Shannon (3 page)

“And if he doesn’t back down?” Fionn pressed.

Shannon’s voice went cold. Deadly. Much like Fionn’s—too much like their old man’s. “Then take care of him.”

“Got it.”

There was a feminine gasp, followed by a moan that didn’t belong to his brother. Fionn was fucking; Shannon could tell by his brother’s breathing.

“Man, seriously? You need to give it a rest.” But Shannon knew he wouldn’t. Just like he needed pain, Fionn seemed to need to fuck. Hell, they all needed something. “I got to go. Talk to you later.” A grunt was the only reply Fionn gave before hanging up, but it was as good as gold. By the end of the week Magda Magpie would no longer be a problem. After allowing a few of his girls to overdose, it was probably better than she deserved.

Looking down he did a quick check of how many women he had to replace. Most of the women “applying” had heard about the openings via word of mouth, from girls already working at one of the houses. There were a few ads for “models” in weeklies that women looking to get into a house would read. Seventy-six in total. Fuck, this could take forever!

“The first one, Mr. O’Shea.” For fuck’s sake, Mickey had known him most of his life, but the minute Fionn had given him an official job it was Mr. O’Shea—for all four of them. No matter how often he told him otherwise, Mickey refused to use his first name.

Sighing, Shannon looked up…and damn near swallowed his tongue.

That was no whore standing beside Mickey; he saw that immediately. But she wasn’t an innocent either. The woman standing in front of the desk was… Fuck, he had no idea how to describe her. Women like her rarely ventured into the parts of South Boston Shannon haunted. The way she stood told him she wasn’t afraid of him. That was either foolish, or he was dealing with someone used to living on the dark side. Bitch of it was, he couldn’t tell which. Generally people either shook in their boots looking at him or they sized him up, searching for a weakness. This woman did neither. Her almond-shaped brown eyes stared straight at him, not flinching, there was no calculating gleam. There was nothing he could read, and he didn’t like that. A brand new emotion began to creep into his soul, one that hovered on the edge of his conscious mind.

What the fuck?

“Name.”

“I’m called…Ebony.”

Bullshit. But that voice was way too unintentionally sexy for his dick not to take notice. Not that her lush hourglass figure didn’t have him hard enough already. And she was fully clothed. That thick sweater dress of hers clung, but it was far from indecent. And it wasn’t cheap either.

What the ever-loving fuck?

“Sweetheart, you’re delightfully dark, but not dark enough to be an Ebony. Wanna try again?” Years of practice kept him from revealing anything he was thinking or feeling. Honestly, he could give a shit what a woman called herself—it wasn’t like he was going to be filing fucking W-2s. But artifice in
this
woman was unacceptable. Fuck if he knew why.

“Skye,” she retorted without missing a beat.

“I don’t think so.” Why was he fucking with her? Why the hell was he so reluctant to move forward to any of the questions he had carefully planned?

“Fine—it’s Sunshine.”

It was nice watching her thick lips move, her tongue peeking out every so often too wet her bottom lip. Shit, he was throbbing now. And there wasn’t so much of a blush staining the creamy-looking, chocolate-cinnamon-colored cheekbones. Who the hell was this woman?

“Why Sunshine?” Something told him he was going to regret asking that, but damn if bantering with her wasn’t fun. And Shannon wasn’t a fun type of guy.

“Because my pussy’s so good, if you throw it up in the air it turns into sunshine,” she responded with a straight face.

A line straight out of an old eighties movie. That was funny. Shannon couldn’t help laughing out loud, which caused both Mickey and the Magpie to stare at him as if he had lost his mind. Maybe he had, because there was no way in hell this woman was going to work in any house. The thought of some fat, sweaty pervert sweating on top of her, fucking that delectable mouth—no, just no.

“That’s sweet, sugar, but I’ll be the judge of that.” He only said that to see her reaction. No way he could fuck all the applicants. Wouldn’t want to, though Fionn might be up for it. Maybe he should call him… “Take off your dress, let’s see what you’re working with.”

