Someone To Believe In (3 page)

You don’t have to be tough with me.

Done with her own special brand of a facial,
Taz braided her hair so it was close to her scalp and couldn’t be
pulled; she tied an orange bandana, the GG’s flag, around her head.
Then she switched off the small lamp on her dresser. In the dim
light from an outdoor streetlight, she slugged back on a
forty—forty ounces of malt—and crossed to a makeshift desk. Picking
up the laptop she’d stolen from the school—and slept with a
computer geek to get bootleg Internet connection—she stuffed the
machine in her closet in a locked box. If the old man found it,
he’d sell it for booze.

He’d already tried to sell her.

How come she join a gang if she got family
like you?

Christ, why the hell had she gone to the
Street Angel’s website? Taz guzzled some more beer, found her
blade, and tested its sharpness in three shallow slits on her
forearm; she smiled as she tasted the coppery blood. Every GG
carried the same blade. She looked down at the tattoo ringing her
belly button, visible under her crop top. It was a pitchfork. Hurt
like hell the night they all got one.

When she heard the front door open, she spat
out, “Fuck,” grabbed her GG’s jacket and hustled to the window.
Jimmying it, she slipped out just as she heard the pounding. And
the swearing. And the foul names he called her.

Her steel-toed boots clanged on the fire
escape as she took the steps two at a time, clutching the forty and
the blade close to her chest. In minutes, she was away from him,
headed toward her real family.

Fingering her knife, she smiled. The dumb-ass
cunt who had moved on Mazie’s man was gonna regret her flirting all
right. By the time Taz got to the rendezvous point, she’d chugged
more malt and had convinced herself she couldn’t wait for the games
to begin.

TWO

CLAY LEANED AGAINST a storefront on MacDougal
Street, under an overhang to avoid the rain which drummed on the
small roof, and folded his arms over his chest. He had no idea why
he was here, at midnight on a miserable Friday in July, scoping out
the pub across the street. After his dinner with the governor, he’d
been comfortably ensconced in his brownstone on the Upper East Side
and had just talked to Jane. She’d not been happy that he was out
of Washington tonight, and missing the birthday party she’d thrown
for her father, the senator from Virginia. Jane had left the
shindig to call Clay and whine.

God, he hated whining. His ex-wife had been a
whiner. He suspected Jon bore the brunt of that now.

After Clay had hung up with Jane, he’d tried
to work, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Bailey O’Neil. The
governor had talked about her and Clay’s open feud, expressing his
own chagrin at being caught between them. He explicitly said he
thought she and Clay should bury the hatchet. It irked him that
he’d felt defensive about their relationship. Hadn’t he tried to
meet with her? She’d flatly refused to see him when he’d made an
overture.

During their discussion, the governor had
also mentioned that her brothers owned Bailey’s Irish Pub in the
Village. On a whim, Clay had gone to the restaurant’s website. Sure
enough, the owners were listed as O’Neils: Patrick, Dylan, Liam,
and Aidan. The senior Paddy O’Neil had turned over the business to
his four sons and was semiretired. No mention of a daughter,
though.

For privacy because of her job? No, that
wouldn’t be. Only the governor and a select few knew the Street
Angel was Bailey O’Neil. She kept her identity hidden for her
safety. Damn it, did the woman know the danger she was in? If she’d
deigned to see him, he would have reminded her. But, of course,
she’d refused.

So, after he’d Googled the pub, Clay had
hopped in a cab and come here. What were the chances of her being
at her family’s place this late on a Friday night? Still, when the
rain let up, he pushed away from the storefront and headed across
the street, dodging cars, which seemed to honk willy nilly in this
city, avoiding the spray of water from their tires. It was
unseasonably cool, and he turned up the collar of his jacket.

The door to the pub was heavy as he pulled it
open. He took time to appreciate the intricately carved oak before
he stepped inside, where the lilting sound of Irish music filled
the air. Scents from the kitchen made his mouth water; on the
tables he saw steaming bowls of stew and crusty bread, which
accounted for the smells. He stayed in the corner, in the shadows,
and stared across the room. Five men and one woman stood in front
of a piano, which was being played by an older woman. The males
were all versions of one another, as if somebody had painted the
same person at various ages of their lives: thick black hair,
strong features, big eyes. The woman with them—the woman with the
crystal-clear alto voice singing about the green hills of
Ireland—also sported the same features, but this time the artist
changed brushes and painted her with delicate, feminine strokes. A
skein of inky hair rioted down her back.

