Bam! The gunshot blasted through the apartment. Frank dove off the mattress. The bullet zinged past his head and wood splintered in the old oak headboard of Mary Ellen O’Rourke’s double bed. Frank hit the floor with a thud, his eyes wild with terror, his legs tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. Mary Ellen wailed. Someone pounded on the front door. “Hey—hey! What’s going on in there? Cy, call the goddamned police! Hey, are you all right in there? Mary Ellen? Mary Ellen!” Frank tried to roll his huge body behind the bureau. “For the love of God, woman, get him to stop!” His eyes widened as he stared at Daegan. “Don’t do it boy! Make him stop! Jesus, Mary Ellen, make him stop before he kills us all.” “Hey! Miss O’Rourke, what’s going on in there? Are you okay?” Voices outside, more of them. “Oh, shit!” Frank yelled. “Sounds like the goddamned Fourth Battalion!” His mother was shaking on the bed, holding the tattered quilt around her, crying in wretched, incoherent sobs. Daegan took a st ep toward her but her lips curled back in disgust. Frank was dragging himself to his feet. “I should have you up on charges!” “NO!” Mary Ellen cried. In the living room there was the sound of an axe ripping through wood. “Oh, God, now what?” Frank zipped his pants and looked furtively to a window. In the distance sirens began to scream. “Shit, what a mess.” “The police,” Mary Ellen whispered. “I gotta get out of here.” Crash! The lock gave way. Footst eps on the stairs. Daegan glared at his father and for the first time realized that his eyes were hot and wet with tears. “You sick bastard, you leave my mother alone.” “No, Frank, don’t leave,” Mary Ellen cried, a huddled, pathetic woman shamed by all who loved her. Mike O’Brien, a big, strapping man with thick red hair and beard, strode into the room. Bouncer for the Cat O’Nine Tails, he was used to outbursts, brawls, knife fights, and even an occasional gunshot. “For the love of Saint Peter, what happened here?” Meaty hands planted on his hips, he raked his gaze across the mess that had been Mary Ellen’s bedroom, only to stop when he saw Frank cowering in the corner. “Well, if it ain’t Mr. Uptown. Looks like ye found yerself a helluva mess this time and you—” He turned to glare at Daegan. “What were ye thinkin’, eh, boy?” A siren split the night and Frank was sweating. “I can’t have the police in volved. If Robert finds out—” “Shakin’ in yer boots, are ye?” Mike laid a big hand on Daegan’s shoulder. “Too bad ye missed, son,” he said as he strode to the
closet door, ripped down Mary Ellen’s chenille robe, and tossed it to her. “Better get yerself dressed, Mary girl. I think ye got some explainin’ to do. You, too, ye sorry bastard,” he added to Frank, then shooed everyone out of the room to allow Mary Ellen a little privacy. There was a crowd gathered in the living room. Gawkers from the bar downstairs. Soon, the police, weapons drawn, raced up the stairs. Daegan, his face swollen, his head thundering, dropped onto the couch that was his bed. The second he’d pulled the trigger, he’d experienced a personal epiphany. He’d wanted to kill or maim his father, but he’d missed. In a heartbeat he realized how he’d nearly ruined his life as well as his mother’s. If he’d killed the tyrant, he would have ended up in jail and Mary Ellen O’Rourke would have been kicked into the street. No charges were ever filed. Frank swallowed his pride and called his brother. Thirty minutes later, at two in the morning, Robert Sullivan swooped in wearing a three-piece suit, starched shirt, and impeccable tie. His hair, salt and p epper, was neatly trimmed and combed. He even smelled of expensive aftershave. All business, he observed his brother through frosty eyes and acted civil to Mary Ellen and Daegan only for the policemen’s benefit. A criminal lawyer, as oily as the eels pulled out of the bay, accompanied him. As Mary Ellen smoked and answered questions in her softest voice, Robert was encouraging and kind; he even offered Daegan a sympathetic smile, but all the while, Daegan suspected, he was manipulating everyone in the room. Using his friendly, let’s just-ke ep-this-little-disagreement- between-us-friends smooth talk and his de ep pockets, he handled the police and the onlookers. Dazed, his head throbbing, Daegan heard words exchanged. Robert’s low voice was filled with concern for all in volved. He shook his head and Daegan only caught a few of his words. “Unfortunate misunderstanding... accident... a tragic miscommunication that we should all forget... the poor boy. Growing up... well, you know. Thankfully nothing was seriously damaged.” Cash was quietly slipped to the police and a few others, including Mike O’Brien, who looked as if he didn’t want to take the hundred-dollar bill being offered, but ended up tempted by greed. With an embarrassed glance at Mary Ellen, Mike tucked the folded bill into the de ep pockets of his sturdy overalls. Still shaking inside, Daegan knew instinctively that he’d crossed an invisible moral line. When he’d picked up the .38, he’d shaken off his shackles of childhood and become an adult. Never again would he live the way he had. From now on, he was on his own. He would pave his own way, play by his own rules, and disregard all the heretofore time-honored dictates of God, country, mother, and the Family Sullivan. He was his own man, able to level a gun at his father, ready to take the consequences for his actions. After the police and Frank, escorted by a silently seething Robert, left, Daegan began to pack. Mary Ellen didn’t even try to stop him, just sat in a chair at the kitchen table, smoked, and watched him with wide, wounded eyes. She looked old and haggard, her hair mussed, her makeup long since faded. Her legs straddled the corner of her chair and Daegan noticed that her once slim ankles had begun to thicken from years of hard work, age, and the inevitable effects of gravity. She played with her cigarette, rolling the tip around in an old ashtray he’d won for her at a county fair by shooting wooden ducks in an arcade. Somewhere along the way, thankfully, his aim had lessened and he hadn’t killed Frank. It seemed as if Mary Ellen was fresh out of tears, but as he hefted his duffle bag to his shoulder and looked at her one last time, she swallowed hard, her lips folding in on themselves.
