Chapter 2
Nuala
Staring at the clock that ticks just past midday, I move across to the table of four with their drinks. This shift sucks. It’s too quiet to get any real tips. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I’m definitely a beggar.
“Nuala,” one of the men says, drawing out my name so it sounds like Noooo-lah.
“Gentlemen,” I say, and place their drinks on the table in front of them. “Will there be anything else?”
“How about a smile?” he says, grabbing my wrist and pulling me closer.
I grit my teeth and take it. After a beat, I smile. “Always service with a smile.”
“I know I’d service you with a smile,” he says with a gaze that goes from my green eyes to my tits and back up to the blonde bun on top of my head, as his buddies laugh.
“Keep dreaming,” I say lightly, knowing not to kick up a stink.
I’d be out on my arse faster than you could say Bushmills.
Girls like me are ten a penny in Dublin.
Men like him rule the city, and we are all just along for the ride.
He squeezes tighter for a second before releasing me.
He dismisses me and goes back to chatting with the other men.
I back away, knowing an arse pinch isn’t off the table yet.
As soon as I reach a safe distance, I turn and hurry back to the bar, bumping into the manager, Stacey, on my way. She looks harried. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“Nuala!” she says, as if she just remembered I was here. “Lisa has just quit! I don’t have anyone to cover her shift tonight!”
“I’ll do it,” I say instantly, the stack of final notices on my hall table flashing before my eyes.
She frowns at me. “Are you sure? You’ve been here since ten. Her shift is until midnight.”
“I’m sure,” I say, trying not to sound desperate.
Lisa works the best shift. The tips are triple what I make, and while the sexual harassment probably is as well, I’ll fucking take it to be able to turn my fucking heating on when I get home instead of freezing in the icebox flat.
“Anything to help out,” I add, making it sound like I’m on her side.
She smiles in relief. “If you’re sure, thank you. I need to find someone to replace her now. This is a disaster!”
“I’ll take her shift,” I say, trying not to sound like an opportunistic bitch. “You’ll probably have an easier time trying to replace my shift than hers.”
It’s true. My shift is school hours. Plenty of mums would kill for this job.
She stares at me. “That’s true,” she murmurs. “Are you sure? I thought you wanted the day shift?”
No, I wanted the night shift, but you didn’t have one available. “I’m sure.”
“Well, you’re on, then. I’ll set up the new rota. Thank you, Nuala. You’re a lifesaver!” She drifts off, and I try not to mentally high-five. “Oh,” she says, turning back around. “Go and get some lunch. Take an hour. There’s leftover buffet from the banker’s meeting.”
“They’re gone already?”
“Half a bloody hour they were here. Ate a few bites and fucked off. Fuckers. It took us ages to set this out this morning,” Stacey grumbles, but turns away and heads to the bar, so I make my escape.
I skipped breakfast, by force, not by choice.
I didn’t have food in because I had to choose between heating and eating.
This week, heating won out because Dublin in mid-winter is not fun, and even then, an hour in the morning and an hour at night is hardly living it up.
I push through the swing doors into the private function room. The space is empty now, stripped of the suits, but the mess remains. Silver platters line the mahogany table, stacked high with wasted food.
I grab a paper plate and pile it high with sandwiches and mini quiches. I sit down near the head of the table and place the plate in front of me. My stomach cramps at the sudden influx of food, but I keep going. I need the calories to get through the next twelve hours without passing out.
I don’t even think about the bone-deep exhaustion.
I just focus on the cold, hard cash. My hands stop trembling from low blood sugar after the third mini quiche, and I sit back, picking up a roast beef sandwich and taking a bite.
I cross my legs at the knee, and something under the table brushes my leg.
I shuffle back a bit, but whatever it was drops down and hits my foot.
With a frown, I bend down and look under the table to see a small A5 notebook.
Cheap, spiral-bound with a flimsy cardboard cover.
Probably costs less than a euro at Dealz.
I pick it up and place it on the table, assuming one of the bankers left it there.
I take another bite of the sandwich when the door opens, and a woman rushes in, her expression frantic as she takes me in with my plate piled high and the notebook next to me. Her eyes are wide as she lurches forward and snatches it off the table.
“Mine,” she snaps, holding it to her chest.
“Okay,” I say, bewildered by her attitude. “It fell on my foot. I picked it up.” I want to ask her why it was shoved under the table, but she gives me a death stare and hurries out faster than she appeared. All it does is make me wish I’d taken a peek.
Forgetting about her and her precious book, I get up to grab a bottle of water and then continue with my lunch, eating way more than I should and also wrapping up some ham sandwiches for later.
