Chapter 2 - Jhene
“Don’t be mad, okay? But I need you to cover for me. I told Tom it’s lady problems.”
Bridget stands in front of me in the cramped back hallway of the Banshee, tugging off her apron and shoving it into her oversized leather bag.
Her ginger hair is freshly curled, makeup touched up, and there’s a sparkle in her bright apple green eyes that tells me this has nothing to do with actual period cramps.
“Cover for you?” I repeat slowly, my brows knitting. “It’s only my second shift.”
“I know, I know,” she sighs, waving a dismissive hand. She fishes out a compact mirror to check her lipstick. “But you’re smart, right? You’ll figure it out. It’ll be dead tonight anyway. Tuesdays always are.”
It doesn’t look dead to me. Through the doorway, I can see at least a dozen customers scattered across the pub, and Tom is already shooting glances toward the back like he’s wondering where his servers are.
“But Bridget—”
“Us girls do what we gotta do, right?” she interrupts, snapping shut her compact. “If we have a date to make it to but our bosses want to drag us down, then we find workarounds, you know?”
“Not really…”
“There’s this guy Tyler. He’s a young attorney who just got hired at Cravath. He has his own apartment in Williamsburg and I caught his eye at a rooftop mixer the other night. I cannot pass this chance up.”
I’m not sure what “this” is that she can’t pass up, but by the playful wink Bridget gives me, apparently I should.
I want to point out that I barely know where anything is. That I still haven’t memorized the drink menu. That Tom already gave me a warning about spilling a drink on my first shift and I really can’t afford to mess this up.
But Bridget’s backing toward the exit, purse slung over her shoulder, keys jangling in her hand.
It doesn’t matter how I feel about her ditching her shift. It’s happening regardless.
“You’re the best, seriously. I owe you big time.” She blows me a quick kiss. “Lock up’s easy—Tom’ll show you. Oh, and the creepy guys at table six? Just ignore them, they’re harmless so long as they don’t mix brown with clear. Bye!”
She’s gone before I can think of another reply. The back door swings shut behind her, leaving me in the hallway with a knotted stomach and a sinking feeling that tonight’s about to be a disaster.
I draw a breath to try to settle my nerves.
This is fine. I can do this. I’ve survived worse than a Tuesday night shift at an Irish pub.
…much, much worse.
I grab my notepad and pen, tuck a dishrag into my apron pocket, and push through the door into the main bar.
Time to earn my keep.
The first hour is rough.
I mix up drink orders twice, forget to bring salted peanuts to a table that asked three times, and somehow manage to spill half a pint of Guinness on one of the old-timers arguing about hurling scores near the bar.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” The man shoots up from his seat, dark beer dripping down his fan jersey. His buddies howl with laughter while I scramble for the dishrag in my apron.
“Shit, my bad. Here, let me—”
“TOM!” he bellows. “Where’d you find this one!?”
The pub owner appears from behind the bar, his weathered face creased with irritation. He’s in his sixties, with a stout build and a gray mustache that twitches whenever he’s annoyed. Right now, it’s twitching plenty.
“Jhene,” he grunts, jerking his head toward the back. “A word.”
I follow him to the hallway, my stomach sinking with every step.
This is it.
Two shifts in and I’m already getting fired. I’ll be back at the shelter by midnight, fighting for a cot and dodging the handsy security guard who always seems to find a reason to patrol the women’s section.
Or worse. Back on the streets, where anyone could find me…
“Look,” Tom says, crossing his arms. “I know you’re going through some things. I’m not blind and I’ve seen the stories on the news. But I can’t have you dumping drinks on my regulars. Jimmy’s been coming here for thirty years.”
“I know, I know. It was my fault. It won’t happen again.”
He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You sleeping in the stockroom?”
My heart stutters. “I—”
“The cot, Jhene. I saw it this morning.”
I don’t know what to say, so I bow my head and remain silent.
Tom sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not gonna kick you out. Not yet, anyway. But you gotta shape up. Understood?”
“Understood,” I whisper.
He nods, then stomps back to the bar, leaving me alone in the dim hallway with the weight of everything pressing down on my chest.
Shape up. Easy for him to say.
He doesn’t know what it’s like to sleep with one eye open, waiting for the door to burst in. He believes watching the news reports informs him of what I’ve been through.
As if he—and the rest of them—could ever grasp the true horrors that unfolded.
I’m the lucky one. At least I’m free, however temporary.