“I’ll call.” “Sure.” Defeat edged her words. “I will.” She didn’t believe him—he could read it in her eyes though her mind wasn’t open to him. Her shoulders drooped and he guessed that she was still in shock that he’d tried to kill the man she loved. When he touched her lightly on the shoulder, she closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. As he brushed a kiss across her cheek she let out a soft little moan of dismay, but she didn’t reach for him. On wooden legs he walked out the broken door that Mike O’Brien had fixed with old plywood. Unbelievable. Daegan O’Rourke had attempted the unthinkable, a crime against a Sullivan. Attempted murder. Although no word had leaked out officially, murmurings of the bullet fired by O’Rourke had rasped through the hallowed halls of the Sullivan estates and stately townhomes. The buzz was that the bastard boy had a violent temper. A shot had exploded in the night, the bullet narrowly missing Frank Sullivan. A close call. Far too close, but then again that bastard boy had always exuded trouble. Too bad the shooter couldn’t have been arrested. It would be such a relief to have him behind bars and out of their faces for ten or twenty years, though it wasn’t possible. If Frank had to testify at trial, the fact that Daegan was his bastard son would inevitably be revealed, leading to a conundrum far worse than having the shooter listed as a runaway. Still, it was ludicrous, so wrong that a person who didn’t belong, a boy who had no right to be near the Sullivans, could wield so much power. The power to embarrass. The power to intrude. The power to kill. One could only hope that Daegan had learned his lesson, that he wouldn’t tangle with the likes of Frank Sullivan anymore. And so far so good. According to family scuttlebutt, O’Rourke was into the wind, missing since the incident. Not that anyone was beating bushes trying to find him. His own mother, Mary Ellen O’Rourke, the only person who seemed to care one iota, seemed to acc ept that he was gone for good. Gone far, far away from Boston and the world of trouble that would be his if he insinuated himself into this family again. Why don’t you just drop off the face of the planet, Daegan? Make it easy on all of us and just disappear? Daegen spent the first night sle eping behind a Dumpster, the next in an alley near Shorty’s. Cold, dirty, tired, and filled with a burning hatred for the man who had created him, he k ept walking around the south side of Boston. After nearly a week on the streets, huddled in doorways or unlocked cars, spending what little money he had on one meal a day, he found an apartment over a service station where the owner, a rotund man with piglike jowls and beefy hands, eyed Daegan and decided to let him pump gas in trade for his rent. Counting himself lucky, Daegan managed to juggle his hours, still putting in a forty-hour week at the fuel company, but not having much time for school. He managed to scrape up enough credits to graduate and the State of Massachusetts handed him a diploma. He could almost hear the nuns who had been his teachers sigh in collective relief that he was out of the revered educational system.
To ke ep things simple, Daegan didn’t see his mother, or Frank, or anyone from the family besides Bibi. Not that he wanted her around, either. But she was a stubborn thing, and for some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, she found him interesting. Daegan figured it was some kind of sicko guilt complex or fascination with the black she ep of the family. “I don’t think this is healthy,” he told her when she tracked him down from work and showed up at his dingy apartment soon after he’d moved in. “Why not?” He’d unpacked his old duffle bag, and the few clothes he owned were strewn on the stained mattress. “I don’t like feeling like some freakin’ animal in a sideshow.” “That’s not why I’m here.” He raised a disbelieving eyebrow. She was standing just inside the door eyeing the place as if she thought it needed dousing with disinfectant, which wasn’t too far from the truth. Time-worn varnish on the door. The windowsills had peeled, exposing old wood. Yellowed linoleum that looked like it was laid in the twenties was cracked and curling at the corners, and the sink, shower, and toilet were darkened by rings and rivulets of rust. The Ritz it wasn’t, but it would do. For now. “Okay,” he said, sitting on the edge of the mattress, exposed box springs squeaking in protest. “Enlighten me, why are you here?” “You don’t have to ridicule me. Believe me, that I can get at home.” Strolling into the room like she owned the place, she reached into the large bag she was carrying and withdrew a bottle of champagne. “I thought we should celebrate your freedom.” “With that?” he asked dubiously. “Compliments of my father,” she said as she dropped the bottle on one of the grimy counters. “Uncle Robert sent it?” He didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm in his voice. He really didn’t understand what Bibi’s fascination with him was and yet the street ran two ways; though he was loath to admit it, he was intrigued by her and everything she r epresented. “Well, he doesn’t really know. I sort of borrowed it.” “And how are you going to sort of give it back?” “I’m not. I figure he owes me.” She peeled off the foil. “Got any glasses?” He just stared at her and she lifted a shoulder. “I guess not.” “Crystal isn’t a top priority.” “Fine.” She bit into her lower lip as she worked the cork from the neck of the bottle with supple fingers. Pop! The cork rocketed across the room and frothy champagne slid down the green neck of the bottle. “Here. You first,” she said, holding her prize out to him. Staring up at her, he grabbed the bottle and took a long pull. Why not? She was here. He’d never tasted hundred-dollar-a-bottle booze in his life and there was nothing stopping him. He handed the champagne back to her and watched as she held the bottle up and sucked, her long neck working.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” she said, eyes bright. “It’s okay.” Her laughter filled the rat hole of an apartment. “More than okay. It’s divine.” “God might not agree.” He took a long swallow. Effervescent wine slid down his throat. Something told him he was being foolish, consorting with the enemy, going to end up detesting these few happy minutes for the rest of his life, but he ignored the warning and enjoyed himself for the first time in weeks. They drank until there was nothing left and she, seated beside him on the tattered mattress, held the bottle upside down and caught the last drop on her tongue. “Ah, well, all good things have to come to an end.” “So they say.” He was feeling a little lightheaded but he wouldn’t admit it. When he looked at her, she was prettier than he’d originally thought. Sleek hair, wicked little I-know-what-you’re-thinking smile that curved her full lips and large eyes capable of turning a dark shade of blue. “Gotta run,” she said as she glanced at her watch. “But I’ll be back.” “Will you?” “Umm.” Nodding, she fished in her bag, found a tube of lipstick, and painted her mouth a glossy shade of plum. “If you’ll let me.” “I don’t know.” “Why not?” she asked innocently, eyes round, eyebrows elevated. “I don’t trust you.” She looked wounded. “Why not?” Flopping back on the mattress, he sighed. “Figure it out, Bibi. Your last name’s Sullivan.” Stuart wanted to lash out and at anyone for anything! Rage stormed through his bloodstream and he let out a string of oaths that would have sent his mother right to her grave. All because of his sister, his damned, fool-hardy, let’s-dance-with-the-devil sister! Bibi was out of her mind! No two ways about it. She wouldn’t leave O’Rourke alone. Stuart had kicked himself a thousand times over for getting in volved, but now the damage was done. She was enthralled by the bastard. “This is your fault, you know,” he said to Collin as they drove to the lakeside house. It was summer now and the roads were wet from a warm rain. “My fault?” Collin chuckled. “You blame me for everything. What Bibi does is her business.” “Is it?” Stuart wasn’t convinced. He shot his cousin a look that could cut through granite. “You’re the one who started all this with your talk about him!” “But you took it one st ep farther, didn’t you? I just mentioned him to Bibi. You’re the one who decided to contact him and make sport of him.”
