Irish Kiss: A Second Chance, Age Taboo Romance (An Irish Kiss Novel Book 1)

by Sienna Blake

  A file wouldn’t tell me what I needed to know about my new assignment.

  She was waiting for me at my desk, sitting with her skinny arms folded over her chest. Blonde hair brushed straight over her slim shoulders, sweetheart face like a tiny angel.

  Something kicked in my chest. She barely looked eleven. What the fuck was she doing experimenting with drugs already?

  To her credit she didn’t flinch, didn’t take her eyes off me once, not even as I neared, my six-foot-five frame towering over her. Instead of rounding my desk to sit in my chair, I folded my frame into the creaky plastic chair next to her.

  “Hey.” I gave her a nod.

  She said nothing. She just watched me with sharp green eyes that seemed to cut through me, that seemed to see everything. For a second, I felt like I was the one who was in trouble.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m Diarmuid Brennan. What’s your name?”

  Still nothing.

  I tried another question. “What did you get arrested for?”

  She raised a thin eyebrow at me. “I’m sure you’ve got all that information in my file.”

  Her voice was a lower pitch than I expected, her tone as cool and sure as any adult. Interesting. If I had to bet, she was older than she looked. She was definitely more mature than her prepubescent body signalled. I bet she got underestimated all the time.

  “I don’t give a shit what’s on your file. I want to hear your story from you.”

  “You’re not supposed to swear around kids.” A hint of a smile danced on her lips.

  I made a show of glancing around us. “I don’t see any kids around here. Do you?”

  Her eyes widened a tad before she schooled her features back into place. She straightened in her chair. “No, I don’t.”

  “Good. Then let’s talk like adults. I’m Diarmuid. You are?” I held out my right hand.

  She blinked at me for a second before she slipped her hand into mine. “Saoirse…Quinn.”

  Her hand was tiny, like a sparrow, soft and breakable in my palm. We shook. I was careful not to squeeze too hard.

  “So, what are you here for, Saoirse?”

  She made a face. “Possession and destruction of property. Supposedly.”

  “You’re saying you didn’t do it?”

  She folded her arms over her chest, a classic defensive move. “I’m not saying anything.”

  I nodded my head. I expected this. It took time to gain someone’s trust. And I sensed with her especially, I’d have to earn it.

  “Fair enough.”

  Once again, she studied me, her eyes pausing on the ink on the backs of my hands peeking out from my long-sleeved shirt. “You don’t look like a cop.”

  That was not the first time I’d heard that.

  I shot her a knowing look. “You and I both know not to judge people by how they look, don’t we?”

  Her eyes widened. Then she nodded, slowly. “Yeah.”

  “Wanna see?”

  She nodded and leaned closer to me. I rolled up my sleeves to my elbows to show her more of my ink. I had full sleeves. More on my back, which of course I wasn’t about to show her. She leaned in, eyes wide. To my surprise her soft fingers traced some of the vines and lines.

  “So pretty,” she near whispered.

  Pretty? Well, that was new. I’d never had anyone call my ink “pretty” before.

  She slid back into her seat.

  “So, what happens from here?” she asked, changing the subject.

  I glanced at my watch, then up to the door. “Your ma or da should be here soon.”

  “My da’s not around.”

  I glanced over to her, her mouth drawn into a tight line, her chin tight. This wasn’t surprising. Most juveniles who acted out had at least one absent parent.

  “Then your ma. Someone should have already contacted her at home. Once she gets here we can talk about what happens.”

  The rules were clear. I wasn’t allowed to reprimand them officially unless a parent or guardian was with them.

  Saoirse looked away, folding her skinny arms across her chest again. “We’ll be waiting a long time, then.”

  “She working today?”

  “No,” Saoirse scoffed. “She doesn’t work. She’s probably passed out or too busy under someone.”

  I blinked back as a wave of anger washed through me. Saoirse had to be exaggerating, I tried to tell myself. But I knew that she wasn’t. I’d been confronted with too many kids with nightmare home lives to be naïve about it.