That was something he was planning to ask all the applicants. If a woman was skittish taking off her clothes in front of him, who would be doing the hiring, she wasn’t ready to be a full-fledged whore. He might use them at a strip club though. Now he was just asking to see what she would do. Damned if she didn’t pull the curve-hugging sweater dress up over her head as if it were nothing.

The emerald lingerie she wore underneath seemed painted on. Not the cheap shit either—those panties cost a pretty penny. Who the fuck was she? What kind of woman who wasn’t a whore stood there proudly in her fancy skivvies all proud and defiant like that? And sweet Holy Christ she was wearing thigh-high leather boots with four-inch heels. That would put her height at about five feet two, perfect for a Sugar Baby. He would put her age somewhere around the early to mid-twenties, but one could never be sure with Black chicks. That made the ideal for a shit-ton of fantasies, they could play it either way.

But Shannon couldn’t see this woman—Sunshine for now—in any house. That wasn’t true. He just didn’t
want
to see it.

“You’re not a whore,” he pushed. “Why would you want to suddenly become one?”

Something flickered in her eye, a brief flash of fear, gone so quick Shannon couldn’t be sure it had been there at all. “Necessity,” she bit out, her face closed to all emotion. Now that was a look Shannon had seen often. It was there whenever he looked at one of his brothers, or in the mirror.

That hadn’t been only fear he’d seen, but determination also. This was a woman on a mission, but what? And what did becoming a working girl at an O’Shea brothel have to do with it?

“Fine, come show me what you got.”

He hadn’t meant to say that, which was more than unusual, it was un-fucking heard of. He never said anything he didn’t mean. But he wasn’t about to take it back. Maybe it was from sheer Irish stubbornness, but really he wanted her. Had since he laid eyes on her.

“What do you mean?” Eyes wide, she nervously licked her lips.
Now I gets a reaction
, he though watching her closely.

“You are applying to be a prostitute, a high-priced one, but a pro all the same. All I’m asking you to do is prove to me you can do the job you’re applying for.” He thought he had her. He thought she’d back down, go scurrying back to wherever she came from—only he’d have someone follow so he could find out what he wanted to know.

Instead, she walked around the desk, swiveled his chair, and dropped to her knees.

Fuck!

The last thing Shay had expected to do was to fuck Shannon O’Shea when she had come in for an interview. Of course she had prepared herself to become a hooker for a short time. Just long enough to earn the money she needed. Of course she’d been familiar with the way Old Man O’Shea ran his businesses, and she knew this was the safest place she could hide until she could get the hell out of Massachusetts. It was the only way she’d be safe. She’d been unprepared to learn that the Irish boss’s sons were taking over his enterprises, so things were vastly different in South Boston. She’d been particularly unprepared for Shannon O’Shea.

Downstairs those from South Boston who were trying to get into one of the houses were whispering none too quietly among themselves about how good looking all the O’Shea brothers were. Shay dismissed it. What the women of South Boston found attractive, she generally didn’t. Until she’d walked into the office.

The man sitting behind the desk wasn’t a businessman—he was a predator. She recognized that about him right off. Those green eyes weren’t looking at a person’s appearance; he was attempting to gauge your soul. Shay was willing to bet most of the time he was right on the money too. But then, she wasn’t so easily read. Still, she knew he saw far more than she’d ever intended. And she’d trained herself for this. It wasn’t an easy thing to work on your back for money, but hell, the way she saw it her life was worth it. There was no time to be picky or turn her nose up at an opportunity to stay hidden until she was good and ready.

But damn, Shannon O’Shea was fine as all get out. Even sitting she could tell he was hella tall, thick ropes of muscles bulging out of the simple T-shirt he wore. It was freezing outside and dude was wearing a simple black V-neck t-shirt, showcasing the vivid tats up and down those thick arms. The Southie accent wasn’t as thick as she would’ve guessed, but the deep voice had plenty of Boston coloring its words.

Then he informed her he would be taking her for a test drive. Shit. Although she’d pushed back all of her consciousness’s objections to what she was doing, she wasn’t so sure she could stay mentally removed from this man. Just looking at him made her unaccountably wet, needy and down for anything. And he sat there looking completely unaffected. Not that she was all that, but she knew she was a slice of that, and in most cases that was more than enough. But this man sat, not moving a muscle, not giving any indication to being even a little turned on. And she couldn’t for the life of her see anything behind the mask of nothing he wore like a second skin. Not even those vibrant emerald eyes held a clue. They were like the gems they stole their color from—beautiful but otherwise cold, almost lifeless.