Collin sighed and shook his head. His blond hair gleamed pure gold even in the cloudy day. “You’ll never learn, Stuart. Never.” “I know, I know. I fucked up this time. Believe me I’ve lived to regret it.” He st epped on the throttle and his Porsche leaped forward, the speedometer pushing ninety, rain singing beneath the wide tires. Collin sighed and fiddled with the radio until he found a song he recognized. Old Janis Joplin tune. Just the kind of heart-wrenching gritty rock that Collin favored, though few people knew about that side of him that he so jealously guarded. There was Collin the perfect, the A student at Harvard, a member of the crew and debate teams, a man never without his argyle socks... unless you came across him after midnight when he was on the prowl. “So why blame me?” Collin asked. “You know she’s in love with you. Has been since she was about six, I think.” “We’re cousins, for God’s sake.” Collin laughed nervously. “Since when would that stop you?” Stuart asked, his thoughts dark. “Besides, it’s kind of a family tradition. Sullivans have been screwing Sullivans since they first landed on Plymouth Rock.” “We weren’t on the Mayflower,” Collin reminded him. “You ke ep forgetting that.” “A real blight on the family name.” Stuart braked for a corner and the tires squealed a bit. Collin didn’t even seem to notice. “Not the only one,” Collin said, leaning back against the passenger seat, his hands tapping in rhythm to the song on the radio. His fingers were long and strong. Graceful and supple from years of practicing piano, violin, and guitar. “Remember—Great-great-great-great-aunt Corinne was—” “Burned at the stake, I know. A witch. Could read people’s minds or some such rot. I think you missed a great or two in there somewhere.” “Probably. And not burned at the stake. Just accused of being a witch. I think someone else was flogged for witchcraft, but his or her life was spared.” Collin’s expression turned dark. “It looks like you’re going to be in charge of this family someday, so you should get the history right.” He reached into the glove box and found a pair of sunglasses he’d left in Stuart’s car nearly a year ago—last summer. “I wonder why O’Rourke took a pot shot at Dad.” Stuart laughed dryly. “He missed, didn’t he? Point-blank range. My guess is that he wasn’t really trying, but then maybe his aim was off. He’s probably never been skeet shooting.” “Nor fenced or read Thoreau, or caught an opening on Broadway, either,” Collin said without the slightest trace of a sneer. He slid the aviator glasses onto the bridge of his patrician nose though the day was already gloomy. “Never suffered through the Russian Ballet or had the opportunity to learn French in Paris.” “Poor unfortunate wretch.” “A lucky stiff if you ask me. He can do what he bloody well wants. Like try to shoot Frank Sullivan.” “Probably missed on purpose.” “My ass. He hates your old man.” Collin’s lips curled slightly. “Don’t we all?” “So why don’t you pick up a gun?”
With a slow smile Collin said, “There are better ways to get back at dear old dad, don’t you think?” “And you know them all.” Collin’s laugh was downright dirty. “Not only know them, but practice them daily.” “If you’re lucky.” “I usually am,” Collin assured him as Stuart rounded the final bend and eased the Porsche through the open gates. Robert and Adele had already moved to the lake for the summer, and this was their first party of the season. Stuart had offered to pick up Collin as he’d been trapped with late finals, so they’d driven up together. “The least you could do is offer Bibi some encouragement,” Stuart said. “Maybe then she wouldn’t be so interested in O’Rourke.” “That would be cruel.” “Why?” “Because I don’t love her—not like that.” His lips pinched at the corners. “What’s love got to do with anything?” “For Christ’s sake, Stu, forget it. If you’re so interested, you do it.” “Hell, Collin, she’s my sister.” “She’s my cousin!” “So?” “Oh, for the love of God. There’s no way I’m going to lead Bibi on.” “Sure you will. Come on, it could be fun.” “Fun?” Beneath his sunglasses, Collin’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so.” “Think about it,” Stuart said. “What do you want me to do? Kiss her? Feel her up? Get into her pants, for Christ’s sake? What are you, her fucking pimp?” He was angry now, his usually calm expression changed by fury. Blue eyes were narrowed, lips grim and flat, nostrils flared. Outraged. Just the way Stuart liked to see him. “Just show her some attention.” “Seduce her?” “There are worse things you could do.” “I don’t think so!” Stuart parked near the garage. He yanked the key from the ignition and Collin shoved open his door. “Wait.” Clamping strong fingers over his cousin’s arm, Stuart said, “Just be kind to her, okay? Don’t lead her on, but give her some hope so that she gets over O’Rourke.” “False hope, you mean.” “We could make it more interesting.” “I don’t need more interesting, Stuart. Or don’t you remember?”
