Pam slept heavily beside Connor, on her front, her face turned away. He'd put off slumber as he needed to be at work in the next half hour. They'd left McGinty's early, Pam complaining of a headache, and so he'd walked her back to her brownstone, and then talked her out of her clothes and into her bed.
He knew every mark he ever made on her body. He watched them fade, a little sad, but thrilled with the aspect of making more. And she was so beautiful, willingly letting him do what he pleased, her breath catching when he landed a sharp slap to the inside of her thigh, or the way she moaned softly as he tightened the ropes about her wrists. He knew the color of her bruises in every stage, fresh to days old, and loved it best when tears brought on by maddening pleasure tracked down her cheeks to her lips, where she tasted them eagerly.
The mark below her shoulder blade, however, was not his own.
His fingers slid down her neck as he pushed up on one elbow, and he moved his face closer to the small, red lines that marred her soft skin. They were no more than half an inch each, perpendicular to each other, and meeting at a slight angle. The edges of the lines were blurred blue with bruising. As his fingers brushed the mark, his teeth worried his bottom lip.
Probably ran into a chair. Or maybe a clothing rack at the store, his rational mind deduced. He sighed, flopping onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Pam stirred, twisting in the sheets, and draped herself over his chest with a gentle murmur.
"Hey," he whispered, winding the ends of her hair through his fingers. "I have ta go soon."
Pam moaned, annoyed, and pressed her face into his sternum. "Not yet," she hummed.
Connor hummed with her, and slid his hand down her back, touching the strange bruise once more. "Aye, it's just one more night. I'll come pick ya up in tha mornin', an' we'll go ta Mass, an' then get waffles."
"I thought you hated waffles," she chuckled, kissing his bicep.
"Murphy hates waffles," Connor corrected.
Pam tensed against Connor and then blinked her eyes open, pushing her hair from her face. "Right," she nodded. She slid back from Connor and sat on the edge of the bed.
The cool air of the bedroom washed over Connor and he shivered, turning to his side. "What's wrong?"
"These nights are killing me," she muttered.
Connor snorted. "You an' me both, lass." Sitting up behind her, he pushed her hair over her shoulder and pressed his lips to her skin. "Last one. Then it's Murphy's turn." His kiss turned to a playful bite. "An' I can have ya all t'meself." Once more, his fingers trailed up her ribs, and he paused again at the bruise beneath her shoulder blade, applying firm pressure. The resulting gasp from Pam's lips was like music to his ears. "What happened here?"
The sharp ache and sting made me jerk from Connor's fingers. I twisted around, trying to see what he was talking about. "I don't know," I shrugged. "Probably ran into a rack at the store." In truth, I didn't know what it was, but it hurt the way only a small wound can. I reached around and rubbed the spot myself.
"Hmmm," Connor replied. "As long as it wasn't some other man," he breathed.
His words sucked the air from my lungs, and I became very still. His lips brushed over the offended flesh. "Is liomsa thú," he growled, moving once more, this time to slide a leg on either side of my thighs, his half-hard cock nestled hotly against the small of my back. The touch of his fingers walking along my thighs from my knees up made me shiver. One hand slipped between my thighs, gripping me tightly, not unlike the way Murphy had back at McGinty's. His whiskers scraped along my shoulder. "You know that, right?"
I shook my head, unsure of his question.
He chuckled, his breath sailing against my skin. "Jesus, Mary, n'Joseph, lass, ya gotta learn Gaelic. I said 'you're with me'."
I nodded shakily. "I know I am," I whispered, my face burning.
"Good girl," he praised, nipping my earlobe.
Then he was gone, slipping into my bathroom, and cranking the shower on.
I clapped my hand over my mouth to hold back the sob that threatened to bubble out. I began to shake, and to sweat, and over and over in my head I repeated to myself, he knows, he knows, he knows.
"Tha fuck are ya doin' here?" Murphy asked from the couch as Connor burst through the door.
"I got anudder pack o'smokes up here," he explained, moving to the kitchen cupboards.
Murphy sat up a little straighter, absently scratching at his bare chest, half paying attention to the TV. Connor opened and shut cupboard doors, muttering to himself.
