Chapter 18: Fifth Avenue Fling: Chapter 18

We inspect our outfits in the mirror.

We are out the other side of the what-the-fuck-do-I-wear panic. These days it’s more like a case of how-the hell-am-I-gonna-choose rather than shit-everything-I-own-is-falling-apart, thanks to Big Daddy’s credit card.

We are having pre-drinks in my studio before we hit a new club in the Meatpacking district.

Orla is wearing tight blue jeans and a lace top. I’ve opted for a tight green leather dress paired with Doc Martens to give it a more edgy look.

I look great, but I can’t breathe.

“I’m going to have a panic attack,” I tell Orla, trying but failing to take a deep breath. All my organs are squashed by the tummy control shapewear that comes to just below my chest.

I tug the tight leather dress up past my hips, feeling claustrophobic. “No! Get them off. Get them off!”

“Calm down.” She chuckles and snaps the elastic of the torturous underwear as she tries to roll them down me.

I’m overcome with a ridiculous bout of giggles.

“Quit squirming. You’re working against me here. You’re in such a bubbly mood today.”

I grin through my giggles even though the underwear is still suffocating me. “It’s been a good day.”

“Uh-huh.” She smirks at me. “Obviously, nothing to do with your hot, moody boss joining us for yoga this morning.”

“Did you see the yoga group chat? They’re going nuts about him.”

“Yeah, I had to turn off notifications on my phone. Also, your granny Deirdre keeps sending me articles about murders in Manhattan. It’s kind of a buzzkill.”

I sigh and adjust my fishtail braid. “I know, sorry. She’s adding them to the Kelly family group chat. I think she has an alert on her phone for murders in New York. She’ll have a heart attack if you join the police force.”

It takes two of us to push the oppressive shapewear down to my knees. I step out of it, sighing in relief as I feel the fresh, cool rush of air between my legs. “I’ll wear a thong. My fat needs somewhere to go, and it might as well be evenly spread all over.”

“Alright.” I chug my last glass of vino. “Let’s go. I need to get my phone from upstairs. Behave yourself in front of Killian and Teagan,” I warn her.

“I don’t know what you take me for,” she mutters behind me.

We head upstairs to the lounge area, where Teagan is sprawled out in a onesie on a fluffed beanbag in the middle of the floor, and Killian and another guy—clearly his brother, Connor—are on the couch.

Holy fucking potatoes. God was generous when he handed out genes to the Quinn family.

The younger Quinn is just as showstoppingly handsome as his brother. Surprisingly, it’s still the older, grumpier one that does it for me.

My gaze meets Killian’s, and he pauses in his conversation with Connor.

God, those icy blue eyes.

My stomach somersaults as his gaze cruises my figure from head to toe, observing me warily. Like I might be contagious. “This is Connor,” he says.

No compliments. No pleasantries. Not a hint of a smile, just that severe deadpan.

“Hi, Connor.” I flash him a smile in greeting as I collect my phone from the table. “This is my friend, Orla.”

“Heyyy,” Orla says breathlessly, gawking at the sausage fest on the couch. She’s practically salivating. I shoot her a warning with my eyes. No doubt, those two have enough admirers to give them an ego the size of the Empire State Building, without us adding to the pile.

I check my phone quickly. Sixteen new messages from the yoga group. One new message from Granny Deirdre telling me to only buy drinks from a can and use rubbers with gentlemen.

“It’s great to finally meet you,” Connor says with a grin. “Come and have a drink with us.”

“You look hot, Clodagh,” Teagan calls, vaguely interested. “Like a mermaid with green scales and a braid.”

“Do you always look like a hot mermaid?” Connor jokes. “Or is it a special occasion?”

“This is us all the time,” I joke back. “I like to look my best when cleaning. Killian makes a lot of mess in the bathro—”

Oh crap. I was going to make a mermaid joke. My face burns thinking about the mess I saw Killian make in the bathroom.

Killian’s jaw grinds, and his nostrils flare so much he might capture wind speed.

“Well, you look lovely,” Connor adds.

Still nothing from Killian. I guess mermaids aren’t his go-to fantasy. It annoys me that I’m annoyed.

His eyebrows join in a deep frown. What the hell is his issue? This morning at yoga, he was relaxed, and dare I say, fun. Now, he’s put the stick back in his ass.

“Well done getting my stiff big brother to do yoga in a park.” Connor grins, thoroughly enjoying himself as he looks back and forth between Killian and me conspiratorially. “Next, he’ll be meditating in Central Park.”

“Dad was awful,” Teagan pipes up. “He couldn’t do half the moves.”