Had she seriously just escaped a wolf to run headlong into the den of a lion? The last thing she needed was to be trapped here after escaping a prison of sorts. But there was no point in dithering, not when she needed this job. It was perfect. Room and board—she would never have to leave. She had to do whatever it took to stay as long as she needed to. So she didn’t hesitate to approach him.

But as soon as he turned the swivel chair to her direction, her eyes dropped to his lap and saw he wasn’t as unaffected as she thought. Holy hell, that was one hell of an erection. Damn it if her mouth didn’t start watering as soon as reached forward. But his hands suddenly encircled her wrists in a death grip right before she could touch the belt on his jeans. It hurt, the punishing grip he had on her, but in a strange way it felt good. Comforting in a way. An illusion she couldn’t afford to believe, but for just a second, she wasn’t as scared as she had been.

Bewildered, she looked up and lost her breath. Had she believed his eyes to be cold? That was pure green fire blazing down on her now. The thick slash of his lips, which had seemed cruel to her moments before, now looked so inviting she had to bite her own bottom lip to keep from leaning forward for a kiss.

“I changed my mind.” Damn, but the man had the male purr down to a science. Her pussy clenched as he released one wrist to trail a single finger down the side of her face. Pulling her to her feet, he turned her around and sat her on his lap. Directly on that rather impressive erection. Yep, all that was him, all right. The thin, skimpy panties she wore didn’t stop her from feeling the heat of his dick through his jeans. He’d nestled himself right in her crack, and damn if her ass didn’t cradle him as if it had been made for just that purpose. “You can assist me in the interviews. Then we can see if perhaps you might be suited for a more exclusive position.”

The last thing she needed to do at the promise murmured low in her ear was lean back against the solid, extensive frame, but that’s exactly what she did. And since there was no disguising her shivers, she didn’t bother.

“Cold, honey?” Fuck, no, that endearment was
not
sexy as shit. It did
nothing.
If only she could convince her body of that. She could feel her wetness leeching into the material of her underwear; soon it would reach his jeans. There was no way she could answer, but it turned out she didn’t have to. He circled her body in large arms and pulled her close. “Here, we can share body heat.” Asshole, he knew damn well she hadn’t been shaking because she was cold. But before she could work herself up to be good and pissed off, he pressed two thick fingers directly against her clit. Goddamn. “Mickey, next girl.” To her he lowered his voice and whispered into her ear, “You tell me whether or not to hire the next applicant, okay, sugar?”

Right, like she could think with those fingers pressing down on her most sensitive bundle of nerves. And it felt so damn good! When was the last time she’d been with a man? Funny, with the chaos her life had become lately she couldn’t recall.

The silent giant who had led her down the corridor to the office stood and gaped for a few seconds, but Shannon ignored him, taking the folder with the name she’d given when she “applied” on to the side. She had no idea what was inside, but the next one held a woman’s picture, brief bio information, age, weight and ethnicity. Bubbles, as the next woman was calling herself, had been a dancer at Bunny’s in the South End. Impressive. The woman wrote she was interested in the Ritz. As soon as the woman entered the office Shay knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Either that picture in the file had been heavily doctored or Bubbles had run into some hard luck. Like the severe life-altering kind. It wasn’t that she was torn up exactly, but she appeared a good ten years older than twenty-five, the pale gold hair in the folder had turned brassy, almost too yellow, and there were heavy bags under her eyes. To make matters worse, the schoolgirl outfit she wore hung off her too-thin frame and was either dingy from incorrectly washing it, or not very clean.

“Go ahead, kitten,” Shannon whispered to Shay. “Ask your questions.”

Probably shouldn’t have asked her to do that. Without missing a beat, Shay opened her mouth and blurted, “What are you on?”

Okay, not exactly tactful, but apparently Shannon was amused given the rumble of a chuckle she felt against her back more than heard.

