Great. Just fucking brilliant.
My phone buzzes with a text.
“Jesus. Look who’s waking from the dead,” I mutter under my breath.
“Who is it?” Declan asks.
“My betrothed,” I say with sarcasm and an eye roll. “This little lass.” I shake my head. “Might've been something with the mobile service? I swear to Christ, I don't understand why when I sent her a message, it turned all green like this. And now it's blue again.”
“It's because she blocked you, lad,” Declan says, chuckling to himself despite the pain. “Christ, what did you do to get yourself blocked by your own betrothed?”
“I know she fucking blocked me,” I mutter, jaw clenched. “Question is why sheunblockedme now.”
He snorts. “Maybe she's finally come to her senses.”
“Isthiswhy she hasn't responded to any of my texts?” I glare at the screen like it's personally offended me.
“Probably,” Declan says, shaking his head as I examine his arm.
I clean his wound and take a closer look. “Aye, definitely broken, lad. We're gonna have to get that set for sure.” I clean up his bloody knuckles while Doc preps the splint materials.
“So what’d she say?” Declan says, wincing.
“Eh, nothing.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe I’m marrying this girl. She doesn’t have an ounce of respect for me.”
“You think it has something to do with you taking the mickey out of her in school, then?”
I scrub a hand across my brow and shrug. “Yeah.”
“Hmm, interesting,” Ashland says with another scowl. “You sure that’s the only reason she’s angry with you?”
“I don’t know. Probably good enough, aye? She was the one who was Miss Perfect, always getting me in trouble.”
“Uh-huh,” Declan says, wincing when Doc pulls the splint tight. “Fascinating, that. What’s she say?” he asks.
I read the text back to him, and he chuckles to himself.
“She is a smart one, I’ll give you that.”
“Aye, she is.”
I glance at the clock.
Today’s the fuckin’ tribute day, and I haven’t gotten a breath closer to figuring out who’s got my bollocks in a sling. Five hundred thousandfuckingeuros a month that my family can’t know about is a bitch of a thing. The fucking strings I’ve had to pull to make it happen could land me straight back in prison, a hell I swore I’d never revisit.
“What about you? What happened in Belfast last night?” Declan asks.
I shake my head. “Fucking catastrophe,” I mutter. “Three guns jammed, shipment was light by twenty pieces, and Murphy’s asking questions he shouldn’t be asking.”
Doc stitches him up, and I douse the wound with antiseptic.
My phone buzzes again. This time, though, it’s not Erin but one of her guards.
Sir? That Erin and her sister may have ventured into the club.
“Jesus Christ, I’m tired of this fuckin’ eejit,” I mutter. “What’s he fucking talking about?”
I text back:
