Chasing River

by K. A. Tucker

  After a lengthy, wordless showdown, Aengus’s arm finally relaxes. I let my head fall back against the nearby wall as a sharp ache throbs in my lower back.

  When he speaks again, the fire in his voice is gone. He sounds tired. “I didn’t know he’d show up here. Honest.”

  I don’t believe him. Aengus lies so much, I don’t think even he remembers what the truth is anymore. “What’d he want?”

  Aengus releases a mouthful of booze-scented air and begins pacing. “Beznick’s sister and her kids have gone to ground. Probably back to Romania.”

  And they’re surprised? I could have told them that was going to happen. “So he got the message, I gather.”

  “He did.” He pauses, twisting his mouth in disdain. “And just threatened retaliation on whoever was responsible. Tit-for-tat.”

  “What the fuck does that even mean . . .” I tug at the hem of my T-shirt until I can see the dark spot forming on the material. I must have torn a bloody stitch. “If anyone wants a tit, it should be me,” I mutter.

  “That Gypsy bastard thinks he can threaten us!” Aengus bellows. Now I know why he was pacing the room when I came in. He’s spitting mad.

  “And so you thought it’d be a good idea to meet with Jimmy here and talk about it?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” I cut him off, yanking my T-shirt over my head. I reach for the medic kit. Being the pub that we are, it’s well stocked. I dig out the roll of tape quickly. “How bad is it?”

  “Two stitches. Here . . .You can’t reach that.” Aengus grabs the roll out of my hand and rips off a strip with his teeth. He’s always been good at quick bandaging. He’s had a lot of experience. I clench my jaw against the sting as he pulls the skin back together. “Pansy.” In another second and with some gauze in his hand, he adds, “That should hold, if you stay out of any more fights tonight.”

  I toss the soiled and torn T-shirt into the rubbish can and rifle through the box of spare work shirts we have in the office. “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me . . .” The largest one I can find is medium. And women’s. “Shite,” I mutter, pulling out my old one to check over it again. There’s no hiding that that’s blood. And the tear . . . I can’t be behind the bar with that, especially after a dozen witnesses watched Jimmy and Aengus come back here. That’ll spark questions.

  I have no choice. “For fuck sakes.” I ease the new one on, tugging it over my torso.

  Aengus doubles over in loud, raucous laughter. I haven’t heard him laugh like that in years, and it releases some of the tension in the air.

  “What’s going on in here?” Rowen sticks his head in. His brow spikes with surprise. “You don’t wear that as well as Nuala.”

  I jab a thumb toward the box. Rowen’s the one who takes care of T-shirt inventory. “Are those the only shirts we have?”

  His lips sit pressed together tightly, twitching. He’s trying not to laugh. “They are. Told you to stop giving T-shirts away to customers because we were running low.”

  Fuck.

  “We’re getting slammed out front. I need you,” he adds in a serious tone.

  “And I need to get home before some arse reports me to the gardai for being seen with Jimmy,” Aengus says through lingering chuckles, though the glint in his eye tells me he hasn’t forgiven me for that one.

  Shaking my head, I trail Rowen out.

  Preparing my healthy male ego for the bashing that’s about to come.

  TWELVE

  AMBER

  I spot Ivy’s slender figure leaning against the old stone wall of Delaney’s as soon as the cab turns the corner. Those high lace-up boots crossed at the ankles are impossible to miss. She’s exchanged her earlier Diva shirt and jeans for an asymmetrical gothic outfit, complete with black lace and burgundy satin. Her hair hangs smooth and shiny, framing a face that’s been painted with a heavy hand of makeup.

  I’d look trashy in that getup, but somehow Ivy can pull it off.

  The customers passing her on their way into the raucous bar take a second look, not that she notices, her face glued to her phone.

  In my short white shorts, flowing bubblegum-pink blouse—the single long sleeve ideal to cover the bruising on my right side—and silver jeweled sandals, we couldn’t be more ill-suited to each other.

  “Hey, Ivy.”

  Her inky-eyed once-over of me says she’s thinking the same thing. “Are you really sure this is the kind of place you were looking for?”

  “A local Irish pub? Of course. Why wouldn’t I want to come here?”

  Three middle-aged men stumble out the front door, laughing and slapping each other on the back as they pull cigarettes out of their pockets. Blithering drunken idiots by nine.

  “Meet the locals,” she murmurs, leading the way through the propped-open door and into a crowded, rowdy scene. The same guy who played yesterday plays again, only now he has a companion on a second guitar and they seem to be dueling. I shrink into myself as we move farther in. From what I can see, every last table is taken and the bar lineup is two deep. Whatever the fire code is in this country, I’m guessing this place isn’t adhering to it.

  “Wow. I didn’t expect it to be so packed this early.” It’s just another pub, and if I’ve learned anything about Dublin in my wanderings, it’s that they have a lot of pubs to choose from. “We’re not going to find anywhere to sit, are we?”

  “No one’s leaving this place until the music stops playing and the beer stops pouring. Or they get kicked out.”

  I feel eyes on us as we carve our way through hot, sweaty bodies, avoiding the sloshing drinks. Having learned my lesson, I keep my small purse zipped up and tucked under my arm as we make our way to the far side to cram into an empty nook next to a bronze statue of a man.

  “Are we allowed to just stand here?” I ask.

  “Where else are we going to stand?” She shoots me a perturbed look, like this is my fault.

  “Well . . .” I glance behind me. We’re practically hovering over someone’s table. I’ll be getting a perturbed glare from them soon, too.

  “I’ve had a long day, Welles.” I bristle a little at the way she uses my last name, but I don’t say anything. “There are plenty of places like this around Dublin. It’s really nothing special. Or, worst case, we can go to Temple Bar. If you like loud drunks, you’ll love it there.”

  She’s wrong about Delaney’s not being special. And I don’t want to go anywhere else. Not if River is here. I stretch onto my tiptoes and search the horseshoe-shaped bar through the crowd, but can only make out the short, curvy blonde manning the taps. River said he’d be here tonight, didn’t he? Unless that was just an excuse to get away from me? No, I have to stop thinking like that. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have left things as he did. “Can we just wait a bit, to see if something frees up?”

  Ivy purses her wine-colored lips in answer, her dark eyes surveying the crowd with disdain. I’m guessing I have about five minutes before she simply walks out.

  “Just stay for a bit. Please? I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Her inky gaze, heavily lined with black shadow, settles on me.

  “Two drinks?”

  She sighs. That seems to win her over. “Well, we’re not going to get served standing here. So—”

  Hoots and hollers erupt near the bar, cutting her words off. First just a few, but soon everyone seems to be joining in on the fun. I lift to my tiptoes again, to peer over the crowd. Three heads—two golden brown with a hint of copper, and one clearly a redhead, only shaved—bob along.

  The energetic singer stops mid-lyric and his laughter carries over the speakers to the tune of the strumming guitar. “Well, well . . . would you look at that strapping young Delaney fella! Did Marion shrink your laundry this week? Or did you lose a wager?”

  A loud chorus of laughter erupts as more heads turn.

  “Before you ask . . . that there fella is still looking for a Mrs. River
Delaney. Perhaps if he didn’t dress like a poof, he’d find her!”

  A bubble of excitement jumps in my stomach at his name, as I watch the bar intently, waiting. I’m assuming the middle finger that flashes over the crowd is his. Finally, bodies shift.

  His grinning face appears first, his cheeks just slightly flushed with embarrassment. A customer steps in, blocking my sight and earning my annoyance, but like a continuous wave, people shift again, and I finally see what the musician was referring to.

  River’s wearing a T-shirt that looks three sizes too small, the black cotton straining over every single one of his muscles, like one of those douchy gym pigs at the CrossFit where I belong. Worse, it’s very clearly a woman’s V-neck, the front dipping down just far enough to show a light patch of chest hair.