“Bottom of the class,” I tease as Killian rolls his eyes. “Not like you, Teagan. You should keep it up.”

“Are you sure you can’t join us, ladies?” Connor asks. “I need to hear more.”

Killian’s eyes lock with mine. “We’re just about to order pizza and a movie, but obviously, you have other plans,” he says flatly.

“Yeah, we’re heading to the new club in the Meatpacking District,” I tell him, even though he didn’t ask. “Vapor. Sorry, Connor. It’ll have to wait.”

Connor’s smile widens as he exchanges a glance with Killian. “Vapor, hey? Great choice. They’ll treat you well there. You deserve a good night out after putting up with my brother. So what’s it like living with him? He’s a pain in the ass, right?” Connor seems to be in no hurry to let us leave.

“The worst.” I smile. “If I didn’t have Teagan to live with, I’d run away.”

Connor chuckles in approval.

Killian doesn’t seem to find our banter funny. I’m met with a dark gaze. “Security will escort you.” He reaches for his phone.

“It’s okay,” I try to say, but he cuts me off.

“It’s not open for debate.”

Jeez. Nothing ever is with Killian Quinn.

***

I’ve been told there’s an art to getting into a New York club. Be chill, be cool, but be in their face.

“IDs,” the doorman the size of a truck growls at me. Is it a rule for bouncers to never smile? We get it—you’re in charge, and you’re scary.

I hand over my ID warily. I’ve never been in such an attractive queue before. He might decide we aren’t good-looking enough to get in. And since it’s an Irish passport, some insist on seeing an American ID.

The doorman reads it, nods to a woman with a clipboard over his shoulder, and passes her my ID.

What the hell?

Are they confiscating it?

“Hey!” I protest.

The girl scans my ID, then clicks her fingers. “VIPs go this way.”

“Excuse me?” I ask. She must have made a mistake.

She looks at me with deadpan eyes.

“You heard her,” Orla hisses in my ear, shoving me softly. “We’re very important people. Will you shut the fuck up already? Do not look a gift horse in the mouth, you fool.”

We’re escorted through the dark hallway by a hostess with such impossibly beautiful dimensions that she looks like a human avatar.

“I don’t understand,” I mutter to Orla.

At the door cloaked in velvet, a second hostess stands waiting to hand us a glass of champagne.

I blink at her, baffled. Is this an Irish thing or something?

She ushers us into a bar where all the beautiful New Yorkers hang out. I’ve never experienced a place like this before. The hostess guides us to a table.

“Clodagh, is that…?” Orla squeaks.

“The Hemsworth brothers?” I finish for her. “I believe so.”

I might faint. The sight of them is more than my clit can handle.

A siren wails from the bar, and suddenly, four waitresses in cocktail dresses march forth with a tray between them, carrying a bottle of champagne with sparklers. I remember seeing something similar on a night out in Ibiza once when an obnoxious dude bought the most expensive bottle on the menu.

The women turn and start walking toward us.

When I turn my head, no one else is behind us. Where is the obnoxious dude?

“Hi, Clodagh,” one of the waitresses purrs. “Tonight, you’re our honored guests.”

I gawk at her.

Killian. This has to be Killian’s doing.

The whole bar watches as a bottle of champagne, with sparks shooting out of it, is placed on the table in front of us.

“Isn’t that the crazy comedian who takes cats on stage?” someone near me whispers, staring my way.

I shoot them a hostile glare in response.

Orla looks at me with a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Tonight, we parrrr-teeee.”

***

I couldn’t keep this wild lifestyle up every night. I’ve concluded that you have to mix high-end clubs with low-key Irish bars to appreciate both.

We chugged the champagne in a record-breaking thirty minutes. Once I had confirmed that we would not be paying for it, it was game over. The second bottle of champagne was a mistake. In hindsight, we should have summoned some more decorum from somewhere inside us, if such a place exists.

Now I’m on the dance floor talking to a gorgeous guy, but I need to break wind. The champagne bubbles have caused severe gastric distress.

I look over at Orla. She appears to be having her face licked by my guy’s friend.

They both work at hedge funds on Wall Street. Honestly, I don’t know what a hedge fund is. I think of a room filled with people waving tickets and screaming “buy” or “sell,” though I’m sure it doesn’t work like that nowadays.

My guy doesn’t seem bothered by my lack of hedge fund knowledge. He wants a shag, and I’m considering giving it to him.

He’s better than the last guy I talked to, who thought I’d split my sides laughing at him doing a fake Irish accent, shouting “to be sure, to be sure!”

