The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

“You, Aisling Fitzpatrick, are a lovely torture.”

He broke our kiss. Everything was blurry, and my panties were really, really wet.

I pressed my fingertips to my lips. “Oh gosh, what did we do?”

His lips were swollen and bruised, but otherwise, he looked cool and collected.

“I assume that was rhetorical, so I’ll spare you the answer.” He was already fishing for the cigarette pack in his back pocket.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurted out.

He chuckled, a cigarette clasped between his straight white teeth. “Don’t worry about my having girlfriends. I never will.”

“Why not?”

“Because no woman is worth it, least of all one that is the spawn of a man I’d like to bleed dry of his money.”

He lit up his cigarette. His gothic, wintry gray eyes felt like ice cubes rolling down my skin.

“You know, I would never tell if we hooked up.” I swallowed my pride. Even I didn’t know why I wanted him so badly. I just knew I did. He made me feel like I was in a parallel universe whenever we were together.

“I just told you this was our last kiss.”

“But why?” I insisted.

“Because I want your father’s business.”

“I won’t tell.”

“You’re not worth the risk.” He shrugged, puffing away on his cigarette.

“There will be no risk,” I said. A voice inside me warned me that that was enough. It was her.

He doesn’t want you, mon cheri. Turn around and walk away.

But I didn’t.

So Sam looked down at me, frowning.

“Even without the risk, you’re not worth it. You are too young, too innocent, and far too sweet for me. Now do your self-respect a favor and walk away.”

But it was too late.

My pride took such a beating, I had to retaliate, even though I had absolutely no tools to do so.

“I feel sorry for you,” I said, feeling incredibly un-sorry for him, but incredibly sorry for myself.

“You do?” He smirked, humoring me. “Why?”

“Because you’re a half-literate, barely educated dropout. You probably don’t even know the multiplication table. That’s why you do what you do. You don’t have a choice.”

“You’re calling me dumb?” His smile widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You are dumb.” I tipped my chin up. “But it’s okay. You’re hot and ooze that look-at-me-I’m-dangerous vibe, so I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

“Don’t forget rich.” He snapped his fingers.

“Not by my standards,” I smiled coldly. Holy hell, it was like my mother took over my mouth. “Just try not to make conversation. You’re not very good at it.”

“Based on you dry humping my leg like a bitch in heat five seconds ago, I’m sure I’ll be able to keep them entertained some other way.”

His words were crass, but his nonchalant smile dissolved into a grim mask of coldness.

“You … you … you …”

“I’m … I’m … I’m … what?” He clapped my mouth shut by tapping his finger to my chin, smirking. “Right?”

Before I could answer, Sam vanished.

He ignored me for the rest of the evening.

Four hours later, I crawled back to my room, still in a daze from dinner.

Sam had impressed everyone with his dry wit, sharp mind, and that aura that surrounded him. The one that promised a swift yet painful death if you crossed him.

I found my finite mathematics textbook—the one I’d left open on my Queen Anne desk because I’d been stuck on the same problem for an infinite amount of time—glaring back at me.

I groaned and reached for it, about to close it.

“I’ll try solving you tomorrow. I have bigger problems to work out now.”

Like how I cannot stop obsessing over Boston’s most notorious mobster.

My hand stopped over the slick, chrome page. I blinked. The problem was solved, only not in my handwriting.

In fact, all the problems on the page were solved. Every single one of them.

How did he …?

“Are you calling me dumb?”

Yes, I did. But Sam wasn’t dumb. Based on this page alone, he was closer to a math genius.

Angry with him, and with myself, and with the world, I slammed the math book shut with a thud. A note floated down to the floor from it. I picked it up.

Was that, like, hard?

He’d quoted Legally Blonde.

And served me my own ass in the process.

Ouch.

Present Day.

Age 27.

I’m in.

The thought momentarily derailed me from everything else teeming in my head. The noise, the pain, the second guesses.

I descended the stairs to Badlands, the most popular nightclub in Boston.

I’d been categorically banned from Badlands. I’d even been turned away at the door once, as the bouncer drawled, “Boss showed your picture around, jailbait. Said he’ll fire anyone who’s dumb enough to let you in.”

I was twenty-six then, but that little fact didn’t deter him. From the moment Sam Brennan purchased this club two years ago, using it as a hub for all his bad seedy dealing, he refused to let me set foot in it, even though my brothers had been visiting here on a weekly basis.