Swan Song (15 page)

His hands run slowly over my skin, tracing it from my neck, to my shoulders, shoving aside clothing that gets in his way. He drags the shoulder of my dress down slowly, his fingertips trailing over my exposed skin so lightly it tickles. It sends tremors through my veins and by the time I step out of it completely, I’m shivering in anticipation of his next touch.

He makes me wait, the bastard.

As I stand there nearly naked, nothing but my brassier and undergarments hiding me from him, he steps back to unbutton his shirt. He does it slowly, his eyes on mine, then on my neck, my chest, my stomach, my legs, and back up again, taking me in and memorizing every inch of me. I feel it when he looks at me. I could close my eyes and I’d know where he was looking. I’d feel the heat. The flush on my skin blushing at his scrutiny, at the sheer adoration in his eyes as he takes me in and undresses himself.

When he’s completely naked, I shudder under the weight of the moment. It’s what I want – what I know for sure that I want more than anything – and I’m nervous like it’s the first time. I think it’s because it kind of is. It’s the first time that it’s ever meant anything to me, and even though I don’t totally understand what it means, I know it’s real. It’s big.

And it’s slow. The way he lays me out on the bed on my back. The way he hovers over my body, looking but not touching. The way he drags out the words, asking if he can touch me. The way I whisper my reply. The way he runs his hands along my sides, over my hips, under my brassier, against my skin. The way he takes me in his mouth, the way he makes me moan deep and guttural from the heart of me where it’s impossible to lie. He’s slow as he lays his weight down on top of me, crushing me the way he did in the ally when I wanted more, more, more, so much more of him, and then it’s there. He’s there. He’s inside me and I’m breathless and panting, pulling at him to get him closer. Deeper. His hands are in my hair, his breath is in my mouth, and he’s moving so slowly inside me that I’m worried I’ll go hoarse from begging him.

I’ve never done that before – begged a man. Not for anything.

Tonight I plead with the passion of a woman on her knees in church.

I whisper in his ear, I cry out as my agony spikes, and I mumble prayers against his shoulder as the tide ebbs and flows. He absorbs all of it, but he stays on course. Slow and easy, never wavering, and it goes on and on and on until finally I feel it in the heat of my heart. He feels it too because suddenly his hand is on me, swirling and spinning leisurely until my world explodes in a shower of white hot sparks that burst and crackle against my vision like fireworks on New Year’s night.

Drew kisses me deeply, swallowing my sighs, and then he’s crossing over as well. His body goes rigid and he groans in the base of his throat and into my mouth, and I savor the taste of him like his release is wine on my tongue.

When I open my eyes, I’m not myself. I’m not the girl from Iowa or the woman on the stage. I’m someone I’ve never known before. Someone new and alive and full of the world and the night and the sky. The stars and the moon and this man and a feeling I’ve never known before. I’m in his eyes and I’m fresh and free, I’m clean. I’m warm. Safe.

I’m home.

Chapter Eighteen

The night Mickey was shot the boys were attacked by both the Canadians they were seeking revenge on and a small band of men from the Northside Gang. The Irish. It all came back to the murder of Hymie Weiss months ago, a murder I’m pretty sure Birdy committed, though I’ll never ask because the lunatic would actually tell me. The Irish took their time for once and teamed up with the Tremblays to get the drop on the Outfit’s boys. They only made it out alive because Birdy was with them positioned in a tree overlooking the entire ordeal. He wasn’t able to stop Mickey getting shot, but he put down the guy that did it. The only men that walked out of the woods that night were either Outfit or Birdy.

Later that week Lucy comes home to find the couch empty but destroyed. We don’t even discuss it – she sleeps in the bed with Rosaline that night. The next day I invest in thick sheets, flip the cushions, and take solace in the fact that even though the couch is ruined by blood stains, at least the man who bled is still alive.

Drew is still in town. That fact shocks me. I thought he was leaving almost immediately but four days after I spend the night with him, I see him at the club sitting in the back during my closing number. We don’t speak that night, but the next morning in the post I find a note. It’s a simple white square of paper with one letter written in the center of it and nothing else.

That night after the club closes I make my way into Chicago and just as the clock strikes midnight, I step into the lobby of the Beaumont Hotel. Benny is there again and he smiles at me happily. He tells me my husband is waiting for me in our room and asks if I want him to escort me up. I tell him no thank you, I know the way, and I smile when he says goodnight to me with no attempt at using Drew’s last name.

The second I step into the room, Drew pushes me up against the wall. He kisses his way down my neck, making me breathless and needy before I’ve even said so much as ‘hello’.

“I thought you were leaving,” I mumbled, tangling my fingers in his dark hair.

