5. Lorcan
Lorcan
How hard can one small wife be?
My words from a few days ago come back to bite me in the ass.
The universe has a sick sense of humor. Because one small wife turned out to be a sharp-tongued little badger, a fourteen-year-old, a nine-year-old, and a three-year-old.
Somewhere between "I do" and the church steps, I acquired an entire ready-made family.
As I merge onto the highway, my new wife sits rigid in the passenger seat of my Porsche, arms crossed, staring out the window like the skyline personally offended her.
My loft is a thousand square feet of exposed brick with one bedroom. There's a single bathroom. The kitchen is decorative—I've never had any food in it that didn't come in a takeout container.
I can't put five people in there.
Which means I’ll be moving in with her and the kids. Because where she goes, they go—she made that crystal clear—and where she goes, I go, because she's my wife.
"Take the next left,” Maeve says, her voice clipped.
I do. And the neighborhood starts to change fast. The buildings get lower, more run-down.
Bars over windows. A liquor store with a hand-painted sign that reads Booze Barn.
Someone's mattress leans against a chain-link fence.
A group of guys on a corner watch my car roll past like they're clocking a target.
I've been in worse parts of the city. I've done business in worse. But knowing that she lives here—with children—raises my hackles.
"It's fine," she says, reading my expression. Her chin lifts defensively. “We do fine.”
It’s not fine. But I keep my mouth shut.
I pull up along the curb. She's out of the car before I've killed the engine, already halfway up the cracked walkway to a squat brick building with a busted intercom and a front door that doesn't quite close right. I follow.
Inside, the hallway smells like mildew and cabbage. The carpet is worn down to the backing. A single fluorescent tube flickers overhead, buzzing.
And there's a man at the base of the stairs.
He's maybe pushing fifty, soft in the middle, wearing a stained undershirt and a greasy smile.
"Well, well." He steps into Maeve’s path. "Look who finally decided to show up. You've been avoiding me, sweetheart."
I hang back. Just for a second. Because I want to see it—I want to see what she deals with when I'm not around.
And what I see makes me want to put my fist through his skull.
Maeve shrinks. My fierce little wife physically folds in on herself. Her shoulders curl. Her gaze drops. She takes a half-step back.
“I…um…need a couple more days, Jerry," she mumbles. “I’m sorry. But I can give you half now and half next week.”
“Promises, promises.” He clucks his tongue and leans in. "You know, a girl as pretty as you, there's always ways to work off what you owe. I'm a reasonable man. We could come to an arrangement." His hand lifts toward her arm.
I step forward, putting myself between them, and every ounce of easygoing laughter drains from my face.
"Jerry," I say quietly. "Is it?"
Jerry blinks up at me. Registers my suit. My size. Something in my eyes.
I smile. It is not a nice smile. "I'm her husband. Lorcan O’Rourke.”
The color drains right out of his face.
I take one step closer, and he takes two back, bumping into the stair rail.
“Here's what's going to happen, Jerry. You're never going to touch her again. You're never going to talk to her again. You're never going to so much as look at her again. And you’re going to be relieved that the only thing you’ve lost is a month’s rent—instead of necessary body parts. Am I right?”
Jerry nods like a bobblehead.
"Good," I say. “Glad we understand each other."
Jerry mumbles something that might be an apology, might be a prayer, and scurries off down the hall so fast he trips over his own feet.
I turn back to Maeve. She's staring at me. Wide-eyed. And for once, she doesn't have a sharp word ready. She just looks—stunned.
"You didn't have to do that," she says.
"Yeah. I did."