Bailey O’Neil. Looking a little older than
the last time he’d seen her, but not much. Her fresh-faced
innocence amazed him once again.

All of them wore black pants and green shirts
with an insignia on the left chest. They finished their song and
the room erupted into applause, accompanied by raucous pounding on
the tables. Clay hadn’t noticed how crowded the pub was. One
strapping young buck threw back his chair, stalked to the singers,
and picked Bailey up. He kissed her on the mouth and swung her
around. She whispered something in his ear and he laughed. Clay
scanned the room, saw there were no unoccupied tables, but a stool
at the bar was available.

He crossed to it and sat down, easing off his
light jacket and draping it over the backrest to dry. The dark oak
bar was U-shaped and hand-carved like the door. It was, literally,
a work of art. The bartender, an older woman, hustled over to him,
wiping her eyes. She’d been watching the singers. “Sorry, sir. I’ve
a soft spot in me heart for that song. What’ll ya have?”

“A Guinness.”

“Build ya one right away, I will.”

The woman busied herself at the tap. Clay,
still in the shadows, watched Bailey chat with the others, and
then head for the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll relieve
you in a sec, Bridget. Let me just check on Rory.”

“No hurry, darlin’.”

As Clay waited—building a Guinness took a
while—he scanned the interior. Tables scattered throughout. Thick
planked floor. Subdued lighting. And posters everywhere. Of
Ireland, houses, events sponsored by the establishment. There were
photos, too. Right next to him on the adjacent wall was a corkboard
of pictures. Little kids—a lot of them. “Them’s the grandkids,”
Bridget said as she brought his beer and plunked it down on the
bar. Some of the foam dribbled down the side of the glass.

Taking the mug, Clay lifted the drink to his
lips, sipped the creamy smooth blend, and sighed. “Your
grandkids?”

“No, the O’Neils’. There’s Michael, Shea,
Sinead, Kathleen, Cleary, and Hogan.”

Clay grinned at the catalog of names, which
sounded like an Irish school roster.

“And this here’s little Rory. The newest. The
devil’s in him, for sure.”

The boy was a miniature of all the O’Neils.
Dark hair. Blue eyes. Maybe four or five years old.

Clay was about to ask after another photo,
one of a young teenage girl who looked vaguely reminiscent of the
O’Neils but wasn’t the spitting image of them, when Bailey came up
behind Bridget. “I’m here, so go rest. You’ve been on your feet
all...” Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of who sat before
her. Her eyes—he’d forgotten how blue they were—widened. Her pretty
mouth scowled as she took Clay in. She had a few more freckles than
he remembered. “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing
here?”

“Bailey Ann, don’t take the name of the Lord
in vain.”

Bailey heard her mother chide her, but her
head was reeling with shock. Peripherally, she saw Bridget back
away, and her father come into the bar area, on the opposite
side.

“Bailey? Did you hear your ma, lass?”

Uh-oh. “Yeah, Pa. Sorry.”

Sensing something, as only mothers do, Mary
Kate O’Neil came to her side. “And who is this fine lookin’
gentleman?”

When Bailey said nothing, Wainwright stood
and held out his hand. “Clayton Wainwright.”

Her mother’s usually ruddy face turned as
pale as cumulus clouds in the Irish sky. What the hell was wrong
with Wainwright? He should have known better than to come here.
Her parents blamed him completely for her sojourn in prison—and an
Irish grudge could rival an Italian one any day.

“Woman, what is it?” Her father’s voice
penetrated the haze Bailey was in. He’d crossed to them and she
nodded to Wainwright. Paddy recognized the senator right away.
“Come with me, Mary, my girl.” Pa escorted her mother away.

“What are you doing here?” Bailey whispered
harshly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think...” He cocked his
head. “Look, I didn’t commit any crime, Ms. O’Neil. You did. But I
didn’t realize your parents would be at your place tonight.” He
stood. “I’ll be going. I’m sorry if my coming here has upset
them.”