“Ralph asked me to stay awhile until things cool down. Normally I’d say no, it’s not my fight, but…” he brings his face back to mine, kissing the corners of my mouth softly, “I’ve taken quite a shine to Chicago. I’d hate to see anything bad happen to it.”

I smile as I lazily comb my fingers through his hair, smoothing what I’ve tousled. “Chicago can take care of itself.”

“Probably, but it worries me. Chicago keeps shady company.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” I whisper, pulling his mouth against mine and delving my tongue inside.

He presses his hips into me hard and I moan anxiously. “Can I touch you, Addy?” he asks, his hands already gathering my skirt and raising it to my waist.

“Yes.”

He makes love to me there against the wall with my clothes on, my undergarments pushed to the side, and my body eclipsed by his. I disappear in his shadow, under his power, and when I reappear I’m shaking and shimmering like waves of heat on the street in summertime. I’m ethereal and untouchable, visible only to him as he keeps me alive with my name on his tongue and my body in his hands. My flesh and bone, my blood held hard by the power in his palms. He could kill me with those hands, but instead he breathes life into me with every touch, every caress.

I fall asleep in the bed beside him, both of us fully dressed and our hands clasped loosely between us. He doesn’t sleep. I know it because it’s a weakness. It’s a vulnerability and it’s exactly the kind of thing that can get a man like him killed.

Or a woman seeing a man like him.

I know what I’m risking. I’m in more danger now than I ever have been before. If any of the people looking to settle a score with him finds out about me, I’m finished. I’m a weakness for him as much as sleep. I don’t know where he does it because he keeps it a carefully guarded secret, something I know he’s doing with me as well, but can we hide from everyone? What if Tommy finds out? It might not mean a death sentence, but it certainly won’t be pretty. I’ll regret this if I’m not painstakingly careful, and I can’t imagine anything that would make me sadder because nothing has ever made me happier than being with Drew.

I wake when the sun starts to rise, shining yellow, pink, and wan in the window. The sleepless city is coming to life and I need to leave before it’s much more aware.

“How long will you stay in Chicago?” I ask, my back to him and my eyes on the lightening window.

“I don’t know yet,” he answers, his voice rough and hushed.

“Will you tell me before you go?”

“Yes.”

“Do you swear it?”

I can hear the smile in his voice when he answers, “Yes.”

“Will you send me more postcards when you go?”

“If you want me to.”

“I want one every time you think of me.”

He chuckles quietly. “The Postal Service is going to make a mint off you.”

I roll over to face him. He’s sitting with his back against the headboard, looking down at me with warmth in the steel of his eyes and I think how much he changes every time I see him, how his imperfections are becoming perfect.

“Will you see your girl when you go back to New York?”

His eyes roam my face, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. He reaches out and traces the edge of my jaw with his fingertip and I catch a breath of the scent that surrounds him and pulls me in, draws me close, and leaves me melted.

“I’m looking at my girl,” he whispers.

A month later and Drew is still in Chicago. I see him three times a week at the Beaumont and Tommy should send him a fruit basket to thank him because Drew is the only thing keeping me in check at the moment. I play by the rules at the club and I act the part because that’s what I need to do in order to stay above suspicion. Drew is a constant presence at the club, essentially taking over for Mickey while he’s on the mend, but we never speak. We don’t make eye contact, we’re never alone together. There are too many eyes and too many ears to keep from getting caught and all it would take is one person wondering aloud if anything is going on between us and we’re sunk. Tommy will leap on the rumor like a lion on a lame rabbit. I’ll be roughed up for sure and Drew… well, I don’t know what he could really do to Drew. My guess is nothing.

Birdy is a big deal to every gangster in Chicago. The time he’s spending with the Outfit has brought the Irish out, looking to recruit him even though they know it was him that put six of their boys in the ground the night they clashed with the Canadians. His skills are unparalleled, his reputation horrifying, and I have such a hard time reconciling the rumors with the man I lay down next to most nights. He’s gentle with me. Slow and patient, funny and sarcastic. The idea of him as the feared and dreaded Birdy is impossible for me to envision.

Until I see him in action.

“Hey, Aid!” Hal calls out.

I pause in the hallway, debating whether or not I can pretend I didn’t hear him and keep walking, but I’ve already stopped and they’re onto me. I poke my head in Ralph’s office to find Hal, Tommy, Cal, and Drew sitting scattered through the room. All of them but Cal are smoking and the room is entrenched in a thin fog from the glowing embers at their fingertips.

“What do you need, Hal?” I ask, making no move to actually enter the room.

“What’s the story with Clara? She’s been out of work for months. I thought you were going to bring her back into the chorus once Eddie was back.”

“I was, but Elisha is better so I’m keeping her instead.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Then how have I managed it?”

“You gotta get her workin’ again. I can’t keep payin’ her way.”

I snort a laugh. “Then drop her.”