Stuart wasn’t listening. As the oldest, he’d always been able to get his sister and younger cousins to do his bidding. Sometimes he asked them, other times he threatened, but his true skill, his talent, was in manipulation. “Come on, Collin, give the girl a break. It won’t take long and you might enjoy it. Right now O’Rourke’s new and interesting, but she’s really hung up on you.” “Great.” Collin rolled his eyes. But he was weakening. As he always did. “This... intrigue she feels for O’Rourke will pass of its own accord, but we’re just giving it a little push.” “We?” “Well, you, really.” Muttering under his breath, Collin fell back against the seat. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into all this nonsense.” “’Cause you love it. Now, listen. It’ll be easy to turn Bibi’s head from the bastard. She’s had this crush on you since she was six.” Now that his quarry was in no danger of es caping, Stuart could remove his hand from Collin’s upper arm, but he let it linger, reminding Collin just who was boss. “Oh, I know she’s been with a couple of other boys—infatuations that passed. She’s always been way ahead of the girls her age. Once Mother caught her making out with Donny Cheltham on the dock. The top of Bibi’s swimsuit was off and Donny had a boner so big his Speedo couldn’t hide it.” “Your mother told you this?” “I was there,” Stuart said, and he felt a familiar rush in his bloodstream at the thought of Bibi and Donny groping and rolling around in the hot summer sun, their bodies slick with sweat and suntan oil. “They just didn’t know it.” “So now you’re a pe eping Tom.” “Always have been and you know it. You like it.” “Let go of me.” Collin ripped his arm away, stood, and straightened his tie. “You’re d epraved, you know that, don’t you, Stuart?” Stuart slipped the keys in his pocket. “A fucking deviant and proud of it.” “Oh, hell!” Collin’s mouth lifted at the corner. His fury dissipated quickly, as it always did. That was the problem with Collin; he didn’t really know how to hold a grudge. Unlike his old man. Unlike almost everyone else lucky enough to be a part of this family. Bibi watched him walk into the room with Stuart. Tall, lean, sexy. Collin had always appealed to her. As kids they’d played together, and later as he’d grown, he’d become her friend and confidant, but then adolescence had taken hold and he’d spent more time with Stuart than her. The larger her breasts became, the more defined her waist, the less the boys wanted to be around her. A few years ago, they’d been an exclusive threesome, never letting prim and tattletaling Alicia into the group, but slowly Bibi, too, had been weaned. Now Stuart and Collin were best friends. Bibi tried to reach him. Sometimes Collin was just plain cold, as if his thoughts were elsewhere, as if he had problems he couldn’t share with her, but other times he was friendly and she was reminded of the boy she’d grown up with.
Tonight, he nearly blinded her with his smile. Alicia was playing the piano, hoping to impress them all with her perfect rendition of some classical piece—Chopin, Bibi thought idly. The parents were gathered in the living room, where they were sipping martinis. Bonnie was near the fire, curled on a sofa and reading a book. “Isn’t this a rowdy group?” Stuart observed as he eyed the hors d’oeuvres arranged on a tabletop. Snagging a prawn wrapped in bacon, he plopped it into his mouth. “The rest of the guests are supposed to arrive around eight.” Bibi didn’t like the thought of putting up with another boring party with friends of her family, but she had no choice. This was a command performance. “Maybe we can all be drunk by then,” Stuart said so that only she and Collin could hear. He smeared some salmon pâté onto a tiny cracker. “Fat chance,” she said. “Some of us aren’t old enough.” “There are ways,” Stuart told her and slid a glance at Collin as he took a bite from the cracker. “Meet us in the pool house after everyone arrives, so you won’t be missed. Nine-thirty.” Collin shot him a look that could kill. Bibi ignored it. “Why?” She couldn’t help the excitement that cr ept into her voice. They were finally including her again. “It’s a surprise,” Stuart told her. “Don’t tell the girls.” His gaze moved to include Bonnie and Alicia. “Make sure you come alone.” Bibi slipped out of the house unnoticed. Collin and Stuart had left a few minutes earlier, not together. First Stuart had wandered onto the flagstone deck and not returned. After hanging around the dessert table and talking with a couple of older guys, Collin had made his exit as well. Now, Bibi, making sure that no one was paying any attention to her, headed for the powder room, then once she was in the hallway, slipped through a door to the servants’ quarters and out a back way near the laundry room. A light drizzle had deigned to mist over the Sullivan party and wisps of fog clung to the black surface of the lake. She made her way to the pool house by memory, having spent every summer of her life here. The lights outside didn’t illuminate the grounds near the wing that housed the maids who lived with them in the summer, but Bibi was still able to run through the shadows, past a laurel hedge and around the edge of the pool that, with its submerged light shining, shimmered an electric shade of aqua in the night. The pool house was unlocked and dark. “Anybody here?” she whispered, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. “For God’s sake, come in and close the door!” Stuart’s voice bounced off the walls. The lock clicked behind her and Stuart drew all the curtains then snapped on a small lamp near the bed. A tiny pool of light cast warm shadows over the floral bedspread and matching chairs. “I can’t believe we’re sneaking around like a pack of thieves.” Collin emerged from the kitchen. Balancing a wicker tray that was loaded with three filled glasses, he said, “Don’t we always? Face it, Stu, it’s our lot in life.” A look passed between them that she couldn’t read and Collin handed her a glass filled with amber liquid. “It’s silly,” Stuart said, anxious to be his own man. For the past few years he’d been pulling at the bit, wanting more. Soon he’d graduate from college, then he’d put in a stint at law school and finally be able to st ep into the shoes that had been fashioned for him from the day of his birth.
