are you forgetting the Hawthorne?”
Two weeks ago, back in September, eight carloads of men emptied machine gun fire into the restaurant at the base of the Hawthorne Hotel. Al wasn’t hit despite the rain of over 1,000 bullets but it was a clear message. The Irish aren’t happy with him. And rightfully so; he had their Boss, Dean O’Banion, killed in ’24 for a double cross. Ever since then it’s been all out war around here. Security at all of the Chicago Outfit’s holdings and family have been tighter than a drum. There’s no clear end in sight and the tension it causes is wearing on everyone. Eventually, something has got to give.
“So that’s why he’s here?” I ask, straightening my dress as I stand. “Because of the Hawthorne?”
“Did I say that?”
“You’ve barely said anything.”
“You should follow my example. Are you ready or what?”
“You tell me.” I say, spreading my arms to present myself for final inspection.
Tommy steps into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. He circles me slowly, looking at every angle in every light. Remember the lion from earlier? Well here he is, focused in on his prey. As he passes behind me his body blocks the light from the lamp on the far table, plunging me in shadow. His shadow. I can see it in front of me on the wall where it eclipses my own, entrapping me inside it.
This gown has an open back that dips low, exposing my skin down to the lowest point possible without being indecent. I’m not surprised when I feel his fingers, warm and rough, running along my spine. They trace it from my neck, exposed to his touch by the high pile of curls he insists upon, down to where dress meets skin, then back up again. I shiver, my breath catching in my throat. But I remain perfectly still. I let the predator sniff and paw at my body. I let it decide if I’m worth the kill or if I’ll be allowed to run free. And I wonder what I want because at moments like this, I’m never really sure.
Tommy and I, we aren’t built for love. We aren’t made for intimacy. We’re both too driven, too crazy for anything normal and nice. But that doesn’t mean we’re dead. We’re both beautiful people with beautiful bodies and I cannot lie; Tommy knows how to touch me. He’s been wanting for years to get between my legs and there are nights when I lie alone in bed with my fingers between my thighs imagining that I let him.
“Tommy, I—“ I cut off my question as his fingers dip into the fabric of the dress. They run along the swell of my ass, skimming across my flesh. I try to shut it out, to keep my breath even. But inside I clench. I burn.
“What, Adrian?” he asks. His voice is low and rough, tickling against my ear where I can feel his hot breath. “What were you going to say?”
His fingers trace the outline of the dress, following the fabric up the right side of my back, tickling over my ribs. He halts his hand just below my arm. Barely an inch from the side of my breast.
I swallow hard.
“What part of New York is this fella from?” I whisper.
Tommy chuckles softly and I feel my tense body relax as his fingers recede from the dress. From my body. He lays a quick kiss on my shoulder, slaps my ass hard and heads for the door.
“Shake a leg, would ya?” He opens the door for me. “I got shit to do.”
I follow him out the door into the hall feeling like I just dodged a bullet.
“You’ll sit at a table in the back tonight.” he says brusquely, turning all business in an instant. “I’ll have Joe send one of the girls over with a whiskey.”
“I hate whiskey.”
“Too bad. We’re flush with it so that’s what we’re all drinking. You can have your scotch when the next boat comes in.” He pulls out a cigarette, lighting it quickly and taking a hard drag. “I’ll join you after I swing by the office to check on Ralph. See if they need me for anything.”
I’m paraded through the club to smile and greet anyone of note inside
Two weeks ago, back in September, eight carloads of men emptied machine gun fire into the restaurant at the base of the Hawthorne Hotel. Al wasn’t hit despite the rain of over 1,000 bullets but it was a clear message. The Irish aren’t happy with him. And rightfully so; he had their Boss, Dean O’Banion, killed in ’24 for a double cross. Ever since then it’s been all out war around here. Security at all of the Chicago Outfit’s holdings and family have been tighter than a drum. There’s no clear end in sight and the tension it causes is wearing on everyone. Eventually, something has got to give.
“So that’s why he’s here?” I ask, straightening my dress as I stand. “Because of the Hawthorne?”
“Did I say that?”
“You’ve barely said anything.”
“You should follow my example. Are you ready or what?”
“You tell me.” I say, spreading my arms to present myself for final inspection.
Tommy steps into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. He circles me slowly, looking at every angle in every light. Remember the lion from earlier? Well here he is, focused in on his prey. As he passes behind me his body blocks the light from the lamp on the far table, plunging me in shadow. His shadow. I can see it in front of me on the wall where it eclipses my own, entrapping me inside it.
This gown has an open back that dips low, exposing my skin down to the lowest point possible without being indecent. I’m not surprised when I feel his fingers, warm and rough, running along my spine. They trace it from my neck, exposed to his touch by the high pile of curls he insists upon, down to where dress meets skin, then back up again. I shiver, my breath catching in my throat. But I remain perfectly still. I let the predator sniff and paw at my body. I let it decide if I’m worth the kill or if I’ll be allowed to run free. And I wonder what I want because at moments like this, I’m never really sure.
Tommy and I, we aren’t built for love. We aren’t made for intimacy. We’re both too driven, too crazy for anything normal and nice. But that doesn’t mean we’re dead. We’re both beautiful people with beautiful bodies and I cannot lie; Tommy knows how to touch me. He’s been wanting for years to get between my legs and there are nights when I lie alone in bed with my fingers between my thighs imagining that I let him.
“Tommy, I—“ I cut off my question as his fingers dip into the fabric of the dress. They run along the swell of my ass, skimming across my flesh. I try to shut it out, to keep my breath even. But inside I clench. I burn.
“What, Adrian?” he asks. His voice is low and rough, tickling against my ear where I can feel his hot breath. “What were you going to say?”
His fingers trace the outline of the dress, following the fabric up the right side of my back, tickling over my ribs. He halts his hand just below my arm. Barely an inch from the side of my breast.
I swallow hard.
“What part of New York is this fella from?” I whisper.
Tommy chuckles softly and I feel my tense body relax as his fingers recede from the dress. From my body. He lays a quick kiss on my shoulder, slaps my ass hard and heads for the door.
“Shake a leg, would ya?” He opens the door for me. “I got shit to do.”
I follow him out the door into the hall feeling like I just dodged a bullet.
“You’ll sit at a table in the back tonight.” he says brusquely, turning all business in an instant. “I’ll have Joe send one of the girls over with a whiskey.”
“I hate whiskey.”
“Too bad. We’re flush with it so that’s what we’re all drinking. You can have your scotch when the next boat comes in.” He pulls out a cigarette, lighting it quickly and taking a hard drag. “I’ll join you after I swing by the office to check on Ralph. See if they need me for anything.”
I’m paraded through the club to smile and greet anyone of note inside
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