Chapter Four

 

“Fecked. I’m nah only royally fecked, but I did it to myself. Bloody hell, I might as well have shot me head off. That’d solve all me troubles, eh.” Ash stood with his elbows on the guard rail overlooking Boston Harbor, facing the midnight horizon to his east. Ireland lay beyond the pond, and tonight he was wishing he’d stayed there. That he hadn’t put all his eggs in one basket. Most of all—that he’d bought an ounce of Hammer’s insurance!

Nothing hurt his pride worse than admitting he’d made a mistake the size of the Emerald Isle he longed for, but he had. Aye, by hell, he had. He was what his da, if he were still alive, would call an eejit. Translation: idiot. Wasn’t that the awful truth?

He stifled his regrets, feeling the plumbed depths of that bitter word all the way to the dregs of his soul. Like before, he had only himself to blame. Well, except for the arsonist who’d torched his building, the bastard still running fast and loose in Boston, Mass. Beantown Stalker, huh? Wait til I get me bloody hands on ‘im!

Still, it was Ash’s fault for not hedging his bets with a sound fire insurance policy. With any insurance. The bank had called before closing—their’s, not his—inquiring after his plan for a ‘sound financial remedy’. What could he tell them, that his money tree would be bearing a bountiful harvest of quid in a day or two, stop yer worrying? That all was well and fine in Callahan-town, when they knew it wasn’t?

He bowed his face to the murky waters below and pitched another cigarette butt into the swirling eddies in the harbor. Shite, the whole world knows…

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, he could nah pull one coin out of his arse, much less come up with enough green to repay the bank, replenish his inventory, and start anew. Like it or nah, ‘twas time to face the music. He had no plan B. If you’re so dumb you don’t insure what’s important in life, you don’t bloody deserve a second chance, do you?

A remorse-filled sigh hissed out of him. Dumb wasn’t the word of the day. Arrogance was. His greatest mortal sin, one he committed regularly and always against himself. Too bad it didn’t reap the same pleasure as another mortal sin he was well on his way to hell for, the foolish coveting of a woman he didn’t deserve.

It sliced his sorry soul to ribbons to say it, but—Callahan Woodworks was no more. Another sigh. Another cruel wrench at his heart, but aye. It was time to move on. His dream was gone. Just like her...

Even if she came back, Colby had made it abundantly clear she couldn’t love him. The look in her eyes when he’d kissed her all those years ago had been quite the shock. He’d been so overcome, so blessed to have finally tasted the honey of her lips, that he’d actually taken a second or two to thank the Blessed Virgin for sending that particular angel into his sorry life, before he kissed Colby again.

Guess she hadn’t felt the same. Her palm in the center of his chest said it all. There was no need to follow it up with a stern, ‘No.’ But she had. Right before she walked away.

He, one of Ireland’s own sons, had the bad luck to fall in love with an American princess of royal, capitalistic birth. Only this one was not like the others he’d come across. Ah, no. Colby might look like a radiant model with those straight forward, piercing gold, tiger-eyes, but she was tough, as in bloody tough.

She played soccer for Boston’s beleaguered women’s team, the Storm. Her bitch-slapping aura tended to arrive at least a dozen steps ahead of her like the bow wave of an incoming destroyer. Not that the opposing team of female ruffians wasn’t as brash. They just weren’t—her.

The first time Ash had seen Colby on the field, her head up, her cocky don’t-mess-with me chin tossed to the other players, Holy Mother of God, he’d gone weak in the knees like a little boy with his first crush. Smitten for the one woman he could never have.

Aye. An eejit to the bloody core. Lost me girl and all me dreams. What am I good for? Blimey, I need a beer.

He settled for a smoke before the lonesome walk home. His fingers tugged the nearly flattened pack of smokes out of his shirt pocket, an automatic response to the hole in his heart. The night was late, and he’d already murdered one too many pints back at Shenanigan Rose, one of his favorite pubs. He was beyond fluthered. And without a ride.

