts. He didn’t bother leaving me money for a cab or asking if I brought my bus pass. And he knows I don’t have a phone.

He assumes I’m alone.

But I’m not alone.

Curran followed me here.

He shadowed Mallory’s car without her knowing, which is perfect. I don’t want Father to know I’m under surveillance. And if Mallory knew, she’d run and tell him.

Initially, I panicked over how Curran would react following our kiss. Now, I’m panicking over what he’ll say when he realizes Mallory left without me. I don’t want him to know I was dumped like a piece of trash.

I hurry outside, only to have the owner stop me. “Miss, you forgot your dress!”

I groan and wait for her to hand me the oversized box. “Thank you,” I say, although I don’t really mean it.

With the box tucked beneath my arm, I step outside, searching for Curran. Several stores surround the area and the lot is completely full. At first, I can’t find him, and wonder if another patrol took over. My shoulders relax when I see him step out of his dark blue F-150.

“Hi,” I say when I reach him.

He motions to the dress with his chin. “New argyles?” he asks. My expression shatters before I can stop it, erasing Curran’s grin. “Okay. Forget I asked.”

I quickly compose myself, or at least, I try. “I needed a dress. I have a social event to attend next week,” I mutter.

“You mean like a date?”

His question surprises me. “Something like that.”

“With the judge’s law clerk?”

“No.” I frown a little. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugs. “Just curious. He’s the only guy you’ve been with.”

I meet his eyes. “No. Not the only one.”

Curran works his jaw but says nothing. I glance away, trying not to focus on those soft lips. “If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind taking me home?” I ask.

“I was wondering about that, seeing how that lady you came with left you here.”

Oh, boy, here we go. “She’s my stepmother. She had a meeting to attend.”

“With your dad?” He cocks his head when he catches my surprise. “I saw him, Tess. He pulled into the lot less than a minute after you walked into the shop.”

And yet he waited before entering. Not that I’m shocked. My father likes me to think I’m always being watched.

“You okay, Tess?”

I nod, but in truth, I’m not feeling well.

“When did you eat last?” he asks.

“What?”

His frown deepens. “I asked when was the last time you ate?”

“Last night. At dinner.”

“It’s almost two o’clock now.”

I rearrange the large box in my arms. “I don’t typically eat breakfast.”

“This isn’t breakfast, and you’re way past lunch. Why haven’t you eaten?”

I don’t miss the anger in his tone, although I’m not sure where it’s coming from. “I planned to wait until I returned to my apartment.”

“The way you look, you’re not going to make it back to your place.”

I shift uncomfortably. “What’s wrong with the way I look?”

He considers his words. “Nothing. You just look like you could eat, that’s all.” He surprises me by slipping his arm around my shoulders and leading me forward. “Come on. I know this perfect place to get some steaks.”

I try to shift from his hold. “Curran, I can’t. I don’t have any money.”

“I’m not asking you to pay,” he says, like it’s obvious.

He releases me when it occurs to him he’s holding me close. Apparently, it wasn’t a conscious effort. As I watch, he marches toward his truck as if trying to put space between us.

I don’t follow, confused by his actions. “Do you think this is wise?”

He glances over his shoulder. “What? Eating? Hell, yeah. You look ready to fall over.”

I focus on the bright gold ribbon sealing the box as he returns to stand directly in front of me. “What I mean is, do you think it’s wise for us to go out together?” I take a breath. “Last night when you kissed me, you told me you made a mistake. Did you mean that?”

Curran watches me with his hands shoved deep in his pockets for what seems like too long. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

I raise my chin, feeling my body warm. “Okay. Maybe you’re right.”

He passes a hand through his hair when I make no effort to move. “Look, let’s just go eat. Okay? I wasn’t kidding when I said you look ready to pass out.”

I follow him to his truck, even though by now, I’m ready to crawl beneath the nearest rock. He opens the door for me and shuts it tight once I slip inside.

As I watch him walk around to the other side, streams of sunlight strike his head, brightening his hair and shimmering his irises.

I steal a long glance at his rugged features and at his fine ass in those jeans before he climbs in and starts the engine with a roar. It’s a shame those sweet lips and firm cheeks want nothing of my touch, but in a way, maybe it’s best.

I meant what I said. The right job and the right opportunities can slip away if those who can help me regard me as less than professional…including this alluring man who’s witnessed the real side of me.