Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
freddie
I can't stop thinking about her.
I’ve spent the day walking Belfast's streets, doing reconnaissance on the address Henry gave me, but my mind keeps drifting back to blue eyes and sharp tongues; to the way she looked at me like she could see straight through the bullshit to whatever passes for my soul.
Dangerous territory. I'm here for a job, not to get tangled up with bar girls who smell like whiskey and trouble.
Doesn't stop me from heading back to Murphy's when the sun goes down.
The pub's busier tonight; same crowd of regulars nursing their drinks, plus a few younger lads who look like they're spoiling for a fight. Football's on the telly and everyone's got an opinion about how shite the ref is. Normal Tuesday night in Belfast.
I slide onto the same barstool as yesterday and watch her work behind the bar like she owns the place. She's got this way of moving; efficiently, precise, no wasted motion. She pours drinks without looking, counts change without thinking, and navigates the chaos like she was born to it.
There's something else, though. Something dark lurking beneath those blue eyes when she thinks no one's watching. Pain, maybe. Loss. The kind of shadows I recognize because I wear them too.
"Back again," she says when she spots me. There’s no surprise in her voice, like she was expecting this.
"Told you I was thirsty."
"Right. What'll it be? Jameson again, or are you feeling adventurous?"
"Depends what you're pouring."
She reaches for the Jameson bottle, and I catch the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. Progress.
"So," I say, settling in for another round of verbal sparring. "Learn anything new about travel guides today?"
"I learned that Dublin boys don't know when to quit."
"That a bad thing?"
"Depends on the Dublin boy."
She pours my drink and slides it across the bar with practiced ease. Her fingers brush mine when I reach for it, and I feel that same electric current from yesterday. She feels it too. I can tell by the way her breath catches and she pulls her hand back like she's been burned.
"You're not really a thirsty traveler, are you?" she asks.
"What gave it away?"
"Thirsty travelers don't wear thousand-pound jackets to drink in shitholes like Murphy's."
Smart girl. Too smart for her own good, probably.
"Maybe I like shitholes."
"Or maybe you're slumming it for reasons you don't want to share."
"Everyone's got secrets."
"Some more than others."
She moves down the bar to serve another customer, and I watch her go. The way she carries herself, it’s all contained strength and careful distance, like she's learned the hard way not to let people get too close.
When she comes back, I'm ready with my next move.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"You asked me that yesterday."
"And you didn't answer yesterday."
"Still not answering today."
"Stubborn."
"Careful."
"Same thing, sometimes."
She wipes down the bar with more force than necessary. "What do you want, Freddie?"
"Conversation."
"Get a therapist."
"Tried that. They charge too much."
"And I don't charge at all?"
"You pour better drinks."
That gets me another almost-smile. Christ, she's beautiful when she lets her guard down. Even for a second.
"You married?" I ask.
"Are you?"
"No."
"Good for you."
"That a yes or a no?"
"That's a none of your business."
Fair enough. Though the lack of rings on her fingers tells me what I need to know. No man's stupid enough to let this one get away if he's got any sense.
"Boyfriend?"
"Jesus, you're persistent."
"It's been mentioned."
"By who? Your therapist?"
"My mother. Before she died."
The words slip out before I can stop them. It’s a truth I don't usually share with strangers, especially not ones I'm supposed to be manipulating. But something about her makes me want to be honest. A dangerous impulse.
Her expression softens slightly. "I'm sorry."
"Long time ago."
"Doesn't make it hurt less."
No, it doesn't. Losing people never gets easier, just more familiar. Like an old wound that aches when it rains.
"What about your parents?" I ask.
Her face shutters closed again. Back to careful distance, walls up high.
"What about them?"
"They know you're working in a place like this?"
"My father's dead. My mother's gone. Happy now?"
Not particularly. But it confirms what Henry told me: she's alone and unprotected, exactly what Trace needs for whatever game he's playing.
"Sorry," I say, and mean it.
"Everyone's sorry. Doesn't bring them back."
True enough. Sorry is just a word people use when they don't know what else to say.
"How long ago?" I ask.
"Why?"
"Just wondering."
"Eighteen months. Car-jacking."
She says it flat, emotionless, like she's recited it a hundred times. But there's something underneath. Something that doesn't ring true.
"Rough way to go."
"All ways are rough."
"Some more than others."
