Silver James

Another seven days have passed and it’s time for more words based up the #1LineWed theme. This week, it’s all about the **NUMBERS.** In this case, it’s who you call in an emergency. Declan, the hot-shot attorney for the Boston Wolves and he’s being trying to figure out how to get Maggie O’Brien’s number. Not quite sure this is what he had in mind…
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Declan gazed around. This wasn’t his house. Where was he? The door behind him opened and light spilled out across him. A feminine gasp and a familiar scent washed over him. He had watched her for weeks—from the moment the cab dropped her and her suitcases off on the sidewalk. Her comings and goings. Visitors—of whom there were very few. Lying on her stoop bleedin’ like a stuck pig didn’t go far toward makin’ a good impression on his new neighbor.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Ya think?” He’d been shot at least twice, beat to shite, and stabbed once and this damn sure wasn’t the way he’d planned on introducing himself to his new neighbor. The old lady who owned the row house next to his died but before any of the lads could snap it up, she showed up, lock, stock, and suitcases and moved right in. Ronan lived down the street. His brother, Mick, lived across the street. The others in the inner circle had apartments nearby but Ronan had a plan. He wanted everyone in houses spread up and down the block for tactical reasons. Declan’d been trying to get to his own place but obviously miscounted and here the pretty, little interloper was, squatted beside him smellin’ of honey and sweet clover with concern in those big blue eyes of hers.

“I’m calling nine-one-one.”

“The hell y’are.”

“Look you. I’m an ER nurse and I know gunshot wounds when I see—” He snatched the phone out of her hand and tucked it in the front pocket of his trousers.

“Don’t need the ER,” he insisted. Deck fished out his own phone because he wouldn’t stay conscious much longer. There was no way he’d end up in a human hospital. He stabbed out a number and heard a mumbled, “Fuck, Declan, you’d better be dyin’, boyo.”

Deck managed to grunt out, “I think I might be, Mick.” He caught the sound of a woman’s voice on Mick’s end but couldn’t make out her words. Yeah, he was fading fast. “I didn’t quite make it home but I’m close. Can ya give a mate a hand?”

The phone slipped from his fingers and clattered on the steps below him. Damn. He’d have to buy a new one, providing he survived. A door slammed across the street and then another. Before he slipped completely away, Mick and Sean were there.

Angry voices floated just on the edge of his hearing but the words made no sense. The only things he was sure of was the press of a cool hand on his fevered brow—and didn’t that just sound all poetic—and the scent of honey and sweet clover filling his nose and calming his wolf.
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At least he got her attention, right? Writers, do you have any numberbs to share? Readers, I need to win the lottery. What are your lucky numbers? 😉

Wednesday is synonomous with words in my mind after so many postings of snippets based on a #1lineWed theme. Today’s prompt is **GRACE**. As in “full of,” “fall from,” “saving,” and grace “period.” Or in today’s snippet, Princess Grace. As a set up, there’s a big charity deal. Ronan is there to keep an eye on some enemies. And then he sees… Well, you can read for yourself.
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J. D. “Danny Boy” Moore was a jovial man. His eyes twinkled with humor. He got the joke and it was on everyone else. He wore expensive suits, drove fancy cars, and managed to always have a stash of Cuban cigars despite the embargo. He threw lavish parties for all the movers and shakers in the state and was a frequent guest of the governor.

He was also a scumbag. He was a bootlegger, gambler, and he ran a stable of call girls that put the models in “girly” magazines to shame.

Ronan hated the man. He watched Danny Boy from a shadowed corner as the man glad-handed the rich bastards who thought they were the movers and shakers in Boston. Brian and his wife, Glenna, were there, sitting at the head table, chatting with one of the city councilors. This event was a fund-raiser for some park or another. He didn’t know and didn’t care. He was here to keep an eye on Brian and Danny Boy. Another presence nudged his awareness. A blonde, looking as regal as Princess Grace of Monaco, walked along in the wake of Alex Crenshaw, the District Attorney. If she was his date, the man was being an even bigger arse than normal. Crenshaw approached Danny Boy. Ronan moved within hearing distance while still remaining in the background. He got into position just as introductions were made.

“J.D., have you met my…assistant, Maura Brannigan?” Crenshaw’s insinuating tone made the woman’s job description sound salacious.

Danny Boy lit up like Times Square. He grabbed the woman’s hand before she offered it and made a show of smoothing and squeezing her fingers as he lifted the hand to his mouth for a kiss. Ronan smiled as the woman’s eyes narrowed in both anger and revulsion. She didn’t jerk her hand away but she very deftly extracted it.

Crenshaw and Danny Boy launched into a robust conversation about nothing. Maura Brannigan stood, appearing to be enthralled by the conversation but Ronan knew better. Her mask was a good one but he could see through the cracks in her shield. She no more wanted to be here than he did. Her gaze shifted and focused on him like a laser. He stared back. Her nostrils flared slightly, her eyes widened just a tiny bit, and a look of interest flashed over her features before she hid it. He’d bet tonight’s take that her heart was beating a little faster and her breathing was a little shallower. He smiled. She didn’t smile back. That was okay. He had her in his sights now.
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And there you have it. Ronan will tack the next step and it will send him reeling and falling and oh I do love it when a Wolf meets The One. Also, caveat, first draft so there will likely be typos, etc. Ignore, read between the lines, please and thank you. Writers, any grace to add? And readers, who’s your favorite real-life princess?