"Murph! Did ya take em?"
"Eh?" Murphy finally pulled himself from the couch and padded over to where Connor rummaged around.
"Me smokes – I left a pack here yesterday mornin'." He turned from the drawer he was searching and eyed his brother closely. "Oi, ya fuckin' git, ya smoked em, didn't ya?"
Murphy waved Connor off. "Yeah, so what? They're fuckin' smokes, Connor, get anudder pack on tha way ta work." He made a point of looking at the clock across the room. "Yer gonna be late."
"Don't fuckin' change tha subject, ya smoked my cigarettes." He gave Murphy a small shove.
In turn, Murphy slapped his hands away. "Get over it, ya gee bag. It's not like yer fuckin' name was on em."
Connor swung again, knocking Murphy back into the counter. For his part, Murphy wrestled against him, twisting his torso and blocking the short blows Connor tried to land. Eventually, they sprawled on the linoleum, tumbling over each other in an attempt to gain the upper hand. Murphy saw his chance and pulled at the waist of Connor's jeans with one hand, and the collar of his shirt with the other, and effectively flipped Connor onto his stomach.
Connor snarled and wiggled against the floor as Murphy landed in a heavy pile on his back, pushing the air from his lungs. "Don't touch me things, brudder," Connor croaked, breaking off as he began to wheeze.
Murphy grunted, pushing his forearm against the back of Connor's neck. "Fuck you, Conn, ya don't own everytin' ya touch."
Bucking, Connor drove an elbow up into Murphy's side. "Fuck you, Murphy. Ya should fuckin' know better."
Murphy coughed, scrambling off of Connor's back to push to his feet. He sagged against the counter as he fought for his breath, his eyes wild as he stared down at Connor. "Are ya fuckin' twelve?" he snapped. "Jesus Christ, Connor, ya been like dis since we was born – what's yours is yours, and what's mine is yours, too? Grow tha fuck up."
The fairer twin tilted his head in askance. His expression was incredulous. "Yer fuckin' wit' me, now, aren't ya?" Connor moved to his feet and sank against the fridge, facing Murphy. "That's what this is about? Yer carrying around hard feelins from when we were growin' up?" Connor rolled his eyes and toed the half-empty, rather squashed pack of cigarettes, and kicked them across the floor to his brother. "Take em, if yer that upset about it."
Murphy bit back a string of curses, and took a few deep breaths. He wondered if Connor would be so careless about giving up other things, too, just to avoid a fight. He shook his head with a bitter chuckle. "I'll get me own," he growled, pushing off the counter towards the couch. He snagged his shirt from where it hung over the arm, and yanked it over his head. Five seconds later, he'd pulled on his jacket, and began working on his boots.
"Should have done that in the first place," Connor chided from where he watched Murphy. "Would have saved me tha trouble."
Murphy glared at Connor and flipped him off, before turning on his heel and leaving the loft. He let the door slam shut behind him.
By the time he had made it to Pam's, he was furious. The walk had done little to quell the anxiety, or the anger, coursing through his veins, and Murphy didn't know if he wanted to fight, or flee, or fuck. He paused on the sidewalk in front of the steps leading up to the brownstone and chewed on his thumbnail.
He probably shouldn't have come. That stunt at McGinty's had been just that – a stunt: stupid, selfish, and serving only to make him sink deeper into the hole he'd been digging since Connor had set his sights on the gorgeous brunette at the second hand shop. Murphy didn't know what it was about Pam that drew him in. Any other time Connor showed interest in a girl – interest that went beyond the few hours between last call and first light – Murphy would graciously bow out, and almost with a relieved sigh. Keeping up with Connor was difficult; vying for attention from a woman who had caught both the brothers' interest was a constant battle.
But Pam was different. She seemed at ease with both of them. Or, at least she had. Lately, she'd taken on Murphy's agonized appearance. He wondered if she had trouble sleeping, if she'd given up hope trying to eat. Did the feelings he harbored flow both ways? There had to be a reason she let him keep coming back to her. Glancing up from the sidewalk, he looked to the window that was her living room.
She was standing there, staring down at him.