  While I’ll admit that River, with a body like that—all its ripples and hardened curves—has nothing he needs to hide, he looks ridiculous.

  I can’t help it.

  I start giggling.

  His bright green eyes drift over the crowd, past Ivy and me.

  They dart back to lock on mine, a flash of surprise in them.

  I purse my lips tight, trying to keep from laughing as heat burns my cheeks. He can surely guess why I’m here again . . . can’t he?

  What do I do now?

  He dips his head, a sheepish smile touching his lips as he mouths something on his way past his brother. Customers poke and slap him as he rounds the bar and passes them.

  I know that he’s on his way toward me.

  “So, of all the places you could go in Dublin, you’re here . . . again.” His gaze dips to my one bare shoulder for a second.

  “I am.” God, I don’t think I’ve ever been this overt with a guy before. Sure, I’ve flirted plenty, but it’s always after the guy has made his interest well known. I’ve never chased after anyone. They’ve always come to me. “The Great Famine began in 1845. Many accuse England of letting the Irish starve to death, robbing them of their oats and grains in the name of economy.”

  His brow quirks. “Not bad.”

  “I went to one of those museums for ignorant tourists that you recommended.” I know I’m staring at him but I can’t seem to help it, even as I see that sparkle of recognition that tells me he can see my thoughts plain as day.

  He’s just so beautiful.

  An awkward pause hangs between us before I remember my manners. “This is my friend, Ivy.”

  His eyes dance with mine for just a moment longer before shifting to Ivy. He sticks out a hand. “Hello, Ivy. I’m River, and we appreciate your business.”

  She takes it, that tight smirk—like she’s trying not to smile but can’t completely hide it, which I’m coming to learn is her trademark—glancing over her lips. “We won’t be staying long if we can’t find a place to sit and relax.”

  I shoot a glare at her. Does she have to be a bitch to him, too?

  Her brashness seems to slide off his back. “A place to sit and relax.” He pauses, running his tongue over his bottom lip in thought as he searches the bar. “Come with me.”

  We follow him toward the back. The area doesn’t have a prime view of the musicians but it does have a prime view of the bar, and I’ll take that. He grabs a tray full of empty glasses from a small service table and hands it to a passing waitress. Dragging the table away from the wall, he orders with solemn eyes, “Don’t leave this table, not for even a second.” He disappears behind the bar and through the back door.

  “Suddenly I’m seeing things so clearly . . .” Ivy muses.

  “What do you mean?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Right.”

  River reappears, his arm flexed with two wooden stools. Customers chirp at him about needing a seat as he passes but he only grins, making his way back over to set them on either side of the table for us. “Now you have a place to sit and relax, so I guess you’re staying.” His hand brushes against my shoulder on its way to settle along the back of a neighboring chair. “Now, what can I get you?”

  Woman’s V-neck or not, River’s proximity and his charm is sending my nerves into a tailspin right now.

  “A pint of Guinness?” I ask, more of a question.

  “I knew you’d like that.” His eyes dart to my bottom lip, where the injury is more of a dark purple splotch now.

  “Double Jameson, neat,” Ivy orders, tossing her purse and phone down on the table.

  River’s brow arches. “Good on you. Most people coming in here stick with beer. I’ll have to dig our compulsory bottle out. It’s probably coated in dust.” He nods toward her arm. “And nice work, by the way.”

  The first soft, genuine smile that I’ve ever seen on Ivy’s face takes over. “Thanks.”

  “Who did them for ya?”

  “I designed them, but I have a few trusted friends who I let work on me.” That edge to her voice when she talks to me has vanished. I’m not that surprised. River can probably charm the rude out of anyone.

  “I’m looking to get another one done soon. The stag on our family crest.”

  My gaze starts searching his arms, looking for the one he already has. If it’s there, it’s hidden.

  “I work at The Fine Needle if you’re ever looking for someone. I’m awesome,” she says so matter-of-factly. “My cousin, Ian, is pretty good, too. He just finished this one for me last week.” She holds out her arm and taps the colorful Day of the Dead skull on the inside of her slender forearm.

