“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks. The concern and care in his eyes taking me aback.
“Yeah, but we need to get that window fixed,” I tell him. Who knows who else might come around trying to find a place to set up and party.
“That’s what we have him for.” Kieran looks in the direction Eddie left in. “I’ll make him mow, dust, anything we want.”
Jesus, he’s brilliant.
“He’ll learn what it’s like to actually work, and we’ll get this place back in decent condition,” Kieran tells me. “Only way to make a boy a man is through discipline, a few day’s labor will help get his head on straight. It did me when I was a boy.”
Seeing Kieran as a boy is an image I can’t imagine. All I see is a tough, powerful man with a gun. It’s all I’ll ever see. We lived the similar lifestyles but grew up very different. He’s so angry and violent, and I’m more passive aggressive and patient. Maybe it’s because he’s a male and I’m female. Maybe it’s because his father stuck around. Either way, I’m glad he was here tonight though. There’s no telling what those three guys would have done to me.
Looking the cabin over I roll my lips onto one another, I scratch my forehead and place a hand on my hip.
“Why do you care about this cabin so much?” I can’t help but ask. I know why it means so much to me, but why does he care? Why doesn’t he just make me go back to New York with him where he doesn’t have to worry about rusty water?
“Because, you like it,” he clips and presses on the small of my back to usher me back inside, declaring our conversation over.
My head is spinning with everything that just happened. Yes, Kieran has a temper and has no boundaries when it comes to pulling the trigger, but he does have a sense of caring. He did all this for me, even after me being a bitch today.
“I’m sleeping in the room with you tonight, just in case those punks come back,” he states, his face forward.
“I don’t—”
“It’s happening. Don’t argue.”
There couldn’t be more tension or awkwardness then there is in this room right now. The moon casting a romantic glow through the room, our bodies beaded with sweat as we lay inches apart. I put on a shirt that I ordered online a couple months ago that was too big and some loose shorts, Kieran is shirtless with a pair of tight briefs on and laying on top of the bedding.
“You should try and get some sleep.” He says in a low voice. Rolling over onto my side, the smell of mixed spices, rum making my body come alive more than sleepy I lay on my hands.
“I’m trying,” I reply. It’s not easy having a man lying next to you that just about executed a man on the front lawn.
He stares blankly at the ceiling, both of his arms under his head. My eyes roam over his body full of tattoos and scars that tell stories I’d stay up all night just to hear.
“Are you going to sleep?” I ask, my eyes becoming heavy.
“I don’t sleep at night. I never could,” he says, adjusting his sweaty body. His head rolls to look at me. “And don’t think because I’m in bed with you that this will somehow be the magical night I fall asleep.”
Rolling my eyes, I roll onto the other side, my back facing him. He really is an asshole and knows nothing about being romantic.
“In your dreams,” I scoff, my eyes now looking at the wooden wall. Closing my eyes, I become frustrated from the itchy sheets and kick them away from me completely.
“We need to order some damn sheets because these are just ridiculous,” I grumble, punching my pillow to fluff it up some.
I think about the blood on the floor, how quickly Kieran responded to the intruders and my mind goes to the stories in the press.
“Is the story about you garroting a man with his own shoelaces true?” I have to wonder, I saw that one in the press once, and always wondered how he got the cord to go all the way around the man’s neck. It was said they saw him drag the man into the bowling alley bathroom, but the footage was ruined in evidence and witnesses changed their story after learning who the suspect was. So, he’s innocent, they say. But I don’t believe it. Garroting is a popular tactic to make people talk, or kill in our organizations. So Dominic has told me.
“You know I can’t tell you that,” he mutters, and assume that as a yes. I stiffen, knowing it’s probably true.
“Why won’t you take the position of a don?” he asks, knowing my father left it in my hands.