by K. A. Tucker
“No.” He chuckles. “Not at all. Believe me.”
I smile. “I didn’t really have a choice. I had to balance out my troublemaker brother.”
“I know something about that.” He sighs. “I should head to the pub now. Do you want me to drop you off at home?”
I’m guessing he’s not talking about Rowen. It must be this mysterious older brother of his, who he mentioned the other day. The one whose very name made tension cord in his jaw and his back. “No. I can walk. It’s sunny out now. Bizarre Irish weather.”
“It’s bipolar,” he jokes. “Okay. I’ll pick you up at your house around eight?”
“Sounds good.” That’s five hours from now. Enough time to hit up the overpriced stores on Grafton Street because, suddenly, I don’t have anything in my suitcase suitable for a night out with River.
He simply smiles at me. Not moving closer. Not pulling away.
Waiting for me to make the first move, I think.
I do, leaning in to steal a kiss and elicit a soft groan from him. His grip around me tightens, his fist clenching the back of my shirt as he pulls me into his body, his erection pressing against my stomach.
Really? He wants me that much? Knowing that excites me.
And then he breaks free suddenly. “See ya.”
I grin, parroting him. “See ya.”
SEVENTEEN
RIVER
“We’re going out tonight.”
Rowen peers up from the liquor inventory. “Can’t. I need to catch up from the work I missed last Wednesday, when I covered for you.”
“On our night off?” It’s customary that we arrange for Nuala and another bartender to cover the bar for us on Sunday nights so we can take off at seven and have a few hours to relax. “No. You’re coming out.”
He groans. “With who?”
“Amber and her friend, Ivy.”
That sparks his interest. “That hot, mean little one with all the ink?”
“That’s the one. She asked about you.” There was nothing about Ivy’s face today that said she’s interested in Rowen, but I still owe him for that gag with the work shirt yesterday.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Eight o’clock at Nosey Flynn’s.” I know he’s in.
I’ll never forget my first love. I was sixteen. Her name was Katie Byrne and she was a year younger than me. I’d known her and her family for years—they were members of the same small parish on the outskirts of Dundalk, and they lived about two minutes’ drive away, in a small cottage with tomato-red framing and a thatched roof—but I only really noticed her that September, after she and her family returned from a summer in Edinburgh. Her body was suddenly full of curves, her face missing the baby fat, and her innocent hazel doe eyes were soulful enough to entrap most any boy.
I wasn’t the only one to notice the changes. But she stayed unavailable to everyone, thanks to her father’s strict rules about dating.
Her father was my rugby coach.
That November, I was riding my bike home after school one afternoon when I found Katie standing beneath a tall tree, her arms stretched high in the air, crying over the kitten that dangled from a limb, mewling. I climbed the tree—not an easy feat—and rescued her pet, earning myself plenty of scratches and nearly falling on the way down. But I also earned Katie’s adoration, those doe eyes glued to me during mass the following Sunday.
I loved the way she looked at me, as if I could do no wrong. I would have rescued that mangy cat a hundred times over again if it meant she’d always look at me that way.
Her father’s rules hadn’t changed but something had for Katie, because she started seeking me out between classes and during lunch hour. We’d see each other in the library. I started walking her home from school. She’d hold my hand until we got closer to her house, in case either of her parents were home. It was months before she let me kiss her. The horny teenager that I was, I wanted more, but I held back, not wanting to risk chasing her away.
And then one day after class, biting her bottom lip nervously, her voice a low whisper, her pretty hazel gaze darting this way and that, making sure no one would hear her, she made plans to sneak out with me the coming Easter break.
I pulled up outside her house after dark in my father’s Astra, my belly full from the Sunday dinner feast, after Ma had gone to bed and Da was passed out in the recliner from drink. Therapy for his pain, he’d always say. I waited for twenty minutes before a slight body slipped out from a window at the side of the house and rushed toward my car. She hugged her black knit sweater tight around her body, her pale white legs stark in the night. I remember thinking she’d be cold in that flowery dress.