But Eva? She’s still suffering.
My baby sister is still trapped in that nightmare while I’m out here fumbling drink orders and praying I don’t get fired from a job that pays less than minimum wage.
I have to get her out; I will get her out.
But it’s going to take time—and money.
I have to be patient. Strategic.
Even if patience feels like swallowing glass when every second she’s with them is a second too long.
I calm myself down with another deep breath and smooth down my apron. Thoughts of Eva get pushed into the small, locked box in my chest where I keep the pain contained.
All the things that hurt too much to hold in the present moment.
I’ll mourn our fates later. In the dark at night when I’m unable to sleep.
Right now, I have tables to wait and tips to earn.
I nudge past the doors and head back into the bar just in time to see him walk in.
I clock Killian Rourke the second he walks into The Banshee. He’s a wall of a man shouldering his way into the pub as if he owns the place. He might as well.
From what I hear, he’s one of Tom’s biggest regulars, and anything he wants, he gets.
He’s impossible to miss. Six-three, maybe six-four with a solid enough build to make doorframes seem small. His rumpled dark hair is damp with sweat and he has fresh bruises on his face—and freshly dried blood on his knuckles.
He doesn’t seem to give a damn about either.
But that’s no surprise. He makes people bleed for a living. Both inside and outside of the ring.
I’ve heard the rumors. Everyone has.
Killian’s more than a pro boxer beating in the faces of other fighters. He’s what’s known as the Callahan Clan’s boneman. Their enforcer who metes our punishments and handles their enemies.
He drops into a booth in the back corner. The redheaded guy waiting for him finally looks up from his phone for the first time. As far as I can tell, he’s another Callahan soldier. Lower on the totem pole than Killian.
I study the brutish boxer from behind the bar, pretending to wipe down a glass.
He’s got a face that’s been rearranged one too many times. Features like a bent nose and jaw that’s been broken and reset at least once. A scar that cuts through his left eyebrow. Deep blue eyes that scan the room like he’s assessing threats.
Plenty of women would say handsome… but more so in a broken, unconventional sort of way. In a brutal kind of way.
That is, if you’re into guys who look like they’ve killed people.
…which I’m not.
…which is what makes it even more frustrating that I’ll be waiting on him all night long.
I sigh, resigning myself to taking his order.
The exchange is every bit as awkward and unpleasant as I expect. He’s rude and demanding, grinding out questions about Bridget like I’m at fault for her absence. His friend’s no better, making dumb jokes and cracking up in laughter at anything I say.
I keep my answers short. Direct.
I’m not here to make friends, and I’m definitely not here to charm some mob enforcer who moonlights as a boxer, and who probably has a kill list a mile long.
The best I can hope for is keeping our interactions as minimal as possible.
Unfortunately, it’s not the last encounter we have for the night.
My shift drags on, and I wait on table after table, plastering on the closest thing to a smile I can manage. It’s a flop considering I’ve never been an upbeat type of person like Eva, or a flirt like Bridget. My face isn’t built for customer service.
It reflects in the meager tips I receive.
The couple by the window stiffs me completely, leaving only a couple quarters from their change. The group of college kids at the bar counter leave two dollars on a ninety-dollar tab, like they’re doing me a favor.
Then there’s the old-timer regular I spilled the Guinness on—he makes a big show of counting out exact change, then tells me I should consider a different line of work.
Thanks. I’ll add that to the list of helpful suggestions.
By eleven o’clock, my feet are aching, my apron is stained with a mystery sticky substance I can’t identify, and I’ve made roughly twelve dollars in tips. Not even enough for a decent meal in Brooklyn, let alone anywhere else in the city.
The stack of problems sitting on my shoulders grows heavier.
I stashed a half-eaten bag of potato chips from a vending machine in my bookbag. It looks like that’ll have to do as my meal for tomorrow…
But I should be grateful for what I do have.
At least Tom’s letting me stay in the backroom. At least I have access to clean water, even if the pub restroom doesn’t have a shower. I’ve been having to sneak into the gym down the street early in the morning to use theirs.
Still… I’ve been in worse spots. Eva’s still in a worse off spot than me.
That’s what keeps me going through the night, knowing I have to for Eva’s sake.
“You—new girl! Over here.”
I glance over at the primitive grunt and find myself on the receiving end of Killian Rourke’s cold glare. He’s holding up his empty glass, obviously in need of a refill.