“Silly, but necessary. Cheers.” Collin let him pick a glass from the tray, took another for himself, and tossed the empty wicker tray onto the bed. He clinked the rim of his glass to both Stuart’s and Bibi’s. “To the Three Musketeers.” “Is that what we are?” Bibi asked as she sat on the edge of the mattress. “Sure.” Stuart took a swallow from his glass and sprawled in one of the side chairs. “Always have been.” “Not recently.” “Maybe that’s all changed,” Stu said cryptically. “Come on, Bibi, relax. Drink up.” For a reason she couldn’t name, she felt a speck of indecision. She wanted desperately to be close to them both again and yet there was something wrong here. Something that she couldn’t put her finger on. “I thought this is what you wanted,” Stuart prodded. “It is,” she said, reaching for her purse and finding a crushed pack of cigarettes. She lit up and calming smoke curled down into her lungs. Collin stared at Bibi over the edge of his glass as he took a healthy gulp. His eyes were mesmerizing and Bibi’s throat was suddenly as dry as the Sahara in summer. Without another thought she sipped from the glass, felt the blended scotch burn a fiery path down her throat, and waited for the alcohol to hit her blood-stream. She needed that warmth now and it came quickly in a familiar rush. After the fourth or fifth swallow she felt her muscles soften and her doubts flee. She was with Stu and Collin again. What could possibly go wrong? She wasn’t aware of time, didn’t even think that they might be missed from the party, but after a while—during the second or third drink and a like amount of cigarettes—Stuart, known for being able to hold his liquor and ke ep a level head—said he’d make a brief appearance back at the main house and field questions. If anyone asked about Bibi or Collin, he’d say they took a walk down by the lake or some such nonsense. No one, with the exc eption of Alicia, would doubt him for a moment. He breezed out through the back door and Bibi leaned back against the pillows of the big bed, used occasionally for weekend summer guests. She took a final drag of her smoke and squashed it in a bedside tray. “Refill?” Collin asked, gathering up her half-drunk glass. “I’m fine.” “Yes, Bibi, that you are,” he said softly before disappearing into the kitchen. The way he said her name made her tingle inside, though she mentally called herself a fool. He was her cousin and therefore off-limits, but ever since she’d been a little girl, when he’d carried her across a creek, ke eping her party dress clean while his own trousers had become sodden and muddy, she’d looked up to him. They’d been playing where they shouldn’t have, down by the swollen waters of Bright Creek on their grandparents’ property. They lost track of time laughing and throwing rocks into the stream, and Stuart, realizing they were late, had yelled at them to hurry back. He’d crossed the water easily, by hopping from one slippery rock to another and was racing up the bank to Grandmother’s big stone house on the hill. This was the day Bonnie was to be baptized into the church. Bibi had nearly fallen in the creek and knew she couldn’t make the leaps that Stuart had.
She’d started to cry when Collin, tucking his shoes and socks into his pockets, had carried her across the rushing water. But as careful as he’d been, mud had splashed up his pant legs, and by the time they’d returned to Grandma’s house, Collin was in de ep trouble. His mother nearly fainted at the dirt and water stains on his new suit pants, and Frank, loving father that he’d always been, was furious with his son. “Good for nothing!” he roared, his face mottled red. “Why don’t you ever use that brain that God gave you? Huh?” “I’m sorry.” “Sorry’s not good enough!” Frank spewed and Bibi was suddenly scared. Uncle Frank’s face was twisted evilly. He looked like a monster. “I messed up.” “Bend over.” Everyone stopped talking. Only the wind sighing through Grandma’s lilac tree made any noise. “I said—” “No! Father, please—” Frank lunged at his son and threw him down on the grass with such force the air rushed from Collin’s lungs. “You’ll do as I say! Now stand up, bend down, and grab your ankles.” Collin fought tears of shame. “I—I can’t.” “Be a man for once!” Shaking, Collin struggled to his feet. “Now!” Frank bellowed. Collin’s face drained of color. “But sir, I’m too old—” “Not too old to go playing like a two-year-old in the mud. Well, if you’re gonna act like one, then you’re gonna have to be treated like one.” “Frank,” Grandma admonished softly. “It’s good for the boy,” Grandpapa had stated, his pipe clamped firmly between his yellow teeth. “Give him character.” “It was my fault!” Bibi cried. Frank cast his niece a harsh look. “No doubt, but it doesn’t matter. Collin can think for himself. He’s made us late, k ept the priest waiting, made us all look like fools. This is just to make sure it won’t happen again. Now, boy, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll grab your ankles.” “Please, Frank! Not here.” Grandma Sullivan intervened. “Stay out of it, Bernice,” Grandpapa said, watching the display with grim determination. “Collin needs to learn his lesson.” Aunt Maureen looked away and fiddled with a long strand of pearls. Bibi’s parents didn’t say a word; they made it a practice to stay out of other people’s business. Face flaming in shame, Collin bent over. In front of all his family, Frank spanked him with a Ping-Pong paddle. He bit his lips and fought tears as his father, red-faced and smelling of brandy, whacked him ten times, each smack echoing in Bibi’s heart. Sweating from the effort, Frank finally dropped the paddle and took a long, triumphant swig from his glass. “Now, go upstairs and change and never... do you hear me, never, let some little girl talk you into disobeying me or your mother again.” Collin, swallowing hard, marched in silent mortification from the patio. “And
say a hundred Hail Marys while you’re at it.” The back door banged behind Collin. Frank, as if suddenly aware of the r eproachful eyes cast in his direction, rolled his palms to the sky. “What?” When no one said anything, again he shouted, “What?” “It was a little harsh,” Maureen said. “It was wrong! Collin didn’t do anything but give me a piggyback ride!” Tears ran down Bibi’s face. “You shouldn’t have put him in that position,” her father said. “Let’s get in the car.” Robert focused his gaze on Frank. “We’ll meet you at the church. Come on, Stuart.” For the first time Bibi saw her brother, standing by the gazebo in Grandma’s rose garden. His face was white and he glared at his own father with hard eyes. “Don’t ever treat me that way,” he said to Robert. “I won’t. Now, let’s get a move on.” The children lagged behind their parents, and before climbing into the car, Stuart looked at Bibi with eyes that drilled into her soul. “I’d kill him,” he whispered, conviction edging every word. “If Frank were my father, I’d shoot him dead.” “What can we do about Collin?” Bibi whispered. “Nothing.” Stuart cast an