It turns out that Katie Byrne had developed strong feelings for me and, having just passed her sixteenth birthday, she’d suddenly been bitten by the rebellious bug, a fact I discovered not long after we pulled up to the O’Hanlan farm—a property long since abandoned and left derelict. A great place for young people to get together and have some fun without responsible prying eyes watching over them.
I made to open the car door but Katie grabbed my hand and asked me to stay, waving a flask of whiskey that she’d magically produced. We sat for a good half hour—her taking three shots for every one that I downed—and shared idle, slightly awkward conversation, then a few kisses.
Then she boldly climbed into the backseat. Of course I followed, quickly finding a new appreciation for her choice of clothing. When she slipped her knickers off, her fingers trembling, I didn’t balk. I was almost seventeen and quite happy to be rid of my virginity. I sure as hell didn’t need any mental preparation.
We joined the party after. Rowen and a bunch of kids from school, and even Aengus—visiting for the holiday—were already tucked away between the house and the barn, keeping warm with a fire and beer. Katie kept drinking until she was tipping the flask upside down to get a drop into her mouth, her eyes half-shuttered, her words incoherent. I didn’t know what to do with her.
Aengus is the one who helped me bring her back home, lifting her body through her bedroom window. He’s the one who ventured into the Byrne house to find a large bowl to set beside her in case she vomited. And, when I wouldn’t leave because I was afraid she’d choke to death, he’s the one who banged on the front door until her father answered, telling him he had just dropped off a drunk Katie—who he had found stumbling along the side of the road—and he was worried. I watched from the shadows, terrified that her father might figure out what I’d done with his daughter. The age of consent was seventeen, and Coach Byrne was the kind of father to not only kick me off the rugby team but also press charges.
Now, it wouldn’t be me they’d be blaming. It would be the twenty-one-year-old Delaney on their doorstep. Aengus would get into a boiling pot-full of trouble if the Byrnes decided to accuse him of something. The kind that could put him in prison.
Katie was admitted to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, and spent the rest of the break recovering. I spent the rest of the break waiting for a knock on the door, afraid she’d confess to what happened. Luckily, nothing came of it, her parents too mortified to say anything. She transferred to an all-girls secondary school, but I’d still see her in church on Sundays. That look in her eyes was gone. In fact, she wouldn’t even meet my gaze after that. I never did find out if it was embarrassment over her drunkenness, fear of her father’s wrath, anger that we’d ratted her out, or plain regret that she’d give something so valuable to me. The possibility of the last one bothered me most.
What I did know is that I would miss feeling like I could do no wrong.
I haven’t thought about Katie Byrne or that night in years, but I’m remembering her now, as I watch Amber lock her front door and stroll down the concrete walkway, her hip pushing the gate closed behind her.
I’ve had plenty of birds after that, but not since Katie has one looked at me the way Amber does—like I’m some sort of hero. I don’t want to do anything to fuck it up. Amber
may be leaving soon, but for these next seven days, I want to live up to everything she thinks she sees when she looks at me with those adoring eyes.
I slip out in time to come around to her side. “I would have met you at your door.”
“I don’t mind. I was ready.”
“You look nice.”
She stretches the skirt of her flirty little dress out between her fingers. A white one with big, bold green flowers, too short to ever meet Ma’s approval but it certainly meets mine, showing off those thighs. “You didn’t tell me what we were doing. I hope this works.” Her eyes skate over my dark jeans and black collared shirt. An upgrade from what I wear to work but by no means upscale.
“It does.”
She flashes one brilliant white-toothed smile just before ducking into her seat. Her sexy green heels have my blood flowing already.
“How old is this place?” Amber asks, her fingers pressed against the rough stone wall to brace herself, taking each of the uneven steps down with caution.
“Old.”
When we reach the bottom, she peers over my shoulder at the narrow staircase, just wide enough for one person to pass at a time. “That would never pass fire and safety codes in America.”
