So, I’m thisss close *holds thumb and forefinger about an inch apart* to typing The End on Crossfire. What little writing I’ve managed since the diagnosis and eye surgeries have been concentrated on scenes to finish it off. Until last week. The #ThursdayThreads prompt of “Don’t make me laugh.” sent me down a different rabbit hole. A scene from the Moonstruck Mafia WIP hit me out of the blue. So I wrote it. And expanded on it. And then spent the ensuing days wondering where the hell it fits in. This morning? I think I know, though it means some backtracking. Anyway, new words are new words no matter where they belong, right? Right! So, here you go in a rather “Way-back Wednesday” deveiation.
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Ronan stood feet apart, hands clasped behind him, and stared out the wide windows. His back to the room, he didn’t need to see who was about to invade his office. He recognized the cadance of her footsteps and the scent that preceded her entrance. He didn’t turn around, remaining focused on the scene down on the Boston street. However, he didn’t miss the soft intake of her breath or the hammering beat of her heart. His own reaction, though better hidden, echoed hers.

“I’m here, Mr. O’Connor. What do you want?”

He almost smiled. Almost. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Brannigan.” He didn’t turn around. He couldn’t without adjusting the front of his slacks.

“Why am I here?”

“’Tis simple. I need your help.”

Maura snorted, the inelegant sound almost making him laugh, and he had to turn to face her, consequences be damned.

“Don’t make me laugh.” Her voice, tinged with bitterness, sounded brittle to her own ears. She wouldn’t—couldn’t meet his eyes. This man, he did things to her. Made her think things, want things, do things that were alien to everything she’d ever thought she knew about herself. He wasn’t trouble, he was danger personified. “You? In need of my help? Did hell freeze over when I wasn’t looking?”

“Yer boss has charged m’brother with another murder. He didn’t do it.”

His brogue was thick with emotion and she shoved her fists into her pockets to keep from reaching for him. She understood now. “I know.”

He studied her, his scrutiny unwavering. She bore the brunt of his gaze for only a moment before she glanced away. Ronan’s eyes reminded her of the ocean when a nor’easter churned up the water—a shade not quite gunmetal blue nor gray. They were intense and missed little. Despite the sexual tension between them, she was determined to keep things professional between them. The fact her boss was a royal asshole didn’t help matter. She was tired of getting caught in the middle of whatever machinations these two men were involved in.

She spread out her hands in a gesture of both futility and surrender. “There’s nothing I can do. Alex is handling Mick’s case himself.” She received a raised eyebrow and a look of pure incredulous speculation in response. “Don’e ask,” she said, preempting anything he might ask. “He got a judge to sign off on the warrant and sent his pocket-pet cops after Mick last night. I knew nothing about it until this morning when I got to the office.” Resigned, she dropped into an armchair facing Ronan’s desk.

“Who was she?”
“I’ve not a feckin’ clue. None of us do.”

She studied the carpet for a long moment before finally meeting and holding Ronan’s gaze. “That’s what I figured. They’ve manufactured evidence against him.”

“Will ya help him?”

She almost snorted again. “Mick has the best criminal defense attorney in the state. I don’t think Declan needs any help.”

Ronan shook his head and his expression indicated he thought she might be dense. “Not Declan. Bloody Crenshaw.”

The light bulb went off. A disgusted grunt escaped before she could contol it. “That cold day in Hell? Yeah, that’ll happen before I do anything to help Alex Crenshaw.”
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I do miss Ronan and Maura. Totally need to finish, edit and publish CROSSFIRE so I can get back to my Boston Mob Wolves. Writers, feel free to grab the prompt and write inspired words. Also, share them here if you want. Readers, what’s made you laugh lately?