  River leans in closer to study it, his fingertip tracing the outer lines. Suddenly I’m wishing I had an armful of tattoos. Any excuse for him to touch me like that.

  As if he can read my mind, he turns to me and asks, “You have any?”

  Ivy bursts out in a cackle unnatural for her tiny body and her cool demeanor. “Miss Sheriff’s Daughter marring her perfect skin? Are you kidding me?”

  Now River’s arched brow is reserved for me and it’s much higher. “Sheriff’s Daughter?”

  “It’s nothing.” I shoot a glare Ivy’s way but she only smiles back. A secret, vindictive smile.

  “Oh, it’s something, alright.” He winks. “And you’re going to tell me about it later. I’ll be back with your drinks.” He squeezes my bare shoulder on his way past, making me jump. I watch him go, catching more than a few glares from female customers lingering around the bar, likely waiting for seats to free up. Or maybe for River’s attention.

  I meet a flat gaze from across the table. “So this is why you showed up at my work today.” Ivy’s hard to read, with her dry tone, but I’m pretty sure she’s upset. She hasn’t even sat down yet. “You don’t really want to get to know me. I’m your excuse for coming here . . . ‘again.’ ” She air-quotes that word. “You were afraid to sit alone in a place like this.”

  I open my mouth to deny it but she cuts me off, shaking her head. “Save it. I should have known.”

  I sigh, suddenly feeling like a jerk. “You’re right, okay? You’re the only person I know in Dublin and I didn’t want to come here alone to see River again. But . . . so what? We’ll have a few drinks, get to know each other, I get to see him . . . What’s the big deal?”

  “I don’t like being used.” She tightens her jaw. “Alex emailed me to tell me you were in Ireland. She was afraid you might be lonely. She asked me to give you a chance, if you came by. I didn’t think you actually would.”

  “I’m not lonely!” My cheeks flush. Sure, once in a while I get homesick, but lonely?

  “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were. You could never survive so much as a library hour without your harem of girls fawning all over you.”

  “My harem of girls fawning all over me? Okay, first of all, I’m not a lesbian . . .”

  Ivy’s eyes narrow. “Funny you should mention that.”

  I bite the inside of my mouth. Does this girl ever hold a grudge or what? “So then . . . we’re even. You didn’t come here to get to know me either. You only showed up here tonight because Alex asked you to.
”

  “Exactly. Because she’s my friend.”

  I guess I should have expected all of this to come up. Just because Ivy obviously didn’t tell Alex about what happened in high school doesn’t mean she simply forgot. But it was a freaking decade ago. Let it go!

  Two glasses land on our table, delivered by a waitress instead of River. A glance at the bar finds him laughing with a customer while pouring pints. I guess I shouldn’t have expected him to be serving us, especially with waitresses to do that. Plus, he did go above and beyond already, getting us a table. Still, disappointment stirs inside me.

  I sigh. “Listen. Can we please start over?”

  “Until the second that bartender says he’s done his shift and you ditch me, right?”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t do that to my friends.”

  Her jaw clenches. “We were never friends.”

  “That’s because we didn’t really have much in common.” I stare pointedly at her, but if she sees my meaning, she doesn’t let on. “But we could be friends, now.”

  She snorts.

  I bite my tongue before I agree with her, which I’m tempted to do. If this is the real Ivy—and not just a bitter exterior that she’s saved for me—then I can’t see myself lasting through this pint, hot bartender or not. “High school was a long time ago, Ivy. Maybe we can bury this hatchet you’re intent on sticking in my back and actually get to know each other. Who knows . . . maybe you’ll find out I’m not so bad.”

  After a long pause and a look around, she slides into her seat. Tipping her head back, she downs the entire shot of whiskey in one gulp. “I’m going to need a few more of these to find that out.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with starting those rumors. I swear!”

  The flat look on her face tells me she doesn’t believe me. “Well, I know that Bonnie did, because I confronted her about it and she said that she had a highly reliable source who saw me discharged from the psych ward.”