Chasing River (Burying Water #3) (32 page)

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” she begins. “Then again, your dad may surprise you.”

“I doubt that. Not about this. You know him. It’s black-and-white when it comes to the law.”

“Not always, Amber. Your dad has gotten to know the gray area pretty well.” A decision flashes in her eyes. “I think it’s your turn to keep some secrets.”

If I close my eyes to rest, I can’t say for sure that she won’t try to kill me.

At least, that’s the vibe that Ivy’s giving off from her little spot on the couch, her tiny all-in-black body coiled for an attack. Her dark, unforgiving eyes shifting back and forth between the TV, me, and Rowen, who’s made himself comfortable on the couch with the bottle of whiskey and an annoying leg twitch.

Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap . . .

“Stop that!” Ivy finally snaps.

Rowen stills his leg.

“Why don’t you get some sleep upstairs? I thought you were exhausted,” I suggest.

“Like I could sleep now.” With a groan, he pours himself another shot of whiskey. “This was the last bottle.”

“Whatever. We don’t go through much.” I jut my chin toward Ivy. “Unless she’s there, of course.”

She merely glares at me in response. Everything about her drips with suspicion. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Amber had told her.

“Right. You want more?” Rowen doesn’t wait for her answer, climbing out of his seat to top her glass up.

“Don’t think I’m getting drunk again,” she mutters, but she accepts the drink. She has yet to ask what’s going on, why Rowen is here and wired. Why he pushed through the door like a man being chased. He’s not, of course. If Beznick put a call out for Aengus’s head, it’s for Aengus’s head. Even murderers don’t like to add unnecessary body counts to their résumé. Not because they’re particularly moral; it just makes things worse for them if they ever get caught.

But that doesn’t mean Rowen or I wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire. That happens often enough. A guy with a target on him, taking a walk down a street in midday with his buddies, starts taking gunfire from somewhere unseen. His friends are as likely to get hit by a stray bullet as the ones intended for their mark.

As long as we stay the hell away from Aengus—and don’t get mistaken for him—we should be fine.

I think.

My gaze drifts to the stairs. Amber has been up there for a while now. Hiding. Talking to “home.” What does “home” mean? Her parents? I’ve put her through a lot. Is it more than she can handle?

I can only imagine what this sheriff father of hers could convince her to do.

“Where are you going?” Ivy’s cutting tone snaps me out of my thoughts, and I suddenly find myself standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“I’m just going to check on—”

“No you’re not. She’s talking to her sister-in-law, who has her own pile of shit to deal with. Leave them alone.” She says it so simply. As if she could stop me from climbing those stairs if she had to. “Amber will be down when she’s ready to come down. Don’t be that guy.”

“Ouch,” Rowen mutters, but excitement dances in his eyes. He likes the sharp-tongued birds.

I didn’t even know Amber had a sister-in-law, which I guess just proves that I should listen to Ivy. With another glance upstairs, I wander back to stare at the telly.

“You still want that ink?” She stares at me with her eyebrows raised in question.

“What. Now? Here?”

She shrugs. “I have my kit in the car.”

Seriously?
“You always travel with it?”

She darts past me, throwing an “of course I do, you idiot” look on her way by and out the door, before I can tell her no. I don’t even have the sketch with me.

“Have you called Fern yet?” I ask.

Fern MacGrath is an eighty-nine-year-old woman and the resident neighborhood watch. She was our nanny’s best friend. She despises Aengus, avoids me, and adores Rowen. The woman will sit in her front room with her knitting needles and her glasses on until after midnight each night, spying on all the comings and goings on the street.

“I tried once, but she didn’t answer,” Rowen murmurs, peeking past the curtain to watch Ivy. “You going to call Aengus?”

