Chasing River (Burying Water #3) (7 page)

“She keeps turning me down.” Rowen tosses the bar rag over his shoulder, freeing his hands to lift the rack of dirty glasses going to the back for washing. “I don’t know why.”

“She must smell your desperation.” A swift kick to the back of my knee has me cringing but laughing.

“Me? You’re one to talk. I haven’t seen a bird walk out of your room in months.”

“You know damn well why.” Since our brother was released. Six years locked up with a bunch of bastards meant Aengus has been humping anything he can fool into coming home with him. Plus, there’s no way I want anyone I spend the night with to have the misfortune of running into him on their way to use the one toilet in our house. Aengus has no shame when it comes to ogling birds.

Growing up, Aengus and I were the ones attached at the hip, even though Rowen and I are only eleven months apart. I’d like to think that I was the buffer between the two of them, keeping Aengus from recruiting the youngest and most naïve Delaney boy to follow in his footsteps.

Fortunately, Rowen figured out that Aengus is a fuck-up all on his own.

“Hopefully we’ll have the house sold soon. We can get a nice apartment in the IFSC and be done with him.” When our nanny left the house to us, she said that we should live in it until we all went our separate ways. I think she meant marrying good Irish Catholic girls and fathering children.

He sighs. “I wish things were like the good ol’ days.”

I know the good ol’ days he’s referring to. The period was short. A summer, really. Aengus was twenty-two, I was eighteen, and Rowen seventeen—legally not allowed to pour pints, but he did a good job of hiding it. The three of us basically ran this place, giving Da a long-deserved break. Sure, Aengus had been helping Da for years already, but that had more troubles than merits. Aengus had a knack for weeding out the good servers from the bad with nothing more than a five-minute interview. His brute strength and affinity for manual labor meant Da rarely had to do anything besides pour pints and chat up customers. But a lot of what we do here involves keeping a smile on customers’ faces and making them want to come back. Aengus was never good at that part. And he’s as useless as tits on a bull when it comes to taking care of the books. He could hand out a paycheck, but figuring out how much we owed someone? Odds are half the staff would get paid too much and the other half would get ripped off.

None of that mattered, though, the day the cops slapped handcuffs on him. Da told him that as long as he was involved with any of these dissident groups, he didn’t have a job here. In our father’s eyes, having the likes of those madmen associated with Delaney’s was like spitting on his family’s graves.

I think Rowen was under the impression that Aengus would be reformed and slinging pints behind the pub with us again when they released him. But I’m the one who visited him the most while he was away, and while I had my own hopes, I knew better. Aengus has been out of the Delaney’s picture for so long, I forget what it’s even like to have him here.

Rowen’s arm muscles strain as he disappears through the narrow solid door and into the back with the dirty glasses, only to reappear a moment later with another rack, this one steaming hot, fresh from the dishwasher.

“Have you seen Da lately?” I ask.

“He was supposed to come in yesterday but his leg was acting up again. Ma rang here, asking where you were.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“That you were bucking some bird all night and she broke your cock.”

There’s no way he said that to Marion Delaney. The pint-sized woman would have appeared on our doorstep to drag me out by my ear and knock Rowen good across the cheek.

Before I can come up with a proper retort, a chirpy waitress—Selma, from Spain, who Aengus never would have hired—steps up to the computer by the bar, tray tucked under her arm. “Three Guinness and two Smithwick’s please,” she announces as she punches the order in, batting her eyelashes for Rowen. She used to do that to me, but I’ve given her so much flack about getting the pints of Guinness to customers as soon as they hit the counter that she avoids me now.

“Sure thing, love.” Rowen grins. He waits until she moves on to another table of customers before muttering under his breath, “And she sure is . . .”

“And that’s why Greta keeps telling you to fuck off.” I grab a glass and start pouring. “I’ll go see Ma and Da tomorrow morning, if you’re good with opening. Unless you want to go instead?” While our da can’t tend bar and lift things anymore on account of his bad leg, he still takes care of all the books.