  I stood up and grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair. “Come on. I’ll take you home and we can have the chats there.”

  Something akin to horror flashed in Saoirse’s eyes.

  “Why can’t we stay here? I like it here…” she trailed off.

  Jesus. What was her home like if she was more comfortable at a police station?

  I bent down so I was eye level with her. “Saoirse, I gotta take you home now. But I swear to you, if you ever need to, you can come here, sit in this chair, hang out, whatever, ’kay? Even if I’m not here.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugged. But her eyes grew shiny.

  “Come on, little rebel.” I held out my hand and she took it.

  As I squeezed her tiny hand, my heart squeezed too.

  Saoirse was so small she needed help to get in my truck. I held her elbow to assist her, noting how she snatched her arm away from me the second she was in the seat. I even think she rubbed the spot where I touched her when she thought I wasn’t looking.

  She was still frowning as I hopped into the driver’s seat.

  “What?” I asked.

  She glanced around the refurbished cab with deep red vintage leather bucket seats. “How old is this thing?”

  “It’s Bedford J type truck. It’s a classic!” I pulled out of the station car park and into the streets.

  She snorted. “It looks older than you.”

  “Hey! I’m not even twenty-five. I’m hardly ancient.”

  She snorted. “Whatever, Grandpa.”

  Her address was tucked away in her file, which I threw onto my desk before we left the station. “Direct me to your place, will you?”

  Saoirse sat up with a firm nod. She took this responsibility way too seriously; it was adorable. And it gave me hope.

  Saoirse was a good kid at heart, I could sense it. A kid with guts and bit of fire in her. She had potential. She just needed someone to direct that potential.

  I started the car, the radio coming on automatically over the grizzly rumble of the engine.

  “What is this music?” she asked as the radio blasted the pop-y rock of some current chart-topping band.

  I shrugged. “It’s the radio.”

  Ava usually left it on this channel. I didn’t care enough to change it.

  Saoirse screwed up her nose. “That is crap. Here. Let me educate you on good music.”

  She scooted forward and fiddled with the radio, snatches of music playing in between the crackle of dead air.

  “The last man who messed with my radio got his fingers broken,” I teased.

  She let out a snort, a cute little noise. “Good thing I’m not a man.”

  She settled on a channel playing a lilting Irish folk song, a male singer singing about whiskey in the jar. She sank back into her seat, her legs so short they stuck out straight over the end of the seat, her foot tapping away.

  I screwed up my nose, trying to pick the band. “Who is this?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “The Dubliners.”

  Now I recognised the song. The Dubliners were an Irish folk band popular in the sixties, seventies and eighties.

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “You actually listen to this shite.”

  “It’s quality music! Not like the pop-trash you were listening to.” She shook her head. “And you call yourself an Irishman.”

  I let out a laugh. It came out so freely and easily, like something about this little girl loosened somethin
g inside of me.

  “This is the kind of music our parents would listen to. Exactly how old are you?” I asked, a hint of teasing in my voice.

  “Not old enough, apparently,” she muttered almost out of hearing range.

  We were silent for the rest of the drive, the folk music filling up the car, a low crackle underneath the melody as if it was being played off a record player. Strangely enough, I found myself tapping to the melody.

  I could sense her staring at me out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t turn my head. I didn’t let her know I knew she was watching, studying me. I let her assess me in peace.

  This beginning bit with a new assignment was critical. I had to give her plenty of space, give her time. Let her open up to me.

  I pulled the truck into an empty spot on the street in front of her commission housing building. I knew this neighbourhood. It was only a few blocks from mine but a whole other world away. She wasn’t the first kid to come across my desk from this address.

  I helped her out and she led me to her apartment, her feet slowing as we climbed the stairs.

  She paused in front of her door, her tiny teeth worrying her bottom lip.

  “I grew up in a place a bit like this. Maybe one of these days I can tell you about it. We can compare war stories,” I said with a lightness to my tone.

