by K. A. Tucker
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Aengus is a lot of things, but he has always protected me when it counts. You and him are the only two who can ever say that I was there. Well, Eamon, too, I guess. The doctor,” I add when she frowns.
“Then why was Duffy asking about you today?”
“Because he figures that I’m somehow involved, or that I know something. He came into the pub yesterday, fishing for information. Threatening me with prison. He’s the one who put me in there the first time.”
A long stretch of awkward silence floats between us, so long that I glance over to see if maybe she’s fallen asleep. I’ve been doing most of the talking, with a question from her laced in here and there. Questions that I’ve answered with too much honesty, knowing it may burn me tomorrow, if she decides that what I have to say doesn’t make up for the fact that I lied to her.
Her eyes are still open, though. “Why did you go to prison?”
I swallow, trying to decide how to explain this in a way that she—a foreigner, and a daughter of a police officer—might understand. “I told you about my family history already. I grew up in a household of staunch republican supporters, even if they weren’t actively supporting the fighting. Generations of Delaney men fought for Ireland back when the fight was about freeing Ireland and protecting the right to be Catholic. They lived and breathed that fight with the strength of the army around them. Some of them died for it.
“It’s what my brothers and I grew up hearing about. So for us, the IRA isn’t about terrorism. It’s about fighting for what we believe in. We’d still join the marches every year in Belfast, protesting for the rights of Irish Catholics, because that was our heritage. It’s what we’d always done.
“When I was eighteen, I moved to Dublin, to the house that our nanny left us. Aengus was twenty-two and already living there, working in the bar. Rowen was still back home, finishing high school.”
I feel her eyes on me now and turn to meet them, only to have her look away, her attention on the ceiling again.
“Aengus and I were close, despite the four-year age difference and him being so hot-headed. He told me that he’d met a group of guys who supported the cause just like our family did.” I snort, remembering the conversation, how Aengus went on and on about Jimmy Conlon, who was second-in-command at the time, over pints and smokes, excitement flowing through his veins faster than the alcohol.
“He told me about this camp outside Dublin—just like the kind our da went to when he was a teenager. They taught you how to fight and load guns and stuff. I thought it’d be grand to know how to do that, because all Delaney men know how, right? I was eighteen and stupid and I thought we might be doing something important, following in some grand tradition. That maybe, if there was ever another uprising, we’d have our own stories to share with our kids, just like our da did with us.” I had always been the smart one. How I let a fool lead me into that mess is still unfathomable. “So one weekend, I climbed into Aengus’s car. We drove an hour, to this guy’s property. There was a lot of land there, with targets set up to learn how to shoot. Aengus was one of the fellas training us. He’d been there plenty of times already, so he knew what he was doing. I never connected it with this RIRA group, and I never had any intention of hurting anyone.
“Anyway, the gardai had caught wind of this place—a bunker, they called it—and had been watching it for a while. They busted it that same weekend.” I had an AR-15 in my hands when the shouts erupted and men emerged from the long grass surrounding us, the fluorescent garda name across their chests, barrels pointed at me. “We all pled guilty. The other fellas were sixteen and seventeen. They went to Oberstown, basically a juvenile detention center for boys. But because of my age, I got tried as an adult. And because of my family name, everyone assumed I was lying about not being involved with the IRA. I was really lucky, though. The gardai didn’t have enough to make the paramilitary group charges stick—some technicality, I don’t know—so I only got three years for firearms possession. Aengus got six for his part.”
“You were in prison for three years?”
I roll onto my side to face her, to see the shock and horror in her face. I know what she’s thinking right now. She’s trying to imagine being locked up in a cell for that long. Three years of your life is a long time at any age. But at eighteen . . . it feels like an eternity. “I only had to do half of it, and then they let me out on license, for good behavior. I had a curfew, and had to report in twice a week to a license officer, but at least I was out, sleeping in my own bed.” I used to be a heavy sleeper, but now I wake up at the slightest creaks in the house.