Cupping a hand to his mouth, he lit the Dunhill Fine Cut Black with a quick flash from his cheap lighter and sucked in a deep breath of nicotine. Not that the burning ember at his fingertips brought any comfort. Nothing did. Not his pints, nor the guys at the pub, nor a quick Ave down in the chapel at Sister Bernadette’s Homeless Shelter. ’Twas as if Colby had taken the sun out of Boston when she’d left. Even his Guinness tasted—flat.

He’d come to town with Hammer tonight, both needing a hearty pint and a pick-me-up. Kev had begged off, too busy with the arsonist’s evil deeds to join them. But Hammer left hours ago. Something about the missus and a sick little one, and pouf, like a rabbit with its tail on fire, he was gone.

There’d be no friendly ride back to Ash’s flat tonight, just a good brisk walk that might clear Ash’s head if he didn’t pass out on the way. Or stumble over his two big feet and dive head first into the drink. Back home in County Mayo, he would’ve trudged into one of the many woods near his da’s farm and crashed in the clover until the morning sun. But Southie sidewalks were harder than Irish meadows, and, while the neighborhood had improved, there were still pickpockets and panhandlers afoot. And worse.

Glory be, but last call had never presented such a dilemma. He couldn’t even crawl into the spare back bedroom at Callahan Woodworks. Not tonight and never again. It was bloody well gone with his dreams and every last drop of the blood, sweat, and tears he’d put into the place. Aye, he’d bawled his eyes out somewhere between the second and fifth pint. He might again. Could be why Hammer bugged out early. Nobody likes a blathering drunk crying on their shoulders.

But Jesus. I’ve really done it now.

The randy rev of a motorcycle behind him jerked his gaze from the harbor to the brightly lit street. A Harley, huh? Good-looking bike, not that he could afford one. That day was gone, but he lifted a hand to the leather-clad guy in the saddle just the same. The bike sounded punk, and that was what guys did.

For a second, the rider cocked his head at Ash, and he thought maybe he knew the guy. It could happen. The biker was a little dude, and something about his erect posture and squared, but petite shoulders rang a bell. Not that Ash’s head wasn’t already ringing. It’d been a month of Sundays since he’d been this hammered. Ha, that was nearly a funny joke, himself hammered when he was positive he should have been—ashed. Aye. Funny. Not.

The biker brought the Harley’s front wheel to a sharp right, out of traffic, and headed straight for Ash. He breathed a tired groan, hoping his hand gestures hadn’t been misconstrued as offensive. He wasn’t in the best condition for a round of fisticuffs. Not tonight, boyo. I’m wasted enough for the both of us. Drive that pretty little motor scooter home to yer mama and let me be.

Apparently, the brash driver thought otherwise. Throwing his weight backward, he jumped the front tire of his bike over the curb and came to rest, blocking Ash’s drunken stroll along Boston Harbor.

Ash dismissed the short pest with a flick of his hand. Feck off. He had nothing left in him to fight with or for.

But the little dude stuck both boots to the sidewalk.

Interesting. Combat boots. Not the usual footgear for a biker, but whatever works.

Still straddling his ride, he unstrapped his helmet.

Probably an X-tra small. Maybe an XXtra-small. Ash grunted, clenching a fist, just in case. Little guy or not, nothing good happened in the wee hours of the morning, not in Boston proper, nor Southie.

Tussled locks of gold spilled out from under that helmet. Might as well have kicked him in the balls. Ash grimaced at the sight, in actual physical pain—in his groin. The day that started with his dearest dreams going up in flames had just gone from being really, really bad to a helluva lot worse. Mother Mary and sweet Baby Jesus, could it be?

