Wed to the Bad Boy

Wed to the Bad Boy

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Property of Kaylee Song Copyright 2015

All Rights Reserved

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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Wreckage

Book One

Chapter One

Joanna

The first time I saw him he was chained against a frame, his lip split and his eye black and blue. He stared at me through the swollen eyes and the broken nose, blood trickling down his brow. It was like he was looking right through me. Because he was.

He was still devastatingly handsome, but what I didn't know was that he was going to be my undoing. And I just stood there while they beat him with the buckle of his belt.

The mob sent one of their best enforcers to do it.

I didn't dare say a word, not to him, not to the other man down there. I was just eye candy. My job was to serve the drinks and keep my head down. The daughter of a man who owed more than my life was worth.

"Scotch, on the rocks. Now." The deep rumble of Janson Mactavish got me moving.

 I nodded and turned to the bar, dumping ice in and trying not to jump each time the metal of the belt connected with the skin of the man chained. He sucked in breath after breath, but he never screamed. Barely grunted. 

"Nothing, you son of a bitch? Not even an apology?" Mactavish hit him again, reaching out for his Scotch with one hand and throwing the belt with the other. Janson was controlled the entire time; no anger rose in his voice as he did it, no bile. It was like he was conducting a routine.

I wondered what kind of violence that man was used to doling out.

It was probably best if I didn’t know.

I turned back towards them to find the victim staring me right in the eyes. His eyes never left mine.

"Can't apologize if I’m not sorry." The strung man spit onto the ground and then grinned.

It was the grin that got me. Those pearly whites were covered in blood, and he still looked completely dashing. It was sick.

"You’re lucky your dad ordered you beaten and not killed. Anyone else..." Janson struck him again. "Would you like a drink?"

He was actually asking the subject of his torture for a drink! I blinked, frozen in place.

"Gin Rickey, extra lime." He ordered an old classic, just the right amount of sweet and sour, one of my favorites. And he did it like he was perfectly calm and collected. So I tried to mimic him.

I nodded and turned back to the bar. Only the mob would have a full wet bar in their torture dungeon. I grabbed a lime, cut it in half, juiced it, and added the gin and club soda to the mix, shaking it. I tried not to let the sound of his groans throw me off balance.

“I think we’re done here, Greyson.” Janson unhooked him from the rack, and he stepped off it like nothing ever happened, his stance tall and his shoulders back. Greyson Fitzgerald. The son of the arguably most important mob man in all of Baltimore, James Fitzgerald. The prince to an Irish-American empire.

He didn’t even acknowledge the blood that trickled down his face. He was strong. Tough. And it scared me senseless.

“Thank you,” he reached for the drink and then smirked. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

“Sir?” I blinked and kept my face blank.

“What I did.”

“What did you do, sir?” My lip quivered as I said it and his handsome smile appeared. He was the kind of sexy playboy I went out of my way to avoid.

But I couldn’t melt over a man like that. Not him. Not here.

“You know Michael Mactavish?” I nodded. He was one of the most important men in the mob, Janson’s father. And he was a second in command, under James Fitzgerald.

“I do.” I swallowed hard as I looked at him.

“I fucked his daughter.” I could tell by the way he said it that he was proud of his actions, even when her brother stood in the room, a belt still in his hand. Janson was right. He was a son of a bitch.

Which is why I saw the punch coming before it even swung through the air and connected with Greyson’s jaw. Liquid from the glass flew everywhere.

“You are a son of a bitch. You know that?” Janson asked.

“I do. You keep saying it after all.” He spit blood onto the ground and then looked up at me. “They say I’ll fuck anything that moves. Probably right.”

I swallowed hard as I watched him take a sip of his gin, what little was left in his glass. “You make a good drink, hon. What is your name?”

I gulped as I looked into his eyes. He was positively handsome.

“Jo.”

“Just Jo?” His eyes were on me, his stare overwhelming me as he looked through me.