I study her as she processes that, her silhouette begging me to touch it, her chest heaving up and down with her breaths, the thin cotton tank top doing nothing to cover her tits, the two little sharp points that poke out thanks to the chill in the air. Or her fear. I had those nipples in my mouth just this morning. I’d do anything to have them again.
I stay on my side of the bed, though. I’m no idiot.
“What was it like?” she finally asks, tipping her head to face me. “Being behind bars for so long.”
“Tough. Because of the circumstances, we were put in Portlaoise, a maximum security with murderers and rapists. A lot of really bad bastards.” Men who had been in there as long as I’d been alive and wouldn’t be getting out anytime soon. Men who’d become so acclimatized to prison life, they wouldn’t survive outside of it. “It was a long eighteen months. I cried into my pillow the first night in my cell,” I admit with a soft chuckle, adding, “I’ve never told anyone that.” I wasn’t the only one. The nights were quiet around there for the most part. Impossible not to hear the occasional sob, the regular piss. The too frequent grunts of a fella getting off, either on his own or with help.
“I spent most of it in my cell, reading books and working out. The guards treated me alright for the most part.”
“Did you ever get hurt?”
I heave a sigh. “Once in a while I’d have some sick fuck sniffing around me. I guess I was considered a catch for the long-timers. I’ll tell ya, I learned to shower really fast.” Not quick enough to avoid witnessing what some inmates were willing to do to get their fixes. The first day home, I stood under that showerhead until the water ran cold. And then I called up an old girlfriend and fucked her for half the night.
A gasp escapes Amber’s lips, drawing my eyes to them.
“Don’t worry. Nothing like that ever happened to me. I promise.” My smile slips off. “Aengus made sure that it didn’t. He gave a few good beatings to make sure people knew not to mess with me. He has a scar that runs from here to here,” I draw a fifteen-centimeter line just below my collarbone, “where this lifer—a serial rapist, a really mean one—tried to shank him after Aengus threatened him. My brother was too strong, though, too fast. Broke the guy’s arm in three places.” And was seconds away from killing him, but luckily the guards intervened. Amber doesn’t need to know that part, though. “Aengus was my bodyguard in there. That’s one of the main reasons he never made parole.”
She sighs, understanding filling her somber face. “Is that why you’re protecting him now?”
“He’s my brother. My flesh and blood. He always had my back, growing up. He covered for me when I did stupid things, more than once.” I’m not about to explain the Katie Byrne incident to her. “I was a scrawny kid until I hit puberty. Fellas would try to bully me, but Aengus would have none of that. He taught me how to play rugby, practiced with me like our da would have if he could. Went to every one of my games, cheered me on. I was pretty good, too. I earned a scholarship from Trinity College and had just started classes when everything happened.”
“Wait . . .” She frowns, and I know she’s thinking about our conversation the past morning. “So you were going to college?”
I nod. It’s so long ago now. “Thought about trying to get back in, but with Aengus away, and Delaney’s to run, there’s just no time for school. Anyway, I’d
die before I’d betray my brother. You have a brother. You understand that, right?”
“No . . . I don’t.” She sighs. “My brother has caused himself and others plenty of trouble. But I’ve never hesitated to tell my dad whenever I found out. I figured it’d help Jesse in the long run. Maybe keep him from making a bigger mess of his life.”
Telling Da what Aengus is up to wouldn’t really help Aengus. Da would never actually call the gardai on him; he trusts the likes of them less than we do. It would only raise Da’s blood pressure and give him more reason to curse Aengus. “I guess the way your father handles issues is different from mine.”
“I guess so.” Her eyes start to close, the stress of the day no doubt finally catching up to her. I don’t say anything more and, in less than a minute, she’s drifting off.
