“What’s the word on your schedule, Sauce? Are you leaving town next week for the American Thanksgiving holiday?”
“Well, I thought I was, but my dad is going to be out of the country for work, and there’s no way I’m going to Palm Beach if he won’t be there. Ash actually invited me to come home with her.”
That would be complicated. How would I play things in front of the family and the bosses? Sauce as just Ashling’s friend? Or as something to me, too? I’ll need to sort things first.
“No way does Ash get custody,” I scoff. “She can have you when I’m busy. But I’m about to be free, so you’ll stay here with me for the break.”
“Won’t your family be upset if you don’t come home?”
“Why should they? It’s not an Irish holiday, and I’ve been around the relatives plenty lately. Plus, there’s Christmas next month as well, when we’ll all be together for days before I head home. If anything, they’re probably ready for a break from me.”
“Sure, of course. Understandable.” Sawyer’s droll delivery and the way she slags me off is very Irish, which makes me smile. “So, to hell with family all around. Let’s be rebels.”
“Suits me.” Unlike with her, there’s no resentment on my end. The truth is I’ve gotten so comfortable among my American family I’ve decided I’ll only go home to Ireland for part of the Christmas break. Being in the old house still feels bleak this time of year.
For a while, it was awful because I was staying in the room I shared with Jude when we were young. Later, my parents converted that room to storage, which infuriated me. I admit, if only to myself, there’s no winning with me.
Sawyer chats on, but I’m only half listening as I think ahead to the Christmas holidays and whether I might want to cut my time in Ireland even shorter.
What usually happens when I go home to the island for two weeks is I see family for a few days, including Christmas Eve and Christmas, and then take off to go surfing. I couldn’t do that this year because big-wave surfing is one of the things I’m barred from doing under the terms of my athletic scholarship.
Which means if I want less time where anger eats me alive, I should stay in the States with a cranberry cream pastry in my bed. That would be no hardship at all.
So, if Sawyer won’t be away the whole December break, I could split my US time between Coynston and being at Granthorpe with her.
Running a hand through my mussed hair, I glance around the room where there are scattered clothes. “War’s leaving for Boston tomorrow, Sauce. So, you and I will have the house to ourselves for a whole week. Think you can bear it?”
“There’s no telling until I try.” Her deadpan response to my teasing makes me smile again. I fancy this girl more than I ever imagined I would.
With her entry into the Briar club, the arrangement is ending. It’s time to redefine our situation, and I’m rethinking my position on girlfriends. Turns out I want one if Sawyer’s the girl.
“Maybe we can get some groceries, Jamie, and I’ll cook a Thanksgiving dinner for just us. You know, tradition dictates it comes with cranberry sauce.”
“I always have a taste for that. Sure. A traditional feast it is.”
We chat a while longer, and I arrange to pick her up in the afternoon.
After I toss my clothes in the wash, I walk through the kitchen and throw pizza boxes into the trash. War emerges in boxer briefs and sits on the barstool with his foot up, examining his thigh wound. Using a wee pair of scissors, he clips the stitches and pulls them free, cutting the black hair that’s gotten caught up along the surface. Once he’s cleared the patch, track marks are easily visible on either side of the healing scar. Being relatively fresh, it’s still pink and violent-looking, but it’s well closed.
“That’ll be a proper battle scar.”
He rolls his eyes. “A random ricocheting bullet makes for a shit story.”
“Could dig deep into your Irish roots.”
“You mean, make something up?”
I nod.
War shrugs and glances at the windows. “You and Killian can’t work on the computer shit during Thanksgiving break, right? Because low network traffic will make it too easy to spot hacking?”
“Didn’t realize you were paying attention when he was here. Thought you were out cold after the marathon you ran.”
The marathon euphemism brings a small smirk to the edges of his mouth. While War had a lighter Crue workload, he brought his on-again off-again dancer submissive into his bed for a couple of nights. The girl is loud when she’s being happily tortured, so I was very aware of what I was missing. After she left, War laid on the couch for hours, like all the energy had been drained from his body. Which I guess it had.
He swipes the black threads and hair into the trash. “What’s the deal? You working or not over Thanksgiving?”
“As you heard, we won’t hack in over break, but I want to monitor the pinhole cameras we put in the staff area of the computer labs and the software Killian installed on the night of the rave. The more passwords we get, the better.”