angry look over his shoulder. “We can’t do anything yet. But someday—” “Stuart. Bibi. Please! Get in the car.” Their mother Adele, was adjusting her hat in the front seat. “Let’s make sure our side of the family doesn’t look like Frank’s.” She shuddered and Bibi slid into the plush interior of the Mercedes. She knew her mother considered Frank to be a ruffian even though he’d been raised in the same family as her husband. “Sometimes there’s bad blood in the family,” she’d said often enough. “A throwback to some Neanderthal. That’s the problem with Frank. He’s filthy in mind and body!” For the most part, Adele k ept her thoughts to herself and held her tongue. Family unity above all else was the motto she held dear to her heart. She’d been taught from an early age to bear incredible personal pain if it meant not compromising her social position or that of her family. But once in a while even she couldn’t hold her tongue. They drove to the church, and Bibi, biting her lower lip, her head bent in feigned prayer, waited. Eventually Frank, Maureen, and their brood arrived, but Collin wouldn’t look at her, nor would he catch Stuart’s eye. He knelt at the pew, eyes cast downward in the centuries-old church and never so much as risked a glance in her direction. It was later at Frank’s house as she was walking by the door to the den, looking for Stuart and Collin, that she overheard a conversation between her uncle and father. They were seated by the fire, swirling their drinks and smoking huge, smelly cigars. “The boy needed to be taught a lesson,” Frank insisted, obviously defending himself. “Not in front of the entire family.” Robert puffed angrily. His back was to her but Bibi saw the cloud of blue smoke he created. It rose to the ceiling like odoriferous mist. “Look, Bobby, you do what you think best with your kids and I’ll handle mine.” Frank stood and walked to the mantel. “The way you ‘handle’ the other boy?” Bibi just stared at her uncle with wide eyes. What other boy? Frank had only one son.
“Let’s not talk about him now.” There was another son? But where? Bibi’s mind was racing in circles. “Why not? Don’t want the whole family to hear?” Robert said. “Think about it, Frank. Of course you don’t. Just like Collin didn’t need to be humiliated in front of his cousins.” By this time Alicia, her white dress without so much as a spot, sneaked up behind Bibi. “What’re you doing?” she whispered, then looked through the crack between the door and the casing and saw the men inside. “Boy, you’re asking for it.” Bibi inched away from the door. “Do you have a brother?” she asked. “I mean, besides Collin.” “No.” “But Daddy asked Uncle Frank about his other boy.” “Oh.” Alicia tossed her long hair over a shoulder. “Him.” “What—him?” “It’s nothing,” Alicia said, her superior attitude back in place, though she avoided Bibi’s curious gaze. “Excuse me Mother wants me to practice my Mozart.” With that she scurried away in a rustle of white lace, her footst eps retreating to the parlor. Later, Bibi caught up with her brother and demanded answers. She explained what she’d overheard and Stuart, curse him, didn’t seem the least bit surprised. He was forever ke eping secrets from her. “It’s about the bastard,” he finally revealed. “The what?” Stuart’s eyes gleamed. “What’ll you do for me if I tell you?” “Just tell me!” she demanded, and after a little teasing he regaled her with the sordid tale of Frank’s whore and bastard son, Daegan O’Rourke, her other boy cousin who was scandalously illegitimate, not that she could be expected to understand everything this meant. From the look on Stuart’s face when he whispered the information to her in the attic of Frank’s house, Bibi understood that something wicked and nasty had gone on. Now, years later in the pool house, as Collin returned with a refill of her drink, she gazed up at him and saw the young hero he’d been to her when he’d taken a beating that should have been hers. She ignored her half- smoked cigarette as he took a seat in the overstuffed chair and propped a foot on the matching ottoman. He seemed uncomfortable. “Something’s bothering you,” she said. “Something’s always bothering me.” “Why?” He lifted a shoulder, dismissing the subject, then took a long gulp of his fresh drink. If he wasn’t careful, she thought, he’d get himself drunk. Unlike Stuart, Collin couldn’t hold his liquor. “Maybe I can help.”
“Oh, Bibi,” he said with a long sigh as he lolled his head back and she watched the glorious length of his throat. “If you only knew.” “I’ll trade you my secret for yours.” A blond eyebrow shot skyward and he skewered her with a look that made her want to squirm against the pillows. “You’ve got a secret?” “More than one.” “Interesting.” He glanced to the shadowed doorway on the other side of the bed, then, leaving his drink on a rattan end table, climbed to his feet. “Tell me, Cousin, what are they?” Walking slowly, he crossed to the bed and stopped, looming above her. His crotch was at eye level and she tried not to stare and wonder if he was getting hard. Something in his manner had changed and the air in the room seemed close and thick. She had trouble breathing. She thought she heard a door creak open, but couldn’t really tell over the hammering of her heart. “Do these secrets have anything to do with me?” She swallowed hard, then took a long drink. “Maybe.” “Don’t you know?” He reached down and tangled a finger in her hair, tugging a little. Deliciously painful. She could barely breathe. “Collin—” “Don’t.” “I have to,” she admitted, knowing it was the time to unburden her heart. “I don’t think—” It was as if he were struggling with himself, waging some inner battle. Because they were cousins—related—he had to deny any feelings he had for her. That was it! “Just listen,” she pleaded. He sank onto the bed and his face was barely inches from hers. “What, darling?” Her heart was thudding like a jackhammer, her breathing raspy and shallow. Had he really called her darling? Did he, too, care more than he’d admitted. “I—um...” Oh, God, what could she say? She smelled the expensive Kentucky blend on his breath, felt his finger slide from her hair along her chin to rest at her lips. “You don’t have to say anything.” “I want to, don’t you understand. It’s something that I... that I’ve been thinking for a long, long time.” “Oh, God.” “Collin, I—” “Just do what you want to, Bibi,” he said in a low voice that she barely recognized, a voiced filled with defeat. She reached forward tentatively, her arms encircling his neck. “I want to kiss you.” “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said, closing his eyes. “Just let me.” She pressed her lips to his and felt him shudder. Her fingers dug into the muscles between his shoulders and he groaned. He wanted her, she could feel it! As if the wall of doubt he’d erected had suddenly fallen into rubble, he kissed her back. Hotly. Hungrily. Fiercely. “Is this all you want? Just to kiss?” She could hardly think between the alcohol and the magic of his touch.
“Yes... no.” “Make up your mind, Bibi. It’s now or never.” “I want to—to—” “What, darling?” “Love you,” she said weakly, saying the words that had hovered in her mind for a dozen years. He groaned as if in agony, then twined his hands in her hair, jerked her face close to his, and kissed her so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. As if giving into a temptation he’d been denying for far too long, he slowly began unbuttoning his shirt, displaying a chest of raw muscle without any disturbance of hair. She was suddenly frightened, but his skin, glistening in the light from that single bulb, beckoned her. “We can do anything at all. We’re all alone.” He threw off his shirt and he was bare to the waist, all tight skin and corded muscles. With a half smile, he glanced to the open door and dark hallway that led to the kitchen. “You think Stuart will be back—” “Not for a while,” Collin said, though his voice was strangled. “Don’t think about him.” His dusky gaze found hers again and he circled her lips with a finger that smelled vaguely of smoke. She touched the tip of her tongue to his skin and a soft moan es caped him. Inside she was turning hot and sticky and liquid, like honey warmed over open coals. She took more of his finger into her mouth, sucking loudly, making sensual noises that seemed to arouse him. “That’s right, baby,” he whispered, one hand tangling in her hair as he pressed soft lips to hers. His mouth was open, his tongue quick. Hot jets of passion spurted through her blood and she kissed him eagerly, tumbling back onto the bed as he pushed her down. His hands were strong, suddenly rough as he tore at the buttons of her blouse. The first niggle of doubt pricked her cloudy mind. “Collin?” “This is what you want, isn’t it?” he said. The fabric parted and her breasts, tucked into the demure cups of a cotton bra, were exposed. He rubbed her chest hard with the flat of his big hand and her nipples peaked. “Yes, but—” Where was the tenderness? The love? A dull roar started in her ears, sounding like the din of the sea, the same roar she heard whenever she was in trouble. He ripped the blouse from her torso and she’d never felt more naked in her life. He was kissing her sloppily, wet and anxious, his fingers fumbling at the back fastening of her bra. This wasn’t right, she thought wildly as the hook gave way and he yanked the scanty fabric down her arms. He was touching her, groaning, breathing fast, and yet it was as if he wasn’t really there, as if only his body was in the room, that his soul had d eparted. “Collin, wait—” she whispered as his sweaty hands kneaded her back. “Why?” “I don’t know. I don’t think...” “Don’t tell me you’re a tease, Bibi.” He pulled his head away from hers to stare at her with condemning eyes. “Not you. Not with me.” “I said I just want to love you.” “You will,” he said in a breathy voice, but glanced over her shoulder, as if he expected someone to barge in on them.
“I mean, I want to, really I do, but—” He stood suddenly then and glared down at her as if she were a piece of meat—rotten and foul. “Get up.” “No—” The roar in her ears was deafening, and she noticed that when he looked at her breasts, his expression didn’t change, even though she’d been told before how spectacular they were. Large and full, crowned with big dark nipples, the two boys who had been given the privilege of viewing and touching them had raved about their beauty. Collin didn’t seem to notice, or to care, even when she crawled to the side of the bed and stood directly in front of him. No playful tweak, no guilty glance. Nothing. “You can’t have it both ways, Bibi. Either you want to do it with me or you don’t. We can end it now or we can go all the way. It’s up to you.” His voice was cold and harsh as a judge meting out a sentence. “But you don’t want me,” she accused him, swallowing hard, feeling hot tears shimmering in her eyes. “Of course I do.” “No, something’s wrong.” He closed his eyes for a second, as if he was mentally counting to ten, trying to gain some self-control. “You’re not the same.” “You’re right,” he admitted as she covered herself with her hands. He glanced again to the doorway, as if he were attempting to find answers to their dilemma. “This is hard for me, too. I’m not sure it’s right.” “Because we’re cousins.” “No,” he said, hesitating and biting his lip as he had during childhood whenever he was faced with hard decisions. “Because I care about you.” He seemed sincere, though he didn’t meet her gaze. “I don’t like the idea of using you.” “You won’t.” “Oh, Bibi—” “I won’t let you.” Sadness converged on his features and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if his sudden attack of nobility were too much to bear. This was the Collin she loved, this was her hero. “It’s all right.” “No, Bibi, you don’t understand.” “Sure I do.” She shifted, holding a breast in each hand, rubbing the hard tips of her nipples against his chest, letting him gaze down at the huge pillowy mounds. “I love you.” She wound her fingers in his and raised his hand, guiding him to her nipples, then she moved sensually, using her hand and his, feeling that little hot tickle of desire de ep between her legs as she always did when she massaged her nipples. “Touch me, Collin, touch me all over and love me,” she whispered throatily. “It’s not just you and me,” he protested. “It is right now. Let me love you.” “Bibi, don’t do this.” She dropped his hand and ran her fingers over his shoulders, feeling the power within his muscles as he kissed her. But the kiss had no life and his fingers had stopped kneading her breast. His sudden attack of conscience had drunk up all his desire. But Bibi knew how to get it back. She kissed him hungrily, then let her tongue slide down his chin, neck, and breastbone. She didn’t stop until she reached his fly, and dropping to her knees, she slid the button and zipper open with deft, well-practiced fingers, only to find that he wasn’t hard, that he was as limp as a wet dishrag. “What?” she asked, gazing up at him. His face was twisted in silent agony and his eyes glistened as if he was fighting tears.