She looks at me sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just making conversation."
But she's suspicious now. I can see it in the way she holds herself, the way her eyes narrow. The smart girl's getting smarter.
"You ask a lot of questions for a thirsty traveler."
"Irish curiosity. It's a curse."
"Irish bullshit, more like."
"That too."
The younger lads at the corner table are getting louder, more aggressive. One of them is eyeing her with the kind of look that makes my hands itch for violence. The kind of look that says he thinks buying drinks gives him rights that he hasn't earned.
"Oi, darling," he calls out. "How about another round for the lads?"
She moves to serve them without flinching, but I see the tension in her shoulders and the way she positions herself just out of grabbing range. The girl knows how to handle herself, but there's only so much one person can do against a group of drunk idiots with wounded pride.
"Easy, boys," Murphy calls from behind the register. "Keep it civil."
But Murphy's an old man, and these lads are young and stupid and looking for trouble, a recipe for disaster in a place like this.
"What about you, love?" the loud one says to her. "Fancy a drink when you get off? I’ll show you a good time."
"I'm working," she says evenly.
"All work and no play makes a girl dull."
"I like dull."
"Bet you do, love. Bet you like a lot of things once someone shows you how."
The implication in his voice makes my blood run cold. It makes me want to introduce his face to the bar rail until he learns some manners.
"Leave it, Sean," one of his friends says. "She's not interested."
"How do you know? Maybe she just needs the right incentive."
Sean gets up from his table and moves toward the bar with the kind of swagger drunk men use when they think they're God's gift to womankind. She steps back to the bar, her hand moving toward something behind it. A baseball bat, probably. Or worse.
"Think I'll have that drink now," I say loudly enough for Sean to hear.
He glances at me, taking in the expensive jacket and the way I'm sitting; relaxed but ready. Dangerous but controlled.
"Who asked you to get involved?" he snarls.
"Nobody. Just a fellow customer hoping for some peace and quiet."
"Find another pub then."
"I like this one."
Sean's drunk enough to be brave, and stupid enough to push it. He takes another step toward her, and I can see her calculating distances, exit routes, and ways to protect herself if this goes sideways.
Time to end this before it starts.
"Sean, is it?" I say, conversationally. "Lovely name. I had a dog called Sean once. He got put down for biting people."
The implication hangs in the air like smoke. Sean's friends go quiet, suddenly realizing their night out might be about to take a very dark turn.
"You threatening me?" Sean asks.
"Just sharing a story about a dog."
"Fuck you."
"You’re not my type. Too young. Too stupid."
He swings at me then, sloppy, a drunk man's punch that wouldn't hurt a child. I duck under it easily, step inside his guard, and drive my knee into his ribs. Not hard enough to break anything; just hard enough to fold him in half and send him to his knees gasping.
His friends are on their feet now, but they're not stupid enough to rush me. They can see what I am, what I'm capable of. Street fights are won by the man who's willing to go furthest fastest, and they're not willing to go anywhere near as far as I am.
"Drink up, lads," Murphy says calmly. "It’s time to find somewhere else to spend your evening."
They help Sean to his feet and half carry him toward the door. He's wheezing, clutching his ribs, shooting me looks that promise retribution he'll never be man enough to deliver.
"This isn't over," he says.
"Yes, it is," I reply. "And if you come back, it'll be permanent."
The threat in my voice is unmistakable. They leave without another word, stumbling into the Belfast night like the cowards they are.
"That was stupid," she says when they're gone.
"Probably."
"Definitely. They'll be back."
"No, they won't."
"You don't know Sean Jennings. He's got a long memory and a short temper."
"I don't care about Sean Jennings."
"You should. His father runs most of the protection rackets in this part of Belfast."
Interesting. Local gangster family. Not my problem, but worth noting.
"Still don't care."
She stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why did you do that? You don't know me. Don't owe me anything."
Good question. Why did I step in? Professional instinct? Protective impulse? Or something else entirely?
"Maybe I don't like bullies."
"Or maybe you want something from me."
Perceptive girl. Maybe too perceptive.
"Maybe I do."
"What?"
Here it is. The moment of truth. Time to show my cards and see if she folds or calls my bluff.
"Information."
"About what?"
"Your father."
She goes very still. Like a deer that's just caught the scent of a hunter.
"I told you. He's dead."
"I know. I also know how he really died."