“Not so fast, Wainwright,” came a deep
baritone from behind her. Oh, geez. Patrick. The Fighter. In her
presence, especially when it dealt with any male on the planet,
her brothers fell into their childhood roles. “Pa’s takin’ Ma home
anyway.”

Bailey sighed.

Patrick glared at Wainwright. “Hasslin’
Bailey again, Senator?”

“I’d say we’re about even on that score.”

“Yeah, well, we got different views than
you.” This from Dylan, the Taunter. He flanked Bailey on the other
side.

In minutes, Liam, the Manipulator, was behind
Wainwright’s stool. “Come down here slummin’ for a reason,
Senator?”

Wainwright looked over his shoulder and
seemed startled but not afraid to see her third oldest
protector.

Where the hell was Aidan the Peacemaker when
she needed him? The youngest son, only a year older than Bailey,
could diffuse this situation. She looked around frantically for
him, and saw him flirting with a pretty redhead across the room.
“Aidan!”

He glanced up grinning, took in the situation
and bolted over. “What’s goin’ on, guys?”

“You know who this is?” Patrick asked.

Aidan cocked his head. “Ah, I see. You got no
sense, man, comin’ down here?”

The senator remained cool and unflappable,
though she noticed his jaw tightened, deepening the cleft in his
chin. “I’m sorry I upset your mother,” he repeated. “I didn’t
realize your parents were still involved in the pub. I just wanted
to talk to your sister, and she refused to see me.”

Quickly Bailey untied the apron at her waist,
scooted around her brothers, and slid under the opening at the end
of the bar. “I’ll see you now.” She grabbed Wainwright by the arm.
“We can go down the street for that breakfast you wanted. I’m
starved.”

Three brothers spoke at once...

“Like hell!”

“Over my dead body.”

“We got business with him.”

Aidan blocked them all. “Go, B., I’ll take
care of this.” He looked at Wainwright, who stood unmoving. “Now,
man, unless you want your nose broken.”

Shaking his head, Wainwright slid off the
stool and grabbed his jacket. Bailey dragged him to the door, and
he heard behind them, “The asshole didn’t even pay for his
drink.”

Aidan’s voice was soothing. “Guys, it’s not
all his fault. You know that.”

Once outside and across the street, Bailey
let go of the senator. The rain had stopped and the early morning
was cool and misty; she shivered in her thin T-shirt.

“Here, put this on.” He slid his jacket
around her shoulders. She bundled into it. It smelled male and
musky. It also dwarfed her. He was a lot bigger than she
remembered.

“Thanks.”

He ran a hand through thick, sandy-colored
hair. “That was a lynch mob in there.”

She angled her chin. “They’re
overprotective.”

“They all older?”

“Yep.”

“You must have had a hell of an adolescence.
Did you ever get to date?”

“Not much.” Of course, after what happened to
Moira, she didn’t really care. She nodded down the street. “There’s
a diner a few doors away. Let’s go.”

He stayed where he was. “Anybody in there I
need to watch my back on?”

She smiled, in spite of the circumstances.
“No. They’re Greeks. They don’t even speak English.”

They walked through the narrow street in dim
light, the silence broken only by the occasional honks of horns
and the curses of angry cab drivers. The diner was almost deserted
and Bailey led him to a table near the window. She kept his jacket
on to ward off the chill. He sat across from her in the too-small
chair and stared at her. It was the first time she’d seen him, even
in pictures, out of a suit. He wore a designer long-sleeved red
crewneck shirt with a black T-shirt underneath. A gold chain peeked
out. He’d always reminded her of Dennis Quaid, and like the actor,
looked pretty damned good for a man in his mid-forties.

“So, Senator, what was so urgent that you had
to come down here and practically start a riot in my family’s
pub?”

Clay stared across the table at the
woman still wearing his jacket. With her hair pulled back off her
face, she looked young and vulnerable. “I wanted to talk to you.
See if we could iron some things out. I had dinner with the
governor tonight and he’s concerned about our
public feud
, I think he called it.”

A slight smile crept across her lips. “Does
this have anything to do with Eric Lawson?”

“No. I’m worried that our differences are
going to hurt people.”