“No bleeding way. Ma’s still on my back about messing things up with Irene.” Rowen’s focus roves the bar as he pours the rich stout with the expertise of a man who’s been doing it since he was fourteen, long before the law said he could. That’s the thing about a pub like Delaney’s.

We run our shit the way we want to run it.

For the most part, anyway. Delaney’s has been a landmark in Dublin for far too long to take too much grief from anyone. Sure, we’re not the oldest. A place down near the Jameson Distillery that’s been pouring pints since 1198 has us beat. But almost two hundred years on this quiet street buys us a good amount of freedom.

The building’s old. Some would say dingy. The exterior is stone and under a mason’s watchful eye. The narrow windows covered by black iron gates cut most daylight out. The inside stinks of hops and smoke still lingers in the red-velvet cushions of the bench seats, six years after smoking was banned from all of Ireland’s establishments.

But the charm is in the history, and this place has plenty of that. We use whiskey barrels for some tables, while others are made from the wood of run-down buildings in the countryside left abandoned during the Great Famine. The stools are worn but stable, and anyone who knows to look would see the names of infamous republican rebels and politicians carved into the underside, all patrons of Delaney’s in their time.

Bronze statues of Michael Collins and Éamon de Valera stand proud. The walls are covered in framed plaques with stories of the many nationalists who fought for a free Ireland, including my father, my grandfather, and ancestors dating back many Delaney generations.

It’s a pub rich in Irish heritage and familiarity, and I’ve always found comfort here.

I’m halfway through pouring the second pint of Smithwick’s when the tap starts spurting air. “Shite. Can you flip a keg for me?”

Rowen’s eyes flicker to my back. The wounds are starting to heal, but they still throb when I strain them too much. “Right. Finish this off for me.”

I take over on the Guinness tap, keeping the glass at a nice 45-degree angle, and Rowen disappears into the back. My eyes wander. At least half the tables are full at any given time here. Mostly with locals, but when tourists get a clue and realize that the city’s best watering hole is actually not in Temple Bar, we welcome them with open arms. It’s near the end of a workday on a Friday, and I know we’re about to get slammed with the after-work crowd.

“Testing . . . Testing . . .” A voice sounds over the stereo system, followed by a hard thumb tap. “It seems me instruments aren’t working well today. Nothing a good, strong pint can’t rectify. Right, River?”

I catch Collin’s weathered smirk and throw him a thumbs-up. He’s been playing his guitar and singing Irish lyrics at Delaney’s since I could barely climb on the bar stools to watch, taking half his payment in beer. He won’t start until he has a full pint sitting next to him.

I turn back to my task, prepared to grant him that wish as soon as I’m done with this other order. Nervous green eyes stare back at me from the other side of the tap.

The moment they capture me, the moment I see that face, I know it’s her.

Fuck.

She found me.

How the hell did she find me?

“Your T-shirt,” she says as if reading my mind, nodding to the fresh Delaney’s shirt I slipped on this morning. The other one was shredded. She clears her throat and adds, in a nervous, soft voice, “I saw someone wearing it and I remembered the stag. I figured I’d come by.”

We occasionally give our staff shirts away to customers. Usually it involves a bet that they can’t drink their pints faster than us. Of course we lose intentionally, giving them more reason to wear the shirt in public. It’s free advertising. I can’t believe something as stupid as a T-shirt led her here. She was completely out of it and yet she noticed that?

Questions are spinning inside my head as I stare at that stunning face, panic rising in my gut.
How long are you in Dublin? Were you hurt? Why the hell would you track me down?

What did you tell the gardai?

My eyes instinctively dart to the door. No uniforms from what I can see.

“Um . . .” She frowns, her attention dipping to the tap. I finally notice the Guinness spilling over the rim and pouring into the trough below.

It’s the exact time that Rowen shows up to slam the tap off and stares at me, gob-smacked. “Wise up, River!”

“I’m sorry. I distracted him,” she says. Rowen’s gaze shifts between the two of us, settling on the scab over her bottom lip. It’s bad, but not bad enough for stitches from what I can see. Purple-bruised skin peeks out from the sleeve of her flowery pink blouse. That’s my fault. I hit her hard when I took her down. Not that I had much of a choice.