I laugh. “Who thinks about things like that?”
Even in the poor lighting, I can see the flush of her cheeks, and I realize that I’ve embarrassed her. Reaching out to squeeze the side of her slender waist playfully, I add, “It’s charming.” I slip a hand in hers and lead her farther in, ducking slightly to get through the stone archway.
“Wow. This place is . . . medieval.” Her words drift as her gaze takes in the low, stone-carved ceiling of the intimate cellar.
“Let me guess. This wouldn’t pass code either.”
Her lips twist into a smirk, and I can’t help myself. I lean in and steal a quick kiss, surprising her. The sparkle in her eyes tells me it’s a good surprise.
“Come on. Our seats are ready.” I lead her to the rickety old table in the corner. Rowen’s already there, pint in hand.
“My favorite American bird.” He stands, rounds the table, and pulls out her chair before I can, winking at me.
She eases herself into it with a smile. “You Delaney boys sure are charming.”
Not all of us.
“Where’s your friend?”
“She said she’s running late but will be here soon.” Amber’s not really paying attention to her own words, too busy studying the tapered candles burning from atop empty wine bottles that give this narrow, underground place the majority of its light. “What happens over there? Music?” She points to the corner, to the microphone sitting in a stand.
“Something like that.” Rowen and I share a look. I warned him not to blow the surprise.
“It’s been a while. How ya lads?” Kean, a middle-aged Galway fella and the latest generation to run Nosey Flynn’s, drops four menus onto the table, dipping his head toward Amber in greeting.
“Grand.”
Kean settles curious golden eyes on me. “Ya sure? I hear someone’s wantin’ to box the head off ya brother.”
Christ. It doesn’t surprise me at all that someone wants to beat the hell out of Aengus. Aengus could inspire violence in a priest. But now is really not the time to be rooting around our business, and Kean’s known for doing that. Some say he’s on payroll with the papers, feeding them bits of information from the streets. I shoot him a warning glare, thinly veiled behind a smile, for Amber’s sake. “We’re all grand.”
“How long do we have to order?” Rowen runs his finger down the paper, as if there are a dozen options. There are only four. There have only ever been four: two types of stew, bacon and cabbage, and a vegetarian curry.
I don’t know if it’s a tactic to steer the conversation away from Aengus or if it’s just Rowen’s oversized appetite. Either way, I’m appreciative.
Kean gets the message. “I’ll keep it open for another fifteen for ya. The usual?”
I squeeze Amber’s shoulder. “Guinness?”
“And a water. Please.”
Kean waves toward another table. “Rose’ll be around.”
“He seems nice,” Amber muses, dropping her voice. “But I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.”
“Seriously? It was perfectly clear to me.” I breathe a sigh of relief and curl my arm around the back of her chair. There’s no need to spark conversations about Aengus.
“And here she comes . . .” Rowen belts out in a low, melodious voice, his curious eyes on a spot behind us. “My favorite American is here!”
Amber shakes her head at him, but she’s smiling. Sandalwood and flowers catches my nose a second before Ivy appears, her dark eyes scanning the cave. “I would have happily crawled into this hole earlier today.” She tosses the strap of her clunky purse over the edge of the only chair available, next to Rowen, a wary sideways glance at her “date.” “Hello, Grinning Bartender.”
“Hello, Hostile Patron.” Rowen scans her outfit—a black tank top and a plaid miniskirt that’s barely long enough to cover her arse—with interest. “You look pretty tonight.”
I almost want to warn him not to try anything too bold on her. Almost.
But watching her eat him alive will be more entertaining.
“So, what is this place, exactly?” Amber asks again, stealing my attention.
“Just a local secret.” I tap the menu. “Decide what you want to eat because Kean wasn’t kidding. He’ll close the kitchen on us.”