  Her green eyes were on me in a flash.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said fiercely.

  “Do what?”

  “Try and make me feel better.”

  I blinked and said nothing. She was switched on, more switched on than most girls her age. Hell, she was more perceptive than most women twice her age.

  Saoirse let out a breath and looked back to the door. “Do you mind if you wait out here for a bit?”

  She wanted to tidy up the place, most likely. Make sure her mother was decent. Whatever she needed to make herself feel comfortable.

  “Sure. Take your time.”

  She unlocked her door and slipped inside. While I waited for her I leaned against the balcony overlooking the north of Dublin, a sea of dark grey roofs and dirty brick. So much of our lives was determined with the luck of the dice. Where you were born. Who you were born to. Even if we managed to build an “equal society”, these things would still remain unequal.

  A few minutes later I heard her door unlatch again. Her sweet face peeked out from the doorway. “You can come in now.”

  She held the door open for me. I walked into her tiny apartment, bracing myself. To my surprise it was relatively tidy, tiny for sure, but there were no dirty dishes in the sink, no ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts or empty beer bottles in the living room.

  A figure rose from the couch and stepped towards me. She looked to be in her forties, older than I expected Saoirse’s mother to be, her hair neat and her simple dress conservative but without creases.

  “Mr Brennan? I’m Ms Quinn.” She held out her hand.

  I frowned as I took it, glancing over to Saoirse who was standing at her side. This was not what I expected. She was not what I expected for an absentee mother who’d forget to come to the police station to pick up her daughter.

  “Please,” I said, “call me Diarmuid. You didn’t come to the station.”

  Ms Quinn brushed at the front of her dress. “Sorry, I couldn’t get away early from my shift, see.”

  Saoirse told me earlier that her ma didn’t work. This woman was lying.

  I glanced around and noticed only one bedroom door. Saoirse and her mother would have been allocated a two-bedroom apartment from the housing commission.

  “Please, have a seat,” Ms Quinn said.

  I ignored her, striding to a side table where a pile of unopened mail sat. The top envelope was addressed to a Ms Moina Geraghty, of Flat 36.

  As I suspected.

  I spun round, glaring at Saoirse. “What kind of game are you trying to play with me?”

  Her eyes widened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “This isn’t your flat number and that,” I pointed to Moina, “isn’t your mother.”

  “Yes, she—”

  “Don’t bullshit me; I can smell it from a mile away.”

  I turned to Moina, whose face had gone pale, fingers worrying the front of her apron.

  “Ms Geraghty,” her eyes bulged out of her head hearing her real name on my lips, “why did you think it was a good idea to lie to a police officer?”

  Saoirse spoke up before Moina could. “It’s my fault. I convinced her to lie.” Saoirse stepped in front of Moina. “She would do anything for me. If anyone should be in trouble, it’s me.”

  I snorted. “You’ve got balls, Saoirse, I’ll give you that much. Come on. Let’s go meet your real mother.”

  I led Saoirse to the door, nodding to a wide-eyed Moina on my way out. “Nice to meet you, despite the false pretenses.”

  Outside Ms Geraghty’s door, Saoirse paused. “Do we have to—”

  “Don’t make me knock on every door in this damn building.”

  “Alright already.” She sighed.

  She walked up the stairs a level, me at her heels, and stopped outside a faded, chipped door.

  She turned to me and her face twisted. “My ma…she’s…”

  “You don’t need to be embarrassed in front of me, Saoirse. I know your ma isn’t a reflection on you.”

  “But say…say you see something that you shouldn’t see. Will she get in trouble?”

  So that was what she was worried about—her mother getting in trouble with the police.

  “I’m here for you, not to get your mother in trouble, okay?”

  She stared at me for a beat, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. She still didn’t believe me. That was okay. Trust would come with time.

  “And no lying to me again,” I said. “Friends don’t lie to each other.”

