Jhene #2
I’m collecting a five that’s been left on my last table when the door swings open and Killian walks in with half a dozen men trailing behind him.
It’s the middle of the daily afternoon lull where we usually only get a handful of stragglers stopping by. Killian and the Callahan clan definitely tend to be too busy to drop by on a random Wednesday afternoon.
Great. Just what I needed.
The men head straight for their table in the back corner, most of them too engrossed in their own conversations to spare a glance in my direction.
Only Killian nods in acknowledgment, his moody version of a hello.
I brace myself for a second before I approach their table to take their orders.
The redhead Killian’s sat with before—I’ve learned his name is Sean—grins toothily as I approach, as if he’s thinking of a joke I’m not in on.
“Afternoon,” I say stiffly. “What can I get you?”
“Look who it is,” Sean replies. “Kill’s little stray.”
A couple of the other men chuckle. Killian scowls.
Another guy with a shaved head and tattooed neck jumps in. “Don’t be an ass, Sean.”
“Here we go again,” the redhead says with a roll of his eyes. “Cian to the rescue. I’ve got news for you, mate. She won’t sleep with you for being the nice guy. No woman does.”
The rest of the table erupts in even louder laughter. Both Sean and Cian join in before lobbing more insults at each other.
Once again, only Killian’s different—his scowl deepens and he finally growls, “Enough. Shut the fuck up. All of you.”
“See what you’ve done, Cian,” Sean says. “You’ve pissed off our new Clan Chief. Now he’s gonna kick all our asses.”
“Don’t tempt me. You’d be first in line, red,” Killian answers begrudgingly. His dark navy-blue eyes swing over to me. “We’ll take a round of Guinness.”
“Coming up.”
I turn away to walk off when Killian’s hand catches me by the elbow. I’ve barely registered he’s grabbed me before he’s up on his feet and escorting me away from the table.
He pulls me to the opposite side of the pub, grip firm and disorienting.
It’s only my elbow he’s touching, yet he sends a tremor rocking through me. It’s like a tiny earthquake that racks down my spine and disrupts me to the core.
Enough to leave me even more speechless than usual as he takes me to a private corner of the pub and turns to face me.
Suddenly I’m left peering up at him, my glasses sliding down my nose.
“How’re you holding up?” he grunts.
“You’re… asking how I’m doing?”
His jaw tics, clenching harder to match his deep scowl. “That a crime?”
“Not a crime. Just the last thing I’d expect of an Irish boneman.”
“Ignore them,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of the clan table. “They’re shitheads, if you haven’t noticed. Especially Sean.”
“Was already planning on it. I tend to have more important things to worry about than meathead mob enforcers.” I give a shrug, sliding both hands into the front pockets of my waist apron. Then I consider how what I said sounds and add, “No offense.”
“Believe it or not, but I’ve got bigger issues than a disgruntled little server and her insults.”
“Little?” I repeat with a scoff. “I do reach your chest, you know.”
It’s damn near impossible to tell with a scowling grump like Killian, but I’m pretty sure he almost grins. The muscle in his jaw twitches like earlier, except it’s paired with a vague tug of his lips.
Then he seems to realize what he was about to do and corrects himself. His heavy brow creases, and he peers down at me in studious boneman fashion.
“That reminds me,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about your situation.”
“My situation as in…?”
“The Bratva knows you work here. They hit this place once already looking for you. It’s not safe for you to be spending so much time here. It’s only a matter of time before they return for round two. It might be time to move you somewhere more secure.”
The little hairs on the back of my neck rise. “More secure like where?”
“A safehouse. Somewhere off the grid, where they can’t find you.”
“No.”
“Not this bullshit again. Listen, girl—”
“I said no,” I interrupt. “We’ve been through this. I’m not going anywhere, and if you can’t accept that, then we need to part ways.”
“Your safety—”
“Eva’s safety is on the line. That’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. Why I’m busting my ass waiting tables in this pub. You told me you would help me get her back. Was that a lie to shut me up?”
He glances left and right as if to check whether the others nearby can hear, then tugs me closer. “Alright, alright… you’ve made yourself clear. No safehouse. No hiding out upstate.”
“Can I get back to my tables now?”
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Go from sulking wallflower to a feisty little pain in the ass within a second?” he asks, deep blue eyes studying every detail of my face.
…and making it grow hot and flushed.
Why does he always have to stare as if he’s memorizing me? As if I’m under some kind of deep assessment?
Ugh.