“Collin?” “You don’t have to do this,” he said, swallowing as his fingers played in her hair. “Why not?” “It’s not right.” “Probably not,” she admitted, “but I can make you feel better.” His hands curled into fists. She thought she heard the scrape of a shoe against the tile floor. But that was silly. They were alone and he didn’t flinch, just stood over her, his eyes trained on the darkened hallway. Sometimes being able to look into another person’s mind was a pain in the butt—a damned curse. Worse yet, Daegan couldn’t control this gift— not one bit. Whenever he least expected it, he’d get a glimmer—just a hint of what someone was thinking—not enough to do any good, but a glimmer nonetheless. He’d never be able to make his living reading palms or predicting the future and yet he had to live with the knowledge that he was occasionally offered glimpses into another person’s soul, as he was now. It was Bibi who was calling out to him. He heard her voice in his dreams, and tonight after work he’d gone to the pool hall, lost a little money, and drunk more beer than he usually did, then he’d staggered home, kicked off his shoes, stripped off his shirt and jeans, and fallen facedown on his bed when he heard her voice, panic-stricken and pained, bouncing off the walls in his mind. He’d told himself that he was drunk, that he was imagining everything, but he’d barely drifted off when the racket on the other side of his door drove him back to consciousness. Someone was pounding frantically on the ancient, peeling panels, rattling the lock, trying to wake the damned dead. “Hell,” he muttered, blinking at the illuminated face of his clock as he snapped on the light. Two-thirty. He’d have to be downstairs with the pumps turned on at six. The pounding continued making a horrendous racket. Forcing himself to his feet, he rubbed a calloused hand over his face. He knew before he opened the door that Bibi was on the landing at the top of his stairs. “Oh, Daegan,” she cried as the door swung open. She burst into the room smelling of smoke, liquor, and perfume. Dropping onto a corner of his mussed bed, she cradled her head in her hands. “Bibi?” He plowed his fingers through his hair and massaged his eyes. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” Waving off his question, she shook her head. “I’m so stupid, so damned stupid!” she wailed, her voice filled with pain. “Oh, God, what am I going to do?” “What’re you doing here?” “I needed to get out, to get away...” Her words were slurred and he realized dully that she was as drunk as he. A dangerous combination. “Away from what?” “Them!” She spat out the word as if it were vile then started to sob, de ep, soul-wracking sobs that shook her whole body. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she began to rock back and forth, forward and backward and forward again. Over and over. He had no choice but to try and help her, to calm her down. “Come on, Bibi, what is it?” he said, sitting on the bed beside her and draping an arm over her shoulders. “Collin.” She looked as if she might gag. “And Stuart.”
“I thought you liked them.” “I did. Oh, God,” she wailed. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.” She was white as a sheet. “I’ve been such a fool, such a goddamned stupid fool.” “Hey, slow down, tell me what happened,” he said, yawning. “I can’t.” She shook her head quickly. “But you came all the way down here—” “Just hold me, okay?” “Sure.” His arm tightened around her and she leaned into his shoulder, her tears hot as they drizzled from her eyes to his bare skin. As dull as he was, he knew that touching her was precarious, that she was hurt and he was nearly naked, that just the smell of her was causing a tightening in his gut and he was getting hard. Her breath whispered over his chest, ruffling his chest hairs. Determined to ke ep the stiffening in his groin at bay, he gritted his teeth. “Can I stay with you?” “I don’t think that would be such a good idea.” His little apartment wasn’t as bleak and austere as when he’d first moved in, but it was still a far cry from what she was used to. Though there was a secondhand throw rug on the floor, sheets and blankets on the bed, a stick or two of furniture, it was still a hovel—a dirty little apartment over the top of a service station. But then, even if he lived in a mansion, he wouldn’t think her staying with him would cause them anything but grief. “Please. I just need to be away.” What could he say? She obviously needed a friend and he—he needed a smoke. “Fine. You... you can sle ep here. I’ll take the chair.” “No. Please, Daegan, hold me tonight,” she begged, clinging to him. “Please, just hold me. I need someone.” “But—” “I’ll be good, I promise.” “You are good,” he said. “Then, please, hold me and protect me.” Though his ale-soaked mind warned him that he was playing with fire, he sighed and turned off the light. They tumbled into the sheets together, sharing a pillow, and he swore that the swelling between his legs and his hot-blooded sexual urges wouldn’t get the better of him. He’d hold her, assure her, maybe even kiss the back of her neck, but that was all. He didn’t need the pain and agony of having sl ept with his cousin and yet she was so soft, so warm, so vital. When he pressed his lips to her hair and told her to sle ep, she turned to him, her luscious mouth open, her arms circling his naked torso. “You care about me, don’t you?” “Of course I do.” “And you think I’m... sexy.” “Too sexy.” God, what was she doing? His head was pounding with desire, his cock hard as the rock of Gibraltar. “Go to sle ep, Bibi.”
“Do you want me, Daegan?” “Go to sle ep.” His brain was on fire. “Do you want me?” “It doesn’t matter what I want.” He tried to think past the beer still clouding his judgment and the warm woman in his arms. His heart throbbed in his ears. “I want you.” “Shit!” “I mean it.” “Bibi, go to sle ep or leave.” His mind was saying one thing, his body, hot and anxious, another. “You don’t mean it.” “Please, no—” But she was kissing him already, her lips warm and soft and wet against the skin of his chest. “Let me,” she whispered in a breathy voice that reminded him of a summer breeze. “Oh, God, don’t—” She lowered herself slowly and his fingers tangled in her hair. With quick, hot ministrations, she rimmed one of his nipples with her tongue and the world began to spin. “For the love of Mike—Bibi, please don’t—” Her fingers dipped in the waistband of his jeans and skimmed his fly. He closed his eyes. The zipper opened with a quick, sharp hiss. His mouth was dry and his cock aching to be stroked. His insides turned to jelly as her breath, like the wanton air from the lungs of Jezebel, sw ept across his belly. His jeans slid to the floor and Daegan was lost. Forever. His arms tightened around her, and mentally cursing, he gave himself into the passion drumming through his blood. He kissed her long and hard even though he knew there was no turning back.