Hell. No.
Tom rocked his glass on the table. “Shayla had her moments, but she was discrete.”
Gerald glanced around, and his voice dropped but not low enough to keep his words from me. “This one doesn’t seem toknow the meaning of the word. Tarnishing the Sullivan name in record time. Maeve would be turning over in her grave.” He thumped the table three times to ward off bad luck.
The third man made a sound of agreement and reached for his pint.
I slammed three fresh ones on the table and dropped into the remaining chair at their table. Thirty years. Thirty fucking years I’d worked behind that bar and called these people friends.
There was a line most of them knew better than to cross. Tom did it a couple times a year. He’d get drunk off his ass at Christmas and the Fourth of July and mouth off.
But this?
I stared each one of them down. “Afternoon, gentlemen.” I waited for their greetings. Tom swallowed hard and muttered into his fresh pint. “You want to tell me what the fuck you think you’re doing talking about Miss Sullivan that way?” I emphasized her name, cocking my head to the side so I came off at least a little bit approachable.
Tom had the decency to avert his gaze and hunch his shoulders. He’d known me long enough to recognize my tone and understand what it meant. “We was just talking, Declan.”
“Mm-hm.” I shifted my attention to Gerald. “I heard what you were saying. I heard every word, and I want to know what in the hell gives you the right to think you’re qualified to sit in this pub and talk about someone else’s life.”
Gerald set his elbows on the table, and I’d never wanted to punch anyone as much as I did this man in this moment. My hand balled into a fist.
Gerald picked up his full drink and took a healthy swallow. “People are just saying what they’re seeing?”
“And what are they seeing?”
Gerald’s lips puckered. “She’s friendly with a lot of the men. Friendly in ways people notice.”
“She runs a pub.” For fucks sake, I should punch the shit out of him and get it over with. “Maeve ran this pub for forty years and was friendly with every man who walked through the door. Nobody ever tried to say she was tarnishing the Sullivan name by being good at her job. Hell, Shayla worked this bar for years too. You want to explain to me why the standard is different now?”
Tom studied his glass.
Gerald drank his beer and rolled his eyes like we were teenagers fussing over who had the best shot at the senior prom hangout spot.
“Bree came back to this town when she didn’t have tao.” The lull in customers gave strength to my voice and carried my words to every corner. “Maeve asked her to come home, and she did. She spent months renovating this place, working herself into the ground and pouring drinks for men like you who look at her and see what’s lacking. You want to talk about people saying what they’re seeing?” I shoved away from the table, sending my chair flying back. “I look at this table, and I see a bunch of drunk old men who have nothing better to do than to talk shit about someone because don’t have a life of their own.”
“Declan.” Tom raised both hands.
“I’m not done.” I stared down at every one of them. Men I’d respected for years, and the only thing inside me was anger at their disrespect. “The way this town has repaid her by whispering her name and spreading rumors about her honor is downright despicable. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Every. Last. Fucking. One. Of. You.” I stabbed my finger into the table with every word.
Finn would’ve turned the whole table over by now. Even Ronan might’ve thrown a punch or two. But they were older, weaker, and I had more power in my words than in my fists.
“We didn’t mean any disrespect to Maeve.” Gerald sounded petulant, not repentant. He set his mug down with the last inch of beer left.
I turned my back on them. “Then show some respect to the woman Maeve loved more than anything in this world aside from her own daughter.” I looked back long enough to stare him down. “That’s how respect for Maeve works. You can’t claim to have cared about her, been her friend, then sit and talk about her granddaughter like she’s the town entertainment. Maeve would’ve been ashamed of this conversation, not of Bree. Do better.”
The room had gone quiet enough that the scuff of my boots on the wood floor echoed. I slid behind the bar and picked up another glass, going back to cleaning like my entire body didn’t burn.
Gerald put money on the bar two minutes later and left with Roger. Neither of them finished their drinks. Tom stayed, nursing what remained in the bottom of his pint.
Conversations picked up again, first in whispers, then louder.
I’d meant every word. Maeve would’ve cheered for what I said. Hell, she’d have beat me over there and probably dumped their drinks over their heads to boot.
Years in this town meant I understood how it operated. Which meant it took less than five minutes for a rush of ice to flood my veins.
Yes, I’d done what needed to be done to defend Bree, but I hadn’t sounded like a bar manager defending his boss.
The conversations drifted, and so did the looks being sent my way.
