"It's ringing," the darker-haired brother panted, holding out the bloodied phone. Clare listened to the tone, pumping at the smaller brother's chest. Connor, she thought his name was. "Come on, Connor," she muttered, tilting his chin back.

And then, all at once, Connor bucked under her hands, gasping, and a voice crackled out from her cell phone. Clare caught the phone as the dark-haired man fell on his brother in a fit of reckless, maniacal joy, ruffling his hair and swearing and touching his face and hands. She smiled involuntarily, then snapped back to reality when the voice came from her phone again.

"Hell-oo-oo."

"Christian!" She'd recognize that sing-song greeting anywhere. "Listen up, I need you to do me a favor."

"Oh, for God's sakes, Clare, I am not coming all the way over to the boutique to look at your ass in that Vera Wang dress you've been eyeing for the past six months, we've done this three times already—"

"Christian."

"—and you know what I'll say anyway, my opinion doesn't change, sweetie, your figure deserves a sexier designer—"

"Christian," she said again.

"—tell you what, why don't I hop over to seventh street and show you a dress that would look absolutely gorgeous on you, and I know the pair of Manolo heels to go with—"

"Christian!" Clare interrupted, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

"What?" asked Christian huffily, peeved at being interrupted.

"Can you please stop being so damn gay for a minute and listen to me?" she asked. The dark-haired brother looked up at her and raised his eyebrows. He said something to his brother in a language that was achingly familiar. Gaelic. That's what it was. "I need you to come pick me up. I was walking home from work and I—ran into some problems."

"Oh God, did your heel break?" Christian gasped. "Honey, just give me your street number."

Clare gave it to him. "And bring a first aid kit," she added. "I—um—scraped my knee when I fell."

"You fell? Oh, sweetie, you just keep your chin up and I'll be right there."

"Okay, thanks, Christian." She hung up the phone and tucked it back into her purse only to realize that both brothers were staring at her with a mixture of amusement and distrust.

"That's who ye call in an emergency?" the dark-haired brother asked skeptically.

"Actually, you're right." Clare nodded and got out her phone again. "You definitely need an ambulance." She flipped open the phone only to have it snapped shut by two calloused hands.

"No hospitals."

"Then don't question who I call," she retorted. "I just saved your asses."

"Oh, did ye now?"

"Of course I did," she replied firmly. "And don't try to get up," she continued, placing a restraining hand on Connor's chest. He grimaced at her.

"Lyin' here in the fuckin' street, for God's fuckin' sake," he muttered hoarsely, rubbing at his throat weakly.

"Just rest," Clare ordered. "And you," she said, turning on the darker-haired one. "No more of that lip. Let me see where all this blood is from." As an afterthought she added, "My name is Clare."

"Connor," said the brother on the ground.

"Murphy," said the darker-haired one. He winced as she prodded at a patch of blood on his chest. "Fuckin' charmed, I'm sure." As she continued with her examination, he protested, "Most o' the blood en't mine."

"You're lying out of your ass," Clare muttered as she leaned closer to inspect a gash on Murphy's forehead. "I think your nose is broken."

"Nah," contributed Connor, "he's just fuckin' ugly."

"Ye're gonna be ugly when I'm done with ye," replied Murphy. "Ow, that hurts, woman."

"Stop being such a baby," scoffed Clare. "All right, unless I missed something—which I probably did—you'll be fine for a few hours."

"Very reassurin'," commented Murphy dryly.

"Come on, we need to get you two off the street until Christian gets here." She stood and held out a hand to Murphy, who insisted that he was quite fine and got up on his own, making horrible faces and swearing under his breath. They hauled up Connor between the two of them. "All right, there's an apartment building just to the left here. We can sit in the stairwell until Christian comes."

"Fuck," gasped Connor as they moved forward. Murphy grunted in agreement. Yet they managed to hastily maneuver Connor into the stairwell before any passersby got too curious; luckily, there weren't many people on the streets. It was a part of Boston that came alive at night.

"Okay," said Clare. "Murphy—for Christ's sake—!" she yelped as Murphy stumbled and Connor lurched, caught off balance. She instinctively dropped down into a wide-legged stance and took Connor's weight, lowering him down gently. Connor taken care of, she turned to Murphy. "You all right?"

"Just…fuckin…dizzy," Murphy said between gasps.