He clears his throat and blinks away the intensity. “Anyway, I’ve got training. I’ll be at the gym ’til late tonight. You need anything, you call Tom… or me.”
“I don’t have your number… or a phone.”
“Now you do.” He’s reached into the pocket of my apron to grab the notepad and pencil and jot down his number. “Borrow a phone from Bridget or Marcy if you must.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Stay out of trouble, alright?” he asks.
“You know I always do.”
But as I respond and Killian turns to stride back toward his table, I’m left more frazzled than I want to be.
I’m not normally a liar.
Growing up, Mom always cautioned me and Eva about telling lies, even little ones.
Not only could they easily spiral out of control, but she told us our word was all we had. We weren’t rich, always one or two paychecks away from being out on the street, and if our word meant nothing, then so did we.
I draw a deep breath and stamp out the guilt niggling away at me.
This isn’t the same thing, and I’m not a kid anymore.
Sometimes… sometimes lying is necessary. Some things aren’t meant to be known by everyone.
There’s no reason Killian—or anyone—needs to know about my burner.
I force myself to slip back into waitress mode. I have customers to serve.
The rest of my shift passes in agonizing snail-like fashion.
I wait on the patrons who do stop by, doing my best to be friendly and accommodating but still earning nowhere near the amount of tips Bridget does.
I guess not everyone has the gift of charming customers with their girlish giggle.
By the time six o’clock rolls around, I’ve made a whopping eighteen dollars in tips and developed a twitch in my left eye that won’t quit.
My head’s throbbing, and I’m in need of some food.
Thankfully, Killian did stock the studio kitchen with a few gems like cereal, instant noodles, and other pantry staples for times when I’m hungry but he’s not around.
I’ve been pulling so many hours that when Tom approaches and offers the night shift too, I finally shake my head. After four days working twelves, I need a break.
The pub’s starting to pick up, and I happily untie my apron once Marcy steps onto the floor. But not before noticing how Bridget’s watching me.
She’s stationed at the other end of the counter, supposedly restocking napkins, but she’s been sneaking me glances ever since she got on shift.
That’s in between the bubbly friendliness she puts on for customers.
I disappear into the back hall and decide it’s not worth thinking about. What I don’t plan on is that the busty redhead would follow me.
“Big plans tonight?” she asks, appearing at my side.
I only realize it as I’m footsteps away from the restroom. I give a noncommittal shrug. “Not really. Just glad to finally have a night off.”
“Heading back to Killian’s place?”
We’ve stepped through the restroom door. My gaze meets hers in the cloudy mirror above the sink. The hesitation on my face speaks for me because she pops on a smile and goes on.
“I thought you were sleeping in the backroom.”
“Tom said I couldn’t sleep there anymore.”
“So you’ve decided to crash at a customer’s home?”
Not by choice…
I step to the sink and twist on the faucet. “It’s complicated. Not that it’s your business.”
“People talk,” she counters, folding her arms over her chest. “All I mean is… it’s very nice of him to do that.”
“I guess so…”
“I didn’t believe it when I found out.”
My eyes narrow as water splashes over my hands and I rub them together with soap. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“It’s just… not his style to do that for someone. And you—I mean, nobody even knows you. No offense.”
“Is there a point to this conversation?” I’ve twisted off the faucet and snatched two paper towels from the dispenser. “If you’re curious about what’s going on between us—and if it means you can’t feel up his biceps anymore—you have nothing to worry about, Bridget. Killer’s all yours.”
Her brows jump, and her mouth drops open in offense.
I toss the crumpled paper towels into the bin and walk out without so much as another glance.
But as petty as it sounds, it is a little satisfying to leave her speechless.
I’m pretty sure I know exactly why Bridget was so shocked I’m staying with Killian, and it doesn’t have to do with the fact that she thinks it’s a nice gesture.
Bridget doesn’t see me as competition. She looks at me and sees the large glasses, ratty clothes, frizzy, kinky curls always shoved into a bun, and she thinks I’m some wallflower.
I’m no threat to the Ken and Barbie fantasy she has going on.
But that’s the thing. I have no interest in competing for any man, let alone Killian.
She can have him. I have bigger, more important things to worry about.
I shove my apron into my bag and head for the back door, stepping out into the warm evening air. The sun is starting to set, painting the Brooklyn sky in shades of orange and pink that would almost be pretty if I weren’t burdened with saving Eva’s life.
I’m halfway down the block before I realize something’s wrong.