I grind my teeth and resist the urge to pretend I didn’t hear him. I would if Tom hadn’t already scolded me tonight.
“Refills,” he says when I approach.
“Same thing?” I ask flatly. “Whiskey, dry?”
“That’s what a refill is, isn’t it?”
The redhead he’s with snorts into his drink, clearly enjoying the show.
I breathe through the irritation chipping away at me. “Coming up.”
My small act of revenge comes when I take my time refilling their glasses. I return to the bar and busy myself by helping two other customers at the counter.
Let the boxer and his giggling fanboy wait a few minutes.
I’m sure he doesn’t get dismissed often with as many fans as he has. It might build character.
When I do return with their drinks, my intention is to set them down and bounce just as quickly. Killian grunts out a question before I’m able to make my escape.
“Where’re you from?” he asks.
“Nowhere interesting.”
“Try me.”
“I’d rather not,” I answer coolly. My gaze flits from him to the redhead and back again. “Anything else? I have other tables.”
The other guy chuckles. “She’s got teeth, this one.”
But Killian’s unamused. His glare hardens as he peers at me as if he’s in the middle of a deep assessment. He’s running some kind of analysis on me, taking in every last detail he can.
Cold dread curls inside my stomach, and I grow a little self conscious.
In my experience, it’s never a good thing when men stare at you for too long…
“What’s your name?” he asks next.
“You, new girl suffices.”
Red chokes on his whiskey, trying to hold in his laugh, while Killian scowls, the muscle in his broad jaw clenching.
“You always this friendly? Or is it just me?”
I give a quick shrug, keeping my expression flat. “Don’t know. Do you always interrogate your servers, or is it just me?”
Killian’s mouth twitches, though whether it’s from amusement like his friend or more irritation, I’m not sure.
I really don’t give a damn either way.
“Just close my tab, alright?” he mutters.
I pivot on my heel and march off, relieved for an excuse to put distance between us.
Over the next hour, I’m lucky enough to avoid Killian and the other Callahan soldier.
Closing time inches closer, and Tom herds the last of the stragglers toward the door. The old-timers grumble but comply, shuffling out into the Brooklyn night ruddy-faced and halfway drunk.
Killian’s one of the last to go. His broad frame fills out the doorway before he disappears into the dark. The redhead trails behind him, still grinning wide and chuckling about something.
Good riddance.
Tom tosses me a set of keys as he tears off his waist apron. “Lock up when you’re done. Alarm code’s taped under the register if you forget.”
“Got it.”
He pauses at the door, one hand on the frame. For a second it seems he’s about to offer more words—maybe a warning or another question about the cot situation in the stockroom. Instead he simply nods and steps into the night.
I’m officially alone in the Irish pub.
The silence is deafening.
I take my time wiping down the tables and stacking the chairs, my body moving on autopilot while my brain churns through the same exhausted loops it always does.
Money. Safety. Eva.
…hold on, sis. Just a little while longer.
I wonder what she’s doing right now. If she’s eating enough. If Fedorov is keeping his hands off her, or if—
Don’t go there. Not right now. Not tonight.
I shove the thought down and focus on the task at hand, scrubbing at a sticky ring of dried beer ’til my arm aches.
When the main floor is clean enough to pass inspection, I flip off the lights and head to the back.
The stockroom is small and cramped, lined with shelves of liquor bottles and cardboard boxes. My cot is wedged in the corner, a thin mattress on a foldable metal frame with a scratchy wool blanket that smells vaguely of dust and old beer.
It’s not much, and a discovery I made after my first shift when I threw out the trash and found it in the alleyway outside. But it’s still better than the shelter, and a thousand times better than sleeping on the street.
I step into the bathroom and catch my reflection in the grimy mirror. I look like hell—curls matted, glasses smudged, dark circles under my eyes like bruises.
No shower ’til the gym opens at six. Just another glamorous night in the life of Jhene Prince.
I change into a pair of sweats and a tank top, brushing my teeth with the travel toothbrush I keep in my bag. The mint toothpaste tastes too sweet, almost sickeningly so, but at least my mouth feels clean again.
I’m about to settle onto the cot when I hear it.
A thud from the main floor. The noise is heavy and distinct in the otherwise silent pub.
I freeze, toothbrush and toothpaste still in hand.
Voices follow. Low, male, speaking a language that instantly chills the blood in my veins into ice.
Russian.
I know who those voices belong to; I know why they’re here after dark in an Irish pub of all places.
They’ve found me.