“I’m Fergus, one of your seanchaí for the evening. Some know me. Some don’t.” The portly man strokes his graying beard as he scans the tables. There are fourteen of them—enough to seat fifty-six guests—and all are filled. That’s common on nights like this. Most people here show signs of middle age, though there are two tables of younger couples, aside from us.
“But you’re all here for the same thing—to eat good food, drink good beer, and have a good time.”
“Shift a bit, ladies,” Rose whispers, her arms laden with four dinner plates. “River, help me out, will ya?”
Asking a customer to take his plate would be considered terrible service standards anywhere, but Rose has known me since I sat on my granddad’s lap. I carefully scoop up the plates, setting Amber’s dish in front of her.
“Good boy.” She pinches my cheek in thanks, just like she did twenty years back, when she was thin and free of the deep creases that now zag across her forehead. “And your pints are on their way.” She disappears to another table.
“We ordered another round?” Amber whispers.
Rowen chuckles. “Rose won’t stop bringing them until we ask her to.”
“Can she switch mine to whiskey?” Ivy mutters, poking a chunk of stew with her fork.
Rowen settles an arm around her shoulders, his hand like a giant mitt over Ivy’s slender shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s dead.”
Her sharp sideways glare at his fingers tracing lines over her skin makes me burst out in laughter.
“Ah, the Delaney boys.” Fergus’s deep voice ricochets through the cavern and numerous heads turn. “Might I introduce ya later?”
I simply wink at the old man, a longtime friend.
Amber leans in to whisper, “Why would he introduce you?”
I spear a chunk of creamy cabbage and bacon from her plate with my fork and hold it up to her mouth, waiting, avoiding her question.
With only a moment of hesitation and a shy smile, she parts her lips, allowing me enough room to slide the fork in. I feel the press of her teeth against the metal, the thrill of that sensation skittering from my fingertips through to the rest of my body.
Somewhere in the background, Fergus is talking again. But he’s lost both of us for the moment, our eyes locked on each other. It isn’t until he replaces that gruff, deep baritone voice with a slightly higher, more melodic one that he manages to steal Amber’s attention.
“Storytelling!” Her eyes light up and she strugg
les to keep her voice low. “Mary told me about this!”
I have no idea who this Mary is but I just smile, because her excitement is palpable.
“She told me to find a place that did this, that it’d be an experience. I even put it on my list.” I watch her face closely. The pause . . . the moment of recognition . . . the turn to stare at me, a mixture of amusement, annoyance, and something unreadable in her expression.
I hold my finger up to my mouth to signal silence. Fergus is known for lambasting people who talk through his performances. She presses her lips together, moving her gaze back to him, but reaching out to grab my hand that rests on my lap. Squeezing it once, tight.
I won’t let it go, though, slipping my fingers through it and holding it against my thigh, forcing her to eat the rest of her dinner using her left hand. She doesn’t seem to mind, her focus rapt on Fergus as he regales everyone with a tale about a fisherman and his son who followed the will-o’-the-wisp through the bogs of Munster, never to be found again. I’ve heard it at least five times before, but it’s no less interesting, because Fergus is a masterful storyteller, his cadence musical, his movements elegant. He’s an old culchie, spending most of his days tending to sheep, and listening to him reminds me a lot of nights around the woodstove with my granddad.
Even Ivy, who I was skeptical about bringing here, is turned completely in her chair to watch Fergus, making slow work of her supper.
Fergus monopolizes the stage for close to an hour—he’s a verbose bastard—and wraps up just as Rose is collecting our empty plates and dropping another round of drinks off.
“This will be my last for tonight,” Amber informs Rose sweetly. Ivy shoots her a skeptical look but Amber ignores it, smiling at me. “How much of his story is true? I mean, I know the whole will-o’-the-wisp thing isn’t, but isn’t there some truth to all of these stories?”
I shrug. “They could have been following fireflies or glowworms, or little pranksters with lanterns. Who knows? These stories are passed on from generation to generation by word-of-mouth, so you can expect embellishments with each turn.”