I thumb my phone in my hand, considering it. “Not yet. Hopefully the gardai do something useful.” They should have been there by now. I’m halfway tempted to jump in the car and drive down the street, only for all I know these guys are waiting for a green MINI to show up. Aengus has borrowed it enough times. “I mean, if they see gardai round the corner and they take off, they’ll just be back later, in a different car. Knowing Aengus, he’ll camp out at our house, waiting to ambush them. And then he’s got blood on his hands.” I shouldn’t have to spell it out. “We’re protecting him by not telling him right away. If he doesn’t know where the threat’s coming from, he’ll lay low. If we tell him, there are going to be two bodies outside our house.” I shake my head. “Ma would collapse with that news.”

He opens his mouth, but Ivy pushes through the door with a silver briefcase in her hand.

“You weren’t kidding.”

She sets it down on the coffee table, dialing the lock combination and popping it open. “Do I look like a kidder?”

“No, you don’t,” I mutter through a sigh. The girl’s face might splinter with too wide a smile.

“Are we actually doing this, here?” Rowen reaches for the tattoo gun but she swats his hand away before he actually makes contact, earning his grin.

“If you stop drinking, I’ll do you after I do him.” I don’t know if she meant it to sound like it does but there’s usually only one way that Rowen will take something like that. Especially after Sunday night.

I roll my eyes. At least my little brother’s easily distracted from more serious problems with her around. “Thanks for the offer, but don’t you need to make a transfer of the sketch?” That’s what they did for my other one.

“All I need is this.” She jabs Rowen’s chest with her finger, right over the stag on his pub shirt.

“Freehand?”

“Yup. And I’ll do it better than any transfer.” Deadpan. She’s not even being arrogant. She believes it. “What’s wrong. Scared?”

“No. Worried. Is this all clean and hygienic and stuff?”

“More than you probably are,” I think I hear under her breath, but I can’t be sure. I keep my mouth shut and down the rest of my drink as she sets her portable station up at the dining room table, complete with a blinding table lamp, aftercare tape and gauze, cleaners, gloves, and packaged needles.

“Seriously, why do you have all this stuff when you work in a shop?”

“Because I like to be prepared. So?” She kicks out the chair with her socked foot. “What else do you have to do while you’re pretending not to be hiding from someone and in deep shit?”

Rowen and I share a quick glance.

“Fuck it.” I crawl out of my seat and, grabbing the back of my T-shirt, I slide it over my head and toss it to the side.

Her eyes skate over the phoenix and then raise to meet my gaze in a knowing way, but otherwise she says nothing about it. “You sit here. You?” She snaps her finger at Rowen and then points at the chair beside her. “Here.”

“I wouldn’t be too demanding of him if I were you,” I warn. “He likes it when birds boss him around.”

“If there’s one thing I can’t stand about Ireland,” she murmurs and I shudder, the stuff she sprays on the right side of my chest cool and sterile-smelling, “it’s being called a ‘bird.’ ”

“What’s wrong with being called a bird?”

“Do you think I have feathers?”

“I
know
you don’t have feathers.” Rowen peers up at her face as she leans into his chest to study the stag on his T-shirt. “Though it’s hard to tell either way, with that big tent covering you.”

She ignores his comment on her choice of clothes—he’s right, she’s swimming in her shirt—and punches a few buttons into her phone. Music pumps out of the tiny portable speaker she brought.

“Okay. Ready?” Throwing her hair back into a ponytail and pushing her sleeves up, she slips on a pair of gloves and flicks the switch on.

I grit my teeth against the first burn of the needle. It hurts just about the same as the last one, which was a lot. And yet I forgot about it enough to do this again. My ma said it’s the same way with childbirth—that had she ever remembered the pain that Aengus caused her, Rowen and I would never have been born. Apparently it was the angelic lock of bright red hair on top of Aengus’s head that made her forget instantly.

Easing out an exhale, I let my head rest against the back of the chair, listening to Ivy’s soft hum to the music.

“So this stag represents your family or something?”

“The Delaney family crest, going back a thousand years,” Rowen explains.

