Chasing River (Burying Water #3) (14 page)

It takes everything in me to bang on the door three times by way of announcement before throwing it open. Jimmy sits in the office chair like he belongs there, while Aengus paces the cramped space like a caged bear.

“Bring a pint for Jimmy,” Aengus demands.

I ignore him. “Time to go. You know this place gets watched. I figure you’ve got”—I glance at my watch—“twenty minutes before gardai start sniffing around.”

“You sound like you’re expecting them,” Jimmy says in that calm, too soft voice that always sends chills down my spine.

I level a warning glare at Aengus. “Never can tell when someone will ring them.”

Aengus isn’t smart but he hears my threat—though empty—loud and clear. He kicks a box of coasters out of his way, reaching out to throttle me.

“Aengus, enough!” Jimmy snaps, and my brother freezes, though his stance stays rigid. “Have they come around in the last three days, River?”

He means, since the bombing happened. My eyes lock on my brother. Did he tell Jimmy I was there? That I know what happened? That I’m the Irish “jogger” who the gardai could connect to the crime, who could tie Aengus—and possibly, Jimmy—to it, should I want to avoid jail time? Because I wouldn’t put it past a guy like Jimmy to put a bullet in my head, just to make sure I don’t have a chance to talk. “No. They haven’t.”

“That’s good.” Jimmy twirls a pen between his fingers, his attention somewhere beyond the palpable tension in this cramped office. Scribbling a number down on a piece of paper, he pats it twice. “You’ll ring me here if they do?”

“Aengus will be the first to know.” And I’ll burn that number the second this cocksucker is gone.

“Cheers, brothers.” He exits the office quietly. I watch his back until it disappears through the door in the rear, and then I kick our office door shut and shove Aengus into the wall with all my strength.

Even though I’m ready for the blowback, I’m not strong enough to withstand it. Aengus sends me flying into the filing cabinet, the corner of it jamming perfectly against the wound in my lower back. I cry out as a sharp spasm of pain radiates, my knees weakening from the intensity, ready to puke up Ma’s stew. That doesn’t stop Aengus from pinning me with a forearm against my throat, his fist yanking at my shirt hard enough to rip the collar.

It takes a few deep breaths to see through the pain. “What the fuck are you doing, bringing him in here? You know there are always eyes on this place,” I hiss.

“They can’t prove anything.”

“And if they do? What’s Jimmy gonna do? He doesn’t want to go back to jail.”

“None of us do.” Wild eyes that remind me of the color of pond scum right now bore into mine. “I didn’t tell him you were there. All he thinks is that it was some muppet who knows better than to get involved with the gardai.”

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.

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?”