  “You’re not my friend,” she snapped.

  “Not yet. But I will be. You’ll see. Now, I need to talk to your ma.”

  “Do you really—” She shut up when she saw the stern look on my face.

  She pulled out a key and unlocked her door. I followed her in.

  It was worse than I expected. Dirty dishes piled in the kitchen sink and across the counter, overflowing ashtrays, a glass pipe and an empty baggy beside it, empty beer bottles, pizza boxes. The place looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years, stinking of stale cigarettes and something sour.

  Saoirse picked her way through the mess towards an open door, through which I could see a ratty old mattress and yellowing sheets.

  “Ma?” Saoirse called as she disappeared into the room.

  I wanted to go after her. This whole situation made me want to take Saoirse away from this place, to take her home, keep her there and raise her the way a child should be raised. I always got too close to my kids, but Saoirse… There was something about her that made me feel it even worse than ever.

  “I’m busy,” I heard a nasally voice croak from inside the room. “Go away.”

  I bristled. That was no way to speak to anyone, let alone your own flesh and blood. I hadn’t even seen her face and already I hated Ms Quinn. I wanted to arrest her and throw her into the cells for a night to teach her a lesson. Or a week.

  “Ma,” I heard Saoirse’s hushed tone as I approached the bedroom, ready to lunge if I so much as sensed a slap or a push coming, “we have company.”

  “What the fuck did I—?”

  “It’s the Garda.”

  There was a pregnant pause. Then a curse. “Fucking hell, Saoirse.”

  Saoirse appeared at the doorway, her eyes widening to see me so close.

  “I’ll offer him a cup of tea,” she called back to her mother.

  Saoirse directed me towards the kitchen table. Of all the surfaces, this one was the least littered. Only a few stacks of magazines and unopened mail.

  Saoirse opened her mouth.

  “No sugar, splash of milk,” I said.


  She nodded and walked into the kitchen, turning on the kettle and washing out mugs for the three of us. I thanked her when she slid a mug of tea in front of me and sat down beside me.

  Ms Quinn appeared at her doorway, a ratty pink bathrobe wrapped around her gaunt skinny frame.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. Wasn’t like I was given any warning that we would have visitors.” Ms Quinn shot a glare towards Saoirse, as if the disgusting state of this place was her daughter’s fault.

  It took every inch of my willpower not to stand up, towering over Ms Quinn as I gave her a piece of my mind.

  “The station called you about picking Saoirse up earlier. Seems like I wouldn’t have had to come here if you had actually done it,” I said, my voice chilly and garnering no argument.

  Ms Quinn had the nerve to look fronted, putting her hands on her hips. “Well, I—”

  “Sit down, Ms Quinn. Let’s get this over with so you can get back to whatever the hell it was that was keeping you so busy from your daughter.”

  Ms Quinn snapped her mouth shut.

  For my work with my kids to run smoothly I usually made sure to charm the parents. I couldn’t help the way I was snapping at Ms Quinn. She was failing and failing badly as a mother. I wanted to grab her by her skinny shoulders and shake her until she realised that.

  Ms Quinn thrust her chin in the air and strode over to the seat beside me, sitting down and glaring at me, arms folded across her chest. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Saoirse was staring at me, eyes wide.

  “Ms Quinn,” I began, “my name is Diarmuid Brennan. I’m a juvenile liaison officer with the Dublin North Garda. Have you heard about the juvenile diversion program?”

  Ms Quinn shook her head once.

  “Instead of arresting and charging minors who have committed criminal offences, we issue them a caution and assign them an officer—in Saoirse’s case, me—in the hopes that they won’t reoffend.”

  Ms Quinn glared at Saoirse. “What did you do, you little brat?”

  I slammed my fist on the table. Both Ms Quinn and Saoirse jumped in their seats.

  “It is in my considerable experience, Ms Quinn, that when a child acts out, it is because there is something wrong at home.” I didn’t bother to hide the accusation in my tone and in my glare.