I stuff the napkin-wrapped sandwiches into my bag, shoving them deep so Stacey won’t spot them. It’s pathetic, hoarding ham like a scavenger. A full belly and a few saved euros on dinner mean the difference between shivering under a thin blanket and three glorious hours of central heating.
Returning to the bar area, it’s a little before 1 PM.
There are hours to go before the night customers come in.
Hours to go before I get to crawl into my pit and fall asleep.
I glance around, glad that the “smile with service,” idiot has left with his cronies, but that leaves just one guy at the bar, nursing a club soda by the looks of it.
He is extremely good-looking. Dark hair, brooding, hand tattoos, split knuckles.
Mafia through and through. I can spot them a mile away now, although this guy is a bit more subtle about it, attitude-wise.
His expensive Tom Ford suit screams money, and the rest fills in the blanks.
I had no idea that Dublin was run by criminal families, despite growing up here, until I started working here a year ago.
To call it eye-opening is a minor understatement.
“Can I get you anything else?” I ask the guy, moving in a bit closer.
He looks up at me with eyes so blue, I blink. He assesses me, turning to the side as he leans his elbow on the bar. “What time does the food start?”
“Six. You’ve got hours to go yet, unless you fancy a leftover sandwich,” I joke.
Stacey hisses at me from across the bar and bustles over. “Mr. O’Neill,” she says in that simpering tone that makes me roll my eyes behind her back. The man catches it and smirks at me. “We can certainly accommodate you if you require something to eat.”
O’Neill.
I’ve heard the name.
Christ, everyone has, legit and not legit. They are Dublin royalty. I’ve never seen one in here before, though. I guess I’m out of the way of the real players on the day shift.
Stacey waits for his command, hands clasped tight in front of her.
O’Neill ignores her completely. His gaze stays locked on me, and I feel stripped bare under those blue eyes.
My skin prickles beneath my uniform. It’s not just goosebumps, but something deeper.
Something that makes my nipples tighten against the thin fabric of my shirt.
I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest, knowing it would only draw his attention there.
“I’ll take the sandwich,” he says, voice low and smooth.
Stacey gasps. “Oh, surely not, Mr. O’Neill. I can get something whipped up—”
“The sandwich is fine,” he cuts her off. He doesn’t look at her once.
I rock back on my heels, heat creeping up my neck as the silence stretches between us. My smile falters, then dies completely.
“I was taking the piss,” I say.
“No sandwiches, then?” His blue eyes are amused as fuck.
Stacey looks between us, confused. She nods frantically at me, making a shooing motion. “Fetch the platter for Mr. O’Neill.”
I turn away from Stacey’s panicked face and push through the double doors. The buffet table looks sad. Picked over. I grab a silver platter and start arranging little triangles of leftover sandwiches on it, adding a few mini quiches and vol-au-vents.
The arrangement looks tragic. Brown, dried edges curl on the roast beef.
The pastry on the quiche sags. I shrug. If he wants garbage, he gets garbage.
I push through the doors. Stacey fidgets near the till, wringing her hands.
She signals me to hurry with a sharp jerk of her chin.
I keep my pace slow. I won’t run for a man in a suit, even an O’Neill.
I slide the silver platter onto the polished wood in front of him.
“Your feast,” I say flatly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He doesn’t even glance at the food. His gaze tracks my hand as I pull it back, heavy and unblinking. The fine hair on my arms stands up.
“Thanks,” he says.
He picks up a triangle. He takes a bite, eyes still locked on mine. It’s unnerving. Like he’s eating it just to prove a point.
Stacey looks like she’s about to have a stroke. “Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr. O’Neill?”
“Go away,” he says. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t look at her. He just says it like he’s swatting a fly.
Stacey flushes a deep red, mutters an apology, and scurries to the other end of the bar to polish glasses that are already clean.
I stare at him, unable to move away. “You’re going to get me fired.”
“I doubt that,” he says. “What time do you finish?”
“Midnight. Why?”
“Just curious.” He pulls a wad of cash from his jacket pocket. My mouth floods with saliva as I stare at it. He peels off two fifties and drops them on the bar. “For the service.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. That’s a hundred euros for fetching him a tray of dried-up sandwiches.
“That’s too much,” I say, though my hand itches to grab it.
“Take it… Nuala.”
The way he says my name makes my pussy clench. I have the stupid and sudden urge to hide my nametag, even though the cat is already running away from the proverbial bag.
Reaching out, my hand shakes as I grip the notes.
Stacey is hissing at me as I accept the extravagant tip, but O’Neill shushes her with a single glance.
I grit my teeth. This feels like it’s going to come back and bite me on the arse.