I have no idea what’s going to happen when those eyes flutter open. She’ll likely tell me that she never wants to see me again. That I need to leave immediately. That’s why I lean over, feel her shallow breaths cascade over my lips for a moment, and then steal a kiss. I settle back into my pillow and simply watch her sleep.
Clinging to the fact that she lied to Duffy for a reason.
TWENTY-FOUR
AMBER
In those first few seconds of consciousness, nothing concerns me beyond the stream of sunlight shining directly on my face. I forgot to draw the curtains last night, I realize.
Then I remember why, and the annoying light is forgotten.
I find River sleeping soundly on his back, fully dressed, one arm over his eyes, the other one stretched out, as if reaching for me. His lips, the ones I couldn’t get enough of just yesterday morning, parted just slightly.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what to think.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.
So I simply lie there, afraid to move, to stir him, and I let everything he admitted last night swirl in my head. Hoping it’ll settle on its own and the answer will suddenly become clear.
He was arrested for attending a training camp intended to teach people how to kill and maim, to inspire terror. But it doesn’t sound like that was his intention. I remember my dad arresting a group of teenage boys outside Bend, after they set up a target range in the mountains. A hiker called to complain about excessive gunfire. They had no explanation for him, besides it being something “fun” to do. Dad said that it was a fairly common thing among teenage boys. It didn’t even faze them that they had no permits.
I guess I can understand how River might not think anything of climbing into a car with his brother, to head to a place where he’d learn how to shoot guns.
But it doesn’t sound like his brother was ever just in it for the target practice.
And here, I’ve always thought Jesse was a problem sibling. At least he never tried tangling me in his messes. Not that he’d ever be able to, anyway.
And yet River has.
I just lied to the police for him.
I’ve had a fling with an Irish bartender who spent eighteen months in a maximum security prison for weapons charges due to IRA affiliations, and I lied to protect him. River has somehow managed to push me off course, and I need to get back on. I need to feel like me again.
The problem is, as I lie here and stare at the guy lying beside me—not the convict, but the guy who saved my life and got injured in the process, who charmed me with his kindness and his smile, who swept me off my feet with his romantic storytelling, who proved to me exactly how quickly I could become deeply intimate with a man—I don’t see how I can do that.
It’s so hard not to judge River for what he’s done, and how he’s lied.
And yet it’s hard to judge him after everything else he’s done for me.
Maybe I should reserve judgment for the time being.
I just don’t know.
And so I simply watch River sleep, until those thick lashes begin to flutter, and his strong limbs stretch.
And then those green eyes open to meet mine. Silently pleading for me to believe him, in the same way they did almost a week ago. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. We simply stare at each other, trying to read what the other is thinking. I’m not afraid of him anymore. For those first five minutes last night, finding him in my house, I was absolutely terrified. I wanted to run, hide, scream.
I’m glad I didn’t, though. I needed to hear what he had to say.
Our moment is interrupted by the sound of ringing.
He sighs in exasperation.
“What time do you have to be at work?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer me. He slips the phone out and puts it to his ear, his morning voice extra deep and scratchy. “Yeah . . . No . . . Can you cover for me today? . . . Thanks, Rowen.” He drops his phone on the nightstand beside him. “I don’t. Not today.”
“You’re taking the day off?”
He reaches over, running the tips of his fingers over mine, still splattered with every color of spray paint I touched last night, which I didn’t have a chance to wash off.
I could pull away. That voice in the back of my mind tells me I should.
But I don’t.
“I think we could both use a day away from all this. Together.” He slips his long fingers through mine. “What do ya say?”
I could say no. That voice in the back of my mind tells me I should.
“Okay.”
His eyes roam my face, which I’m sure is streaked with mascara and dried tears, hovering over my lips. I see the question—and the wish—in his eyes, but he doesn’t try anything.
I break off a piece of bacon. The plate of food and a coffee were waiting for me on my nightstand when I emerged from the bathroom. Which means River left and came back in the time that I had showered. While my appetite hasn’t been fully restored, I’m hungry enough to pick away at this.