“Right.” Rowen leaves for the other side of the bar so he doesn’t have to watch me as I dump the entire pint and start over. I can’t serve an imperfect Guinness pour to a customer. But few things piss him off and I know inside that head of his, he’s screaming sacrilege. If there was anything our father taught us to believe in besides an independent Ireland, it’s that wasting beer is downright blasphemous.

I grab another glass and start over, feeling her eyes on me the entire time.

“So . . . River.” She has a soft voice. Her accent is a hundred times more charming than that of the American girls I usually meet. Maybe that’s because they’re usually drunk and yelling by the time I start talking to them.

And now she knows my name.
Bloody hell.
Won’t take long for them to find me with that, should she share it.

“Yeah.” I set the glass down on the counter to settle while I move on to another one, trying to quell the panic still burning inside. “My mother couldn’t make it to the hospital in time and ended up having me in the backseat of the car, next to Castletown River.” I’ve told the story of my unusual name so many times it rolls off my tongue.

“That’s sweet.”

“Right . . . sweet.” I smirk despite everything. “Better than being named Castletown.”

She smiles, pushing back a strand of her long hair—a pretty warm brown, like the cinnamon bark Ma likes to stick in her tea sometimes. I don’t remember it being so long, but then again I don’t remember much except her wild, green eyes—the color of a crisp cucumber’s flesh—and how soft the skin on her legs was, when I slid my hands along them, checking for shrapnel wounds.

She’s more beautiful than I remember.

Beautiful in that wholesome all-American girl way that the movies teach us about. Perfect, symmetrical features, smooth skin, straight, white teeth. Long, dark lashes that help trap my gaze. I can’t even tell if she’s wearing makeup. She’s definitely not wearing too much.

Of course I’ve met enough American tourists to know that that’s a Hollywood illusion, that they come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of brazenness, just like people around here. This girl, though . . .

She shouldn’t be here. She’s the only one, aside from Aengus, who can put me in the Green when the bomb went off.

“Well . . .” She takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage. “Hello, River.” A dainty hand stretches out toward me and I’m compelled to take it, to hold it. “I’m Amber.” She blinks several times, her eyes suddenly wet, tears brimming at the corners. “I needed to say thank you.” The words she doesn’t say out loud hang between us as a tear spills down her cheeks.

Bloody hell.
I can’t have this girl crying at the bar without raising questions. Maybe I should lead her to the back, where there’s privacy. . . .

A few irritated plucks of a guitar announce that Collin is now impatiently waiting. He’ll start getting obnoxious soon, and probably draw attention to the crying American bird in front of me.

So I do the only thing I can think to do. I reach out with my free hand and steal the tear with my thumb. “No need,” I promise her, leaving her knuckles with a brief kiss before freeing myself from her grasp and settling it on the bar in front of her. “Selma!”

I pour Collin’s pint while Amber tries to compose herself in my peripherals, carefully dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a napkin from the bar.

Selma swoops in with her tray not ten seconds later.

“That one’s for Collin. Get it to him first so he’ll shut up.”

I can hear the small printer behind me churning, spitting out new drink orders from the other waitresses, but I ignore them for the moment to give all my attention to this creature in front of me, who’s staring up at me like I’m some sort of knight in shining armor. She’s composed herself again, at least. “How are you enjoying Ireland so far?” It’s a stupid question to ask her, all things considered, but it’s all I can think of.

A slight frown furrows her smooth skin, even as she smiles. “Good. Fine. Well, to be honest, I haven’t really been anywhere since . . .” She swallows hard and averts her gaze around us. “ . . . since I got here.” She shrugs in a “you know” way.

Anger boils inside me.
Fucking Aengus.
This poor girl’s holiday is probably ruined. She’s forever going to remember Ireland for a pipe bomb. I’m surprised she hasn’t hopped on a plane and gone home already.

“Listen . . .” I lean forward slightly, catching a whiff of spicy floral perfume. “What happened that day? That was one in a million. You should be more worried about our transit system.”

Her lips break into a wide, gorgeous smile, deep dimples forming on each cheek. “I believe you. Those double-decker buses move fast.”