“Colby Quaid?” he asked, sure he’d drunk himself silly and his Irish eyes were lying. Talk about his dearest dreams going up in smoke. The sight of this one come back to life nearly dropped him to his knees. He didn’t know whether to fall down on his face and thank heaven for her, or stand there like a fool and just drink her in like the ghost she probably was. Where once he would’ve given his left nut just to turn her over his knee and wail on her ass with a wooden spoon, now he was smitten as hard as the first time he’d seen her.

Blimey! Love at first sight should not take so much from a man.

She stabbed her chin at him, as cocky as ever. Still as lovely as a morn in spring. “Ash. See you’re still drinking.”

“Aye,” he breathed, slurring even that one word. And down he went.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What an ass. The first time I see him in years, he’s falling-down-drunk. As usual.

Colby righted her bike and shut it down before she scrambled to him. Cupping one hand under his hard head, she leaned into his face just as a hearty blast of alcohol-breath watered her eyes. Guinness again.

He looked good though, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes relaxed and a half smile on his handsome, though unconscious, face. Passed out the man was drop dead gorgeous, a genuine Irish lady-killer when sober. His face was finely boned, his nose slender and straight. What was not to love?

He’d cut his hair since the last time she’d seen him, so short there was nearly nothing to run her fingers through—if she were so inclined. A couple days’ scruff shadowed his prominent chin and jaw, and… damn him. He’d been smoking again. She could smell it on him, somewhere between the heady scent of the black stuff he loved to guzzle, and the spicy aftershave he swore made him irresistible to women.

“How’s that working out for you tonight, big guy?” she asked, already knowing the answer. He’d never admit to being anything better than: Fine, Lass, fine. So she set him straight for the umpteenth time. “You look awful.” Awful good.

The ego of this man. From the first moment he’d elbowed his way through the mob at Nickerson Field to shake her sweaty hand, he’d assumed she liked him. Problem was—she did. Right from the start. Ash was a rowdy braggart, an over-the-top know-it-all, and a true alpha male. Just her type if she were inclined to admit she had one. There was a time she’d loved this loud-mouthed Irishman—until he’d ruined everything by kissing her.

His brows were as thick as ever. The softest blue eyes lay beneath those thick, fluttering lashes. The blue eyes of a dreamer. That was Ash from head to foot. A true Irish rogue with stardust in his charming eyes and just as full of blarney. His facial features were gentle for a man his age, the kind of a face that could turn wicked mean when riled.

She’d only seen that side of him once when a bare-chested, face-painted fan plowed into her after a game. Ash nearly took the drunken guy apart.

He wasn’t a mean drunk himself. Quite the opposite. He tended to think he was witty after a couple of pints. He also thought he could sing. His playlist? The old Irish American favorites, of course. “Irish Eyes”, “Danny Boy”, “The Minstrel Boy”, every “Ave Maria” score ever written, and a hundred Irish drinking songs, including the rowdy “Finnegan’s Wake.”

Brushing her fingertips over the stubble on his shaved skull, she located the knot on the back of his head. She’d had guys fall for her before, just not hard enough their heads bounced. She was fairly sure she’d heard Ash’s hit the sidewalk. Not that it wasn’t hard enough to have dented concrete, but still. Her fingers came back slick. He was bleeding. Oh Ash...

Tugging his broad shoulders onto her lap, Colby cradled his head, debating whether to call his drinking buddies, Kevin and Hammer, and let them deal with him. They were probably home with their families. And the hour was late…

“Let’s get you home, Ash.” If she had a dime for every time she’d said that over the years, she’d be living on Beacon Hill. Oh wait. I do live on Beacon Hill. For now.

Tugging her cell phone up from her jacket pocket, she used it for the first time in days to summon an Uber driver for her passed-out friend. Ash had a room close by at his shop. She could drop him off, tuck him in, give him a kiss on his forehead that he’d never remember, then face the music with her mum. What a helluva welcome home.

Colby used the time waiting for the Uber driver to recall when she’d first met the oaf now lying docile as a lamb in her arms. At a soccer camp. He’d snuck in with Kevin to watch Boston’s outrageously lucky women’s team. Little did she know he was only there to meet her.