“Do you mind?”
I glance over my shoulder in time to see River yank his T-shirt off over his head. The sight of him still makes me catch my breath. Even with that phoenix, now that I know what it represents. “Go ahead.”
“I won’t be more than ten minutes.”
I watch him disappear behind the door, the wounds on his back still red and wearing stitches. The rush of water sounds a moment later, and my mind begins to wander with memories of his jeans falling off him.
Jeez, Amber.
Shaking my head at myself, I open up the closet to peruse my clothing options. There aren’t many; the pile of laundry in the corner grows every day. I’m normally so on top of things like that. Finally settling on a royal-blue summer dress, I throw it on quickly, hoping it’s suitable for a trip into the mountains. The hemline sits high on my thighs. River loves my thighs; he’s told me many times.
Subconsciously, that’s probably why I’ve chosen it, I admit to myself. Even if our little fairy tale is dead.
How awkward is today going to be? Most guys would want nothing to do with a day like this, now that the chances of it ending in any kind of sex are long gone. So why does he still want to spend time with me?
A memory pokes its ugly head out. The memory of Alex being left in the mountains to die.
I push it away because I know River wouldn’t do that. A guy who takes shrapnel for a stranger instead of running won’t then kill the same person to protect his secret.
Right?
The shower’s still running.
I quickly reach for my phone.
I’m heading to Wicklow Mountains with River today. If something should happen to me, find Detective Garda Garret Duffy. And don’t ask questions. Please.
If there’s one person who wouldn’t freak out from a text like that, I’m guessing it’s Ivy.
With that small safeguard out of the way, I finish getting ready.
River falls into step beside me as I head down the narrow, gravel path of the Glendalough Monastery, the tombstones flanking us covered with fine moss, the engravings mostly illegible, the corners ro
unded. The hour-long drive along the narrow country roads south of Dublin has been quiet but oddly peaceful. Neither of us attempted idle conversation, an unspoken understanding that we’re not ready for that.
Now I take pictures of the ruins—what was once a church but is now only a grouping of stone walls; a tall, narrow Rapunzel tower where the monks apparently hid during attacks—and read the few legible markings, and eavesdrop on the various tour groups milling about. But my mind’s not really here. I’m still trying to make sense of River.
I did ask for the truth.
Every once in a while, I’ll look at him and wonder what he looked like in handcuffs, in an orange jumpsuit—or whatever prison inmates in Ireland wear. The thought makes me sad. This is a guy who yesterday I was actually considering changing all of my travel plans for.
The toe of my boot catches a large rock near a half wall of stone and I stumble. River’s hands are there immediately to catch me, saving me from smashing into more stone.
Always saving me from something.
“Thanks,” I offer with a small smile, inhaling the bit of cologne on his clothes, as his hands linger against my skin a touch longer than necessary before pulling away. Stirring my blood, despite my heavy thoughts. We continue on as if nothing happened, past the last of the ruins and toward the wooded trail that leads to the two glacial lakes. Must-sees, according to the tour guides I just overheard.
“I hate cemeteries,” he finally says in a mumble.
“This one was beautiful, you have to admit.”
“I spent plenty of time in old cemeteries, growing up.” His eyes flash to me. “Ma likes to pay her respects to her relatives, and she’s got a lot of them in the ground.”
I hadn’t really given much thought to his parents in all of this, until now. “How did your parents handle you and Aengus going away?”
“Da has always had high blood pressure. The night we were arrested, he had a heart attack.” Knowing eyes flash to me. “So . . . not well. Our uncle Samuel had died some years before, and Da had nobody to help run the pub except Ma and Rowen. Rowen wasn’t even out of high school yet and he was there every night and weekend. He was supposed to go straight to college, but he set that aside, practically living in Delaney’s so my dad wouldn’t have to work, on account of his health.”