“You Irish are awfully proud of your heritage.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I couldn’t tell you the first thing about my heritage. Things just aren’t like that over in America, by and large.”

“That’s sad.” Rowen’s eyes land on her legs, covered in black leggings.

“Maybe.” A pause. “And this other tattoo. Does that have to do with your heritage, too?”

“It does,” I answer for him. “A lot of Delaneys were nationalists.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying IRA?”

Rowen shoots me a questioning glare.

“Relax, guys. I was hanging around my uncle’s shop and watching him ink Hells Angels members when I was eleven. I’m not easily scared off.”

“Hells Angels?” Rowen asks with a frown.

“Yeah, you know. One of the most notorious motorcycle gangs . . . Oh, forget it. Criminals, okay? How are you doing, River. You need a break?”

“Nope.” I clench my jaw as the needle moves farther down, like a knife carving into my skin the closer it gets to my nipple.

“It’s looking good,” Rowen mutters, leaning over.

“You’re blocking my light.” She stops working on me to shove him back into his chair.

I watch the frown across her forehead as she concentrates, the only sound in the house the music and the buzz of the needle. She really is so different from Amber. “How long have you and Amber been friends?”

“Three days.”

“No, seriously.”

“Seriously. Three days.”

“But I thought you guys know each other from back home?”

“We do. But we weren’t friends. In fact, I pretty much hated her guts after she ratted me out to her dad for something stupid.”

Panic instantly ignites in my gut. “She ratted you out to her dad?”
The sheriff?

“Long story, but in case you haven’t noticed, Amber’s always been a stickler for the rules.”

I glance up over my shoulder, to the stairs.
Fuck.
Is that what she’s doing right now?

“I need to take five. Grab some water.”

Ivy backs away. I stand and stretch my arms above me before wandering over to the kitchen to fill a glass. I take my time drinking it, staring out the back window at the terrace. It’s simple but nice, with a dining table and latticed wall covered in vines. I wonder if I’ll ever manage to have something like this. Delaney’s is basically it for me, whether I love it or not. My options for other employment are severely limited by my criminal record. At least Delaney’s does well enough. Rowen and I’ll earn a healthy living, as long as we take care of it.

I’m basically living the life now that I will be in thirty years, minus the wife and kids. I know I’ll find someone; an eighteen-month stint in prison isn’t the worst thing for an Irish-born man. There are plenty of Nualas out there who wouldn’t care. The thing is, I don’t want another Nuala.

I want a girl like Amber.

I want Amber.

But she’s leaving on Sunday and, unless I jump on a plane and go with her, that’ll probably be the last time I ever see her. That thought did cross my mind earlier, during dinner, when she mentioned it. I doubt she was serious. But it did get me thinking that I should look into getting a passport. I never bothered applying for one before, figuring there was no reason to put myself through the hassle. I know I’ll never set foot on American or Canadian soil, but I’ve heard that it’s pretty easy to travel through the European Union without issue. Unless they’ve put me on some sort of watch list. It’s not like they’re going to tell me about that, so I guess there’s only one way to find out: try to get on a plane. Of course, I wouldn’t be trying that with Amber.

“Whatever you did, she’s not going to call the cops on you.”

I turn to find Ivy standing behind me. She would have seen the stitch work on my back.

“Like you said, you’ve been friends with her for three days. How do you know?”

“Because, if she were going to, she would have done it right away. And she definitely wouldn’t have let you into this house.”

I nod quietly, her words calming the worry simmering inside me.

“Can we finish that now, before your idiot brother drinks too much to get his matching ink?”

I glance over her head to see Rowen downing another shot.

The staircase creaks just as Ivy shuts off the tattoo gun, finished.

“See?” She whips out a mirror from her tool kit and holds it up to show me the fierce and proud stag now prominently sketched on my body. It holds my attention for about five seconds—she’s right, her freehand is better than the original sketch I had—before my eyes dart to the landing, and a pale-faced Amber.