“Joanna O’Brien.” I crossed my arms; he was going to find out one way or another. If I told him now, at least he would forget about it before he asked.

“You aren’t afraid of a punch, and you sure as hell don’t back down when you see violence. You’re hard, Jo. And I like that.” He must not have noticed the surname.

I blushed. I was hard, but for all the wrong reasons. “I’m what I have to be.”

“I’ll see you later, Jo O’Brien.” He walked out the door, leaving me alone with Janson Mactavish.

“Shit, girl. He saw you.”

I nodded. My job was to stay invisible, and I failed.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you better watch out. He’s going to make you his next target.” The way Janson looked through me, it shot right through me.

“How can you tell?”

“He gave you that ‘fuck me’ look. You are dead meat.” Janson chuckled. “That boy will chew you up and spit you out, and you’ll be helpless to stop it. They all are.”

“What do I do?” I asked. I was supposed to be invisible, the pretty girls they liked to look at. Not the ones they wanted to fuck. I wanted to sink back into the walls and go unnoticed.

“Anything you can do to make him forget about you. He’s more fucked up than me, and I was the one beating his ass.” Janson shrugged at me and then looked at the bar. “You know how to make a good Sidecar?” he asked.

“I can make any drink you want.”

It was so much easier when I was invisible.

Greyson

“I want her.” I sat at my desk and stared at Janson. She was pretty and sensual, and those lips. Those lips that quivered when I looked at her. And she didn’t even scream. Not when the thwack of metal hit my skin. Not even then.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Joanna O’Brien. Just some girl from Brooklyn Park,” Janson told me.

Brooklyn Park was a worn down working class part of town, not the type of place most of these women came from.

“O’Brien?” I asked. She’d said it before, but I didn’t realize it.

He nodded. She couldn’t be related to the O’Brien’s. He would’ve told me. And I don’t think they’d let a relation like that grow up in such a modest neighborhood. They all lived in large estates in Millersville. I shook the thought away and considered the man before me.

Not twenty-four hours ago Janson was beating me with his belt, his buckle ripping into my skin. It was at the demand of my father for my insubordination. He made Janson, my best friend, deliver the blows. The only man I trusted, the only one who could do what needed to be done without my own revenge. I was so pissed at him, at both of them.

But I forgave Janson for it all.

My wounds were bound, and all that was left was some bruises and some scars to remind me of my crimes.

But that didn’t matter, I was sitting where I belonged. Behind my desk with him as my right hand.

I wouldn’t let anyone else dole out the punishment.

“Hire her for tomorrow night. I want to see her.” I wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Sir, I don’t think-” he interrupted me, but I wasn’t going to let him finish.

“I don’t care what you think. I want her. Give her to me.” I slammed my fist onto the table and looked him in the eyes.

“She’s eye candy only. Strictly off limits.”  He looked at me and then continued. “She’s entangled. I don’t know all the details, but your father wouldn’t make it a rule if it wasn’t important.”

He had to know that only made me want her more. “Your job is to serve me. I want this. Get me her. Now.”

I looked him over and then stood. “Now, Janson.”

I shuffled the papers on my desk and grabbed a fresh stack of invoices, invoices for my pretend job, and my pretend life. Yeah, it all existed, sure. It was a real job for most men. But not for me.

Chrome. We plated it on motorcycle parts and car parts. A factory full, and I ran it all.

It was only a piece of who I was. A little part, a fake job, a fake life.

What I really was, was so much darker. Deeper. I was a monster, and I worked for my family. The family. The mob.

The Irish mob rolled deep in Baltimore, but it lived, it breathed, in Glen Burnie. In my chromium factory. They were working on the factory floor, in the warehouse, in the mailroom. They were everywhere. My family. My legacy.

And I was the head of the factory, but not the head of the mob. The real head of that very the real monster. Well, that was easily the one person I hated and loved more than anyone else.

My father.

And if he said “hands off,” that meant only one thing.

She was going to be mine.