"Put your head between your knees." Much to her surprise, the Irishman complied and dropped his dark head between his knees. "Just breathe deep…Christian should be here any moment."

"Fuck," came the muffled response. Clare pursed her lips.

"Well, as long as you keep spouting obscenities I'm assuming you're not too badly hurt." She looked up and found Connor looking at her with consideration in his startling blue eyes. "What?"

He just shook his head and rubbed his throat.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity of sitting, waiting, glancing at her watch, checking on Murphy, checking her cell phone, and wondering what the hell she was getting herself into, Clare felt her phone vibrate against her side. "Thank God," she said, flipping the phone open. "Hey…yeah, the apartment building…just come get us…um—yes, us," she said, wincing at her slip of tongue. "But…Christian, trust me, you'll…like it. Think of it as a surprise." She grinned as Connor looked sharply at her. "Okay, all right…just announce yourself…they're a little jumpy."

"Jumpy? You think I'm fuckin' jumpy now and you're gonna fuckin hand us over to a queer? Fuckin' hell!" Murphy raised his head from his knees. "Had 'nough to do with that…"

"I'm not handing you over," Clare rebutted, stabbing the air with her imaginary quotation marks. "He's helping to save your asses, so you'd better be civil or I'll just leave you here for the Italian guys to pick up."

At the her mention of the mobsters, Connor seized her arm and Murphy muttered more obscenities into his knees. Connor's blue eyes searched her face piercingly.

"Did ye see 'em?" he asked intensely, his brogue thickening as he leaned forward with emotion.

"No. Ow."

His grip was surprisingly strong for a man that had been technically dead mere minutes before.

"Did they see you?"

"No—I hid in here—for Pete's sake, let go of me." But he held her arm and held her gaze.

"Listen ta me, Clare, if they saw ye, if helpin' us is puttin' ye in danger—"

"Which it is any fuckin' way ye look at it," contributed Murphy.

"—then just leave, right now. Ye've helped us enough. We can take it from here."

"You can take it from here?" Clare glared at him, her grey eyes steely. He released her arm. "I think you're overestimating yourselves. You're not immortal. And you're sure as hell in no condition to go anywhere except home with me."

"Ye think they'll just let us go?" Connor asked, his voice growing hoarser with every word. He swallowed hard and rubbed at the bruises on his neck.

"Stop talking. It's hurting your throat," Clare said.

"Woman," Murphy said, "your fuckin' talk is hurting my fuckin' head."

"Well, aren't you a little cranky," Clare said caustically, but her hands were gentle as she laid them on Murphy's forehead. He didn't flinch away from her touch. "Let me see. You've got a nasty knot on your skull, here." He grunted.

"Ye shouldn't help us," Connor began again. Clare ignored him. "It's too dangerous. Ye don't understand."

"No, what you don't understand is that you don't have a choice," snapped Clare.

"Half the fuckin' city will be knockin on your door—"

"Knock-kno-ock!" sang out a very cheerful male voice. "The queer is here!"

"Christian!" Clare exclaimed in relief. The cavalry had arrived. Christian rounded the corner and immediately gave her a hug, blatantly inspecting her shoes.

"You liar, you're not even wearing heels," he said, putting his hands on his low-rider clad hips. Then he looked over Clare's shoulder and saw the bloodied, dirtied twins. His face lit up. "Clare, don't tell me you've been picking up man-candy off the streets again. They're dirty," he said devilishly. "And there's two of them. You know what that means—"

"Just help me get them to the car," Clare said, resisting the smile tugging at her lips. Connor and Murphy looked up at her in supplication. In the end she offered them both a hand, and they accepted.

"No fair," pouted Christian. "It's supposed to be one for you and one for me, that's what I meant…"

"Go unlock the car," grinned Clare. With Connor on one side and Murphy on the other, she carefully guided them out across the sidewalk and to the waiting Lexus. Murphy slid across the back seat as Christian flounced around the front of the car. Clare helped Connor in and scooted in beside him.

"Nice car," commented Connor wryly.

"Yes, I know," agreed Christian. "Just try not to bleed on the seats too much, honey. They're real leather."

Connor raised his eyebrow at Clare and she shrugged. The engine purred into life and the car swung out into the street.

Clare watched the apartment building and alleyway fade from the rearview mirror. And away we go.