Yup, like I haven’t heard that one before.

American Andy presses his lips against mine, going for the kill. He’s minty enough for me to invite him into my mouth. With his tongue in my mouth, I rub my stomach without him noticing.

He breaks the kiss. His eyes look a bit chaotic. “Wanna fuck?”

I rear back, shocked. Dirty bastard. Chivalry is dead.

“Getting straight to the point there,” I reply dryly.

He’s about to lean in for another kiss when abruptly, he detaches himself from me.

“What the hell?” American Andy sneers. “Get lost.”

I blink for a second, thinking he’s talking to me. Did I relax my stomach too much, and one slipped out?

Then I realize that two doormen surround us. One of them has their hand on American Andy’s chest.

“Get your hands off me,” American Andy says, his agitation rising. I think he might be on something. His pupils are pretty wild.

“It’s time to leave, Clodagh.” It’s the doorman from outside. Does he have a photographic memory that he remembers everyone’s names from their IDs? “Time to go. Your lift is waiting.”

I look back and forth between Andy and the doormen, perplexed. “Am I getting kicked out for kissing?”

“No.” Doorman number two steps in. “You’re getting escorted home.”

I feel surrounded. “Why?”

“Because my employer says so,” doorman one says in a strained voice that says hurry the fuck up, lady.

My eyes narrow. “Your employer?”

“Mr. Quinn.”

“He’s the owner of the club?”

“Yes.”

Of course, he never thought of mentioning it to me.

Fuck this shit. It’s not even midnight. I’m not Cinde-fucking-rella.

“He’s my employer too, but I don’t understand. Why do I need to leave?”

He sighs heavily and gives me a sour look. “Look, I dunno, lady. Can we do this the easy way? I don’t have all night.”

Doorman number two has wedged an arm through mine, and doorman number one is encroaching on Orla’s bubble.

“I’m not working now,” I snap. “I’m on my own time.”

“You’ll have to take that up with Mr. Quinn. Good luck,” he deadpans as he leads me through the dance floor.

“This is against my constitutional rights!” I think. Killian Quinn can go to hell. Who does he think he is? His arrogance is off the charts. He doesn’t own me. He doesn’t dictate what I do with my free time.

Something stronger pushes through the trapped wind burning me up.

Rage.

Killian Quinn is going to fucking have it.

***

I don’t give myself time to change my mind.

I push open his bedroom door and storm toward his bed without turning on the light, until I’m standing with my hands on my hips, glaring at him.

He’s awake.

The light from his bedside table casts shadows on his face, simultaneously making him look even more devastatingly attractive and deadly.

The blankets are pushed down to the V of his lower stomach. I’m momentarily distracted by the dark pubic hair. He’s naked under those covers.

His eyes flash with anger as he takes me in.

Shivers go through me, but I spread my legs into a defiant stance and square my shoulders. Chest puffed out. Butt clenched.

I’m the alpha here. You don’t scare me, mister.

“How dare you!” I splutter.

“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice comes out in a husky growl as he rises onto his forearms.

It’s then I notice the book beside him, momentarily disarming me. Hot guys reading… it doesn’t get any sexier than that.

I find myself wavering but forge ahead. He’s the asshole here. “You can’t just demand I come home on my own time. You don’t own me. Orla and I were having a lovely night, then I was manhandled and ordered to go home.” I gulp in a deep breath. I’m on a roll here. “You can’t ground me like you do Teagan. I’m not your property.” Spit sprays from my mouth as I hiss my last words.

Attractive.

He responds with a fixed glare, not giving away any emotion. “Everything in this house is my property.”

“Ugh!” I screech in an angry huff because it’s all I’m capable of.

It’s the sneer on his lips that sets me off again as his gaze burns into me.

I refuse to wither.

“Do you get off on being a jerk? Do you?” I snap, not expecting an answer. “Controlling people is your version of porn. Yes, Mister Quinn,” I say in a patronizing sneer verging on a baby voice. “Three bags full, Mister Quinn. Just when I was getting to know Hedge Fund Andy, you ruined our chance at something special.” Lies.

I see his whole body go rigid, every muscle in his massive chest tightening. His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. Angry breath leaves his lungs.

I feel the air crackle with his wrath.

The sheets rustle.

Fuck. He’s on the move.

The sheets are flung off, and his legs are out of the bed. He stands to his full height at the side of the bed, treating me to a full moon.

As he comes at me, not giving two fucks that his massive cock is now on display, I realize I have no follow-up plan.

“That’ll be all. Good night!” I bark before turning on my heels and skittering out of his bedroom.