“I ain’t no druggie n—” Definitely South Boston, but “Bubbles” was wise enough to catch herself. “I’ve been working a couple of jobs.” She shrugged as if that shit was believable. “I’m just tired is all.”

Right, and Shay was the Virgin Mary.

“Cool. Take your shoes and socks off and spread your toes.” Strippers made their money off their bodies. In Shay’s opinion, Bubbles wasn’t so far gone she didn’t care about her appearance, so Shay was willing to bet the tracks were between her toes.

“Is she serious?” Bubbles demanded, looking past Shay to Shannon. “Who the hell is she?”

“The person conducting the interview.” Back was the cold, dispassionate voice. Shannon’s tone conveyed he could give a shit about anything happening right now, though somehow Shay knew that wasn’t true. No matter how bored he might appear, Shay knew she was being judged. “If you want a position in one of my houses I suggest you show the person with the power to say yes or no the proper respect.”

Now the mountain Mickey’s eyes bulged out of his head. There were muffled protests of some kind from the woman in a chair—

Wait, there was a woman tied to a fucking chair in the corner with what looked like a handkerchief stuffed in her mouth. Why the hell hadn’t she noticed
that
before? Skinny, but not anything like the addict standing in front of the desk. The woman looked…well, foreign. And pissed—her eyes shot daggers at Shay. For some reason that just pissed her off. Like she had anything to do with the bitch being tied up. Just because she was damned tired of—well, life—she flipped off the tied woman, then turned her head back to the druggie.

“Look, I know you saw the line of women waiting,” Shay snapped, feeling froggy. God, it felt good to pretend she was old Shay, just for a little while. The man just seemed to goad her inner street girl.

“Fuck this. I don’t need this shit.” Druggie turned and attempted to flounce off, only she tripped over her own feet and stumbled a little before righting herself.

There was a small silence as soon as she slammed out of the office, Mickey at her heels. Oh, damn, did she go too far? Daring to turn her head to look at him, Shay saw Shannon regarding her quietly, but there was still no expression on his face. She tried to scoot off his lap, just a little bit, but his arms locked her in place. Totally unexpectedly, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip.

That wasn’t a touch a man gave to a hooker, prostitute or call girl. That was a lover’s caress. Maybe not a wife or a girlfriend, but it was something reserved for the person a man was truly intimate with, and that wasn’t always the woman he was with in the open.

“This might go a hell of a lot faster than I anticipated.” He spoke as though talking to himself, though she could understand every word. “Something tells me this life isn’t as new to you as your little dossier claims, and I am not referring to hooking as you well know.”

Yeah, she was real clear what he meant, and she could’ve kicked herself in the ass. The last thing she wanted was for this man to find out who she was. If South Boston had any plans on an alliance or even doing business in Mattapan, which hadn’t been the case in the last twenty years, she was one juicy peace-making pawn. No matter how much Shannon O’Shea turned her on, she didn’t know this man, and she damn sure didn’t trust him. Everyone who lived his life was a criminal and you couldn’t trust a criminal, not even one you’d known all your life. She’d found that out the hard way.

“You’re not going to tell me who you are, are you?” He may have asked, but Shay knew that he knew the answer.

“Sunshine,” she responded, “I’m nobody from nowhere.”

“You know I’m going to find out, don’t you?”

Right. She hadn’t chosen South Boston to get lost by accident. There were no open lines of communication with her neighborhood. All he would find out was rumor and innuendo. It wasn’t like the men looking for her would ever dream to look for her here. They would waste time scouring Roxbury, West End, maybe even Cambridge.

“There’s nothing to find,” she lied without blinking. The thing about lying is you had to find the truth in the lie—that way you could speak it with complete conviction. There was nothing he needed to know, nothing that affected him and his in any way. In essence, there was nothing for him to find.

“So you say, sugar.” Turning back to the pile of folders, he pitched the one on the woman who’d just left in the small barrel by the desk. “Are you ready for the next one?”

Shay turned back to the matter at hand, but she kept the warning in the back of her head. If he even looked like he was beginning to unearth her secrets she needed to be gone. Best to come up with an escape plan now. Being unprepared had almost been her downfall; she wasn’t about to get caught up again.