Page 60 of Irish Vice
I expect to hear his chair scrape across the floor. I wait for his footsteps on the stairs behind me. I brace for his hand on my arm, for him to force me down the hall, past the nursery where Aiofe’s taking her nap and into the bedroom.
But he doesn’t.
I should be grateful he’s not putting me in my collar and pretending there’s nothing wrong in the world. If he ordered me to my knees, I might obey out of habit, and at the moment I’m not inclined to follow any of his commands.
The front door slams. I don’t know if he’s walking the grounds or if he’s heading to the garage, but I don’t care.
I storm down the hall to my office and slam my own door. Too late, I remember that Aiofe’s trying to nap, but she’s a child. If we wake her, she’ll just roll over and go back to sleep.
I pace from my door to the windows, steps tight, fists clenched. Braidenisleaving the garage, pulling out in his jet-black Aston Martin. He guns the engine as he makes the turn in front of the house, sending up a spray of gravel before he speeds to the gate.
I whirl from the window to my desk. I have plenty of work to keep me busy while he sulks like a goddamn schoolboy. I have to sign off on a new brochure Trap’s using to promote the freeport. And Alix has sent me a draft of her policies and procedures for in-house auctions. I need to review the new employment contracts for the catering staff Trap’s brought on; some of them are members of local unions, which is a new angle for freeport staff.
And that’s before I get to my own stack of papers. Sonja has sent draft replies for the ethics board, and Teddy wants to go over the testimony I gave Detective Tarrant last Friday. The second episode of Mousetrap waits on my phone.
No wonder I have nightmares.
But I never get to the freeport documents. I never pull upthe latest communication from my somewhat exasperated lawyers. I never even open my laptop.
Because a sheet of paper rests in the very center of my desk.
It’s an ordinary piece of plain white printer paper. It’s perfectly flat, not even a hint of a curled corner. It’s filled with angry black letters, all in capitals. They seem to be scrawled with a felt-tip pen, angled so far to the right they look like they’re flying off the page.
There once was a whore, wore a collar,
Fucked anyone worth half a dollar.
She spied for a wop,
Gave away the whole shop,
Shoot her now, before she can holler.
The last word is covered with a scarlet lip-print, a blood-red kiss that gleams in the light from the window.
Fiona’s going-away present. A limerick like the one I couldn’t deliver at the party in the ballroom.
She has no right.
No fucking right.
And just like that, I know I need to get out of this madhouse.
I grab the paper from my desk, shove it into my briefcase, and fly down the stairs. Braiden isn’t the only person with a fast little sports car. Four months ago, when I fled my condo in Dover, he had one of his men drive my Mercedes up here. It’s sat in the garage ever since. I only know it’s been tended to because I’ve seen it on the driveway once a week, washed and waxed and polished till it gleams.
The keys hang on a hook inside the garage door. I grab them and open the driver-side door as Liam appears from the office at the back. “Need a ride, Sam?” He’s already heading toward the Bentley.
“I’m going for a drive.”
He looks unsure. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m one hundred percent certain it is.”
He looks at me across the roof of my car. “Fine,” he says evenly. “I’ll ride shotgun.”
There once was a whore, wore a collar…
I don’t want anyone riding shotgun. I don’t want anyone managing me. Controlling me. For five fucking minutes, I want to do whatever I want to do, whenever and wherever I want to do it.