Hal glares at me before turning to Tommy. “You gonna do somethin’ about this?”

Tommy shrugs. “Nothin’ to be done about it. You heard her. Elisha is the better dancer so she stays.”

“Is there an opening for Clara somewhere else?” I ask innocently. “Maybe in the kitchen? I bet she’d do well in the casino.”

Hal stands from his chair, his legs shoving it back roughly across the floor. He shoots me daggers with his eyes. “My girl ain’t gonna work as a pro! Get her back in the chorus, do you hear me?”

“No.”

“I’m warning you, Adrian.”

“Of what? What will you do?”

“I’ll rearrange your mouthy face, that’s what I’ll do!” he shouts, stepping toward me.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Tommy stand, but Drew is faster. He’s nose to nose with Hal in the blink of an eye and the rage rolling off him pushes me back a step into the hall.

“Sit your ass down,” he tells Hal, his voice low and angry.

“You sit your ass down! Who do you think you are coming in here and interfering in club business?”

“I’m the guy who will break your legs if I see you lay a hand on a woman, that’s who I am. She told you no. Take it like a man and sit your ass down.”

Hal stares at him like he’d like to kill him and I realize I’ve stopped breathing. The entire room waits motionlessly while we wait for Hal to choose his next course of action.

He chooses wrong.

He acts like he’s moving to sit down as Drew has told him, but them he tackles Drew around the waist and tries to drop him to the ground. Drew is knocked back several steps where he bounces off the wall in front of me, then he has his arms around Hal’s waist. I watch in amazement as he lifts Hal in to the air like he was nothing, flips him over, and slams him onto the ground on his back. Hal barks in rage and pain, the air shooting out of his lungs, but he doesn’t stay down. He rolls quickly onto his knees and grabs for his gun. He gets as far as pointing it at Drew before it’s ripped from his hand and suddenly Birdy is in charge.

His arm cuts through the smoky haze, leaving a wake of sharp clarity as he brings the butt of the gun down hard on Hal’s face. There’s a sickening
crack
as his nose breaks followed by the bitter copper tang of blood in the air. It sprays across the floor, down the front of Hal’s chest, and in a fine mist over the front of Birdy’s suit. Hal throws a wild punch and misses Birdy’s midsection, giving him the opening to backhand him with the barrel of the gun. A cut is opened up on Hal’s cheek and he’ll have a black eye in the next hour, but still the idiot doesn’t stop. He reaches for the knife strapped to his ankle, but Birdy sees it coming and he knees Hal in the face before he can pull the weapon.

Hal goes down on his back, coughing and staring at the ceiling. Birdy flips open the chamber on the gun, dumps the bullets onto Hal’s still form, and tosses the empty gun across the room where it skitters over the floor and smacks against the wall.

Birdy sits down calmly, straightening his coat and lighting a cigarette with steady hands splattered with blood, and when I look at his eyes they’re dead calm. He just beat a man to the ground and he’s not riled in the least.

It gives me the creeps to look at him.

Ralph appears in the doorway next to me, frowning when he surveys the scene. “What the hell happened here?”

“Hal got smart with Birdy,” Cal surmises simply.

Ralph shakes his head as he enters the room, stepping over Hal to get behind his desk. “Fucking idiot,” he mutters. “Get up, Hal. I ain’t talkin’ to you laying on your back on the floor. Adrian, would you be a sport and get him a towel from the kitchen so he can mop up my floor. He’s bleeding all over it.”

I nod, happy for an excuse to leave. “Sure thing, Ralph.”

When I come back with a dish towel, Hal is in his chair on the farthest side of the room from Birdy with a sullen, swollen face and murder in his eyes. I toss the towel to Cal sitting beside him and he hands it to Hal without looking at him.

“The mess now is where are we going to get out hooch,” Ralph is saying. “We need a new connection in Canada, but everyone up north is gonna know about the trouble we had with the Tremblays. They’re gonna be skittish. Worried we’re quick to anger.”

“The Irish turned them against us,” Tommy spits.

“Nothing we can do about that now.”

“We could strike back.”

“Not now. Al isn’t lookin’ to stir things up any more than they already are.”

“The Hawthorne shook him,” Birdy says quietly.

All eyes fall on him, heavy and foreboding.

“What are you saying?” Hal demands. “You callin’ Al weak?”

Birdy takes a slow drag of his cigarette, unaffected by Hal’s tone or the stares coming from all over the room. “Not what I said at all. I’m saying it shook him. Rain of bullets on your head will do that to a man.”

“How would you know, huh? You learn that in New York? The war?”

“I’m sure I picked it up somewhere.”

“He’s not a coward.”

“No, but he is overly cautious.”

Tommy sits forward in his seat, pointing his finger angrily at Birdy’s face. “You need to shut your damn mouth or I—“