She shakes her head and rolls her eyes heavenward. “I can’t believe they used your manky driver’s license photo,” she says. “You look nothing like that anymore.”
“Um, thanks?” I ask with a grimace.
“No, I agree,” Bridget pipes in. “Who the fuck runs that account anyway?”
“Dunno,” she says. “Probably some bored eejit with nothin’ better to do. It’s brutal, isn’t it? Don’t be mindin’ them, Erin.”
But how am I supposed to not mind when everywhere I go, someone’s there to remind me?
When we leave the restaurant, the sky is darkening, and I feel restless, anxious.
“I want a drink,” I tell Bridget. “A stiff drink. An alcoholic beverage.”
“You don’t drink,” she says to me. “Ever.”
“Maybe I should start.”
She gives me a curious look. “Maybe you shouldn’t make rash decisions when you’re stressed.”
I grunt. “Are you supposed to drink? With your medication and whatnot?”
“Yes,” she says with a sigh. “Not a lot, obviously, and when I’m on the blood thinners, I can’t, but… What’s the worst that’s going to happen?”
I don’t want to answer that question because I don’t want to think about the worst that could happen.
“We can at least order something non-alcoholic, right?” she says, shaking her head. “I think we can manage that.”
“Alright, fair enough,” I tell her.
The three guards Cavin sent watch us warily as we head toward a pub.
“Why are you going in there?” one says.
“Because I want a drink,” I tell him.
“Well, you shouldn’t go intothatpub. We’ll go somewhere closer to home instead. It’s safer.”
“Safer?” That’s a strange thing to say. “What if I don’t want safer?” I tell him, giving him a look. I don’t understand what he’s going on about right now.
“Well, you shouldn’t go in there. It’s not for girls like you.”
Girls likeme? Well, the surest way to get me to do something is to tell me I can’t.
“I don’t want Cavin’s bodyguard telling me what to do,” I say. It feels like an extension of him. I’m not exactly going to roll over and beg. I have more self-respect than that.
His eyes narrow. “Mr. McCarthy isn’t going to like you going in there.”
“Well, I don’t belong to Mr. McCarthy.”
“You almost do,” he says.
“Almost doesn’tcount.” My voice is rising. Now I’m determined to go into this place he’s insisting I can’t go into.
“Are you out of your mind?” he says to me, tossing his hands up in the air.
I glare. “You know I have Mr. McCarthy’s phone number right here.”
“Call him then,” he says. “Ask him.” Dammit. He wasn’t supposed to call my bluff.