“Are you still a player?” she asked, surprised at the longing in her voice.

Did she love this guy? Without a doubt. Would she ever tell him? Probably not. They lived in two different worlds, moreso now that she’d been to war, and he’d been to—what? Party central at the pub the entire time she’d been gone? Yeah. She and he were not happening.

It’d been awhile since she’d held a man she cared for, which would be him. Only him. Tracing a fingertip over his plump bottom lip, she recalled their one and only kiss. He’d been surprisingly gentle, his mouth questing after hers, not storming in with no holds barred, but sweet, and soft, and yeah, tasting of beer.

She licked her lips, remembering that their only kiss was the beginning of the end. She’d expected that passion and a rowdy Irish heat would’ve come with the kiss, not the tentative, questing claim of a poet nor the oh, so gentle reverence of a—a priest, for hell’s sake. That wasn’t what she’d needed at that time in her life, not with the mighty Quaid Empire looming over her future like the shadow of Death, complete with its sharpened scythe to slice the life out of all her dreams.

Hell, no. She’d wanted the same passion from Ash that he’d carved his masterpieces with. The branding. The fire. She’d wanted his hands all over her and her name shouted to the rafters.

But what she’d gotten was a quick peck on the lips and a helluva lot of confusion. He’d pulled back from her mouth and bowed his forehead to her forehead, the ass. So why the hesitation back then? There’d been no one else in his life, so it wasn’t as if he’d already given his heart away. She’d even sucked on a breath mint beforehand—in case. It wasn’t her. It was him. Just him. At the last moment, there on the edge of something that could’ve been, should’ve been mind-blowing, he’d just stopped.

Their story would have ended differently if he hadn’t been so unexpectedly timid. So shy. A surprise, that. She truly hadn’t seen it coming, not from a party animal the likes of him. She’d expected... more. Especially as pumped full with adrenaline as she’d been.

If there were a way, she’d go back in time and, before she’d left him, she’d do him right. Oh, hell, she probably wouldn’t have left him at all once she’d kissed him like she’d wanted. With plenty of tongue and groping and… yeah, that. Maybe she would’ve set him to burning for her like she’d been for him ever since. And yet…

She ran her fingers over his chin and ended up cupping his jaw. Truth was… it was her, not him. That gentle kiss scared the bejesus out of her that night. That was when she’d known she had to leave, before she couldn’t.

But now, with him unaware and right where she wanted him, she closed the distance between them. Smoothing her hand to the back of his neck, she lifted his head and pressed her mouth to his lips. Softly. Almost as reverently as he’d kissed her then, she kissed him now. Running her tongue over his bottom lip, she savored the masculine taste of him once more. Inhaling deeply, she drew the scent of the only man she’d ever loved back into her soul.

It wasn’t enough. Shocked at her nerve, her fingers now on his cheek, Colby pulled back. She had no right to kiss him like this, not after what she’d done to him. Life. It never gave you what you wanted, did it? Only what you needed. Whoever said that was dumber than a box of rocks.

Uber drivers were worth their weight in gold. It took too few minutes for one to show at the curb. It took a couple more to load Ash into the back seat and strap him in. Colby gave the driver the address to Callahan Woodworks, less than five miles away, intending to follow on her bike.

But the driver shook his head. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I can not take him to this address.”

She lifted a brow. “Why not?”

Her friendly driver, who looked like he might be from India or Pakistan, shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry to be the one to tell you, but Callahan’s burned to the ground today. There is nothing left. I saw it on the news.”

Colby sucked in her shock. No wonder Ash was falling down drunk. Callahan Woodworks was everything to him. He’d built his business and his name from the ground up after he’d left everything behind in Ireland. Her fingers tapped against her thigh. What to do? What to do?

Simple. When in doubt, fall back on what you do best.

She had the driver take Ash to Beacon Hill.