Crush(20)

At the bar.

Bingo!

Casually, I made my way over and sat beside him, setting my glass down. I leaned in toward the bartender and ordered a gin and tonic, which I had no intention of drinking, and then looked toward a very bored-looking Pierce. “I’m on my third, what about you?” I lied.

He swirled what I guessed was a scotch and raised it. “My third as well. Long f*cking night.”

I smirked. “You’re not kidding. I swear having to be on good behavior always makes time pass even slower.”

His roar of laughter told me I was in. “What do you say we do a shot?” he whispered.

I pretended to look around. “I’d better not. If the fiancée catches me getting out of hand, I’ll be in the doghouse for a week.”

Just saying fiancée, making up another woman, made the words burn in my throat.

“Good point. If my wife, Sarah, sees me drinking too much, I won’t even tell you what will happen to me.”

My grin came easily. “What’s it like?”

He arched a brow.

“Being married, I mean. I’m supposed to get married next month and I have to be honest, I’m not really feeling it.”

“Cold feet. I get it. I went through the same thing. Marriage is hard. I’m not going to lie. Of course, it has its ups and downs. I’ve been married for almost seven years, and I have to say I’ve been feeling the seven-year itch for a while now. But on the whole it’s worth it.”

The bartender set my drink down. “My friend here needs another.”

Pierce held his hands up. “No, I shouldn’t.”

“Come on, one more, and you can give me some honest advice. No one ever wants to be honest about marriage.”

With a quick gulp of his drink, he set it down. “Sure, one more.”

As he glanced around the room to be certain his wife wasn’t anywhere nearby, I poured half my drink into my water glass. Last thing I needed was to fog my brain. Fuck only knew what I’d be saying then.

By the time he’d finished his fourth, he’d practically told me his life story. He had two kids, worked for his father-in-law, and had a nagging wife. A variation on the very picture I had in my head of marriage.

It was my parents’ life all over again minus one kid.

“How do you do it every day, man?” I pretended to slur.

“Escape.”

“Escape?”

His shoulders rose and he sniffed through his nose, holding one nostril closed.

“And your wife doesn’t care?” I asked.

“Oh, she’d care.”

“She doesn’t know?”

Chewing on an ice cube, he shook his head. “Clueless.”

I lowered my head a bit. “I’m new in town. If one was looking for an escape, where might one find it?”

“The Priest,” he whispered.

“The Priest?”

“Well, not him directly, but he’s the one you’ll be getting it from.”

“How do I get in touch with him?”

“That, my friend, I can’t tell you.”

“Come on, really?”

“Sorry. He has rules, and he’s ruthless if any of them are broken. Besides, I’ve never actually made contact. A buddy of mine takes care of it for me.”

“Pierce, there you are, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” a woman’s voice called.

He shoved his drink toward me. “Pretend you don’t know me.”

My smile couldn’t have been more genuine. “Not a problem,” I said and turned the other way.

“You’re not drinking, are you?” his wife asked when she got closer.

He stood. “No, I was just getting you that glass of water you asked for.”

“That was an hour ago.”

“Are you certain it’s been that long?”

I peeked at them and saw her tuck her arm around his. “Come on, there are some people I want you to meet.”

“Yes, dear,” he said, and turned and gave me a wink.

Poor bastard was all I could think.

My time with him was up and if you discounted learning Pierce Foley was an addict in every sense of the word, I’d learned one real thing. The drug supplier in Boston’s high-society circle went by the alias “the Priest,” and I doubted that was Lizzy, or O’Shea or Tommy for that matter. Neither seemed like the religious type to me.

I didn’t know how to reach him.

Didn’t know his connection to Lizzy.

Wasn’t even sure if finding him could help me find Lizzy.

Still, knowing the kingpin’s street name made me feel like I was one step closer to getting Elle back.

Standing from the bar, I glanced around for the nearest exit. Something caught my attention. Narrowing my eyes, I focused on a group of boisterous men deep in conversation with one lone female among them. Not just any female. A beautiful woman with ginger-colored hair standing way too close to Michael O’Shea.

My gut twisted.

My body stiffened.

My vision blurred.

It was Elle.

My Elle!





ELLE


Whenever I thought of political fundraisers, I pictured old men standing around outside smoking cigars, women in stodgy long dresses clustered together gossiping, and glasses of cheap wine everywhere.