“I can’t wait to taste you,” he texted.
Seconds later, she responded with, “Nothing would make me happier.”
Angel sent another text. Emily sent another response. Soon, they were having a full-on text conversation that the kids called, “sexting.”
But after a while, Angel felt like they’d been driving too long. He looked up to see where they were and frowned when he didn’t recognize the route. He had been to Dublin enough times to know how long it took to get to the airport.
“This isn’t the way to the airport,” Angel stated.
He looked down at his phone, ready to activate Google Maps.
“Have to make a stop. The boss wants to see us.”
Angel turned to Jason with a frown.
“Who’s boss? I don’t have a boss,” he reminded the Irish flunky.
Jason groaned and made a right turn.
“I don’t have time for this shit,” Angel grumbled.
Jason turned into a parking lot. “We’re here. This won’t take long.”
To Angel, Dublin was wet, sunless, and depressing. And the building they were facing mirrored the city. Jason parked and hopped out of the truck. He waved for Angel to come along. Having no other choice, Angel got out. It didn’t sit well with him that he didn’t know exactly what he was walking into. Not to mention, he was unarmed. But he knew Jason wasn’t. So, he’d stick close to him. If need be, he would disarm O’Reilly’s right-hand man and kill everyone in sight.
Angel followed Jason into the building.
They took the stairs to the second floor. As soon as they opened the door and stepped into the hall, he could hear what sounded like a party. They entered a door and stepped into a room filled with boisterous conversations and loud Irish rock music.
Angel and Jason walked through a cloud of smoke and a sea of people until they were face to face with Kelly O’Reilly.
“Senor Medina, welcome!” he shouted in a rough, Irish brogue.
The scowl that marred Angel’s face was unpreventable.
“I have somewhere to be. What do you want?”
O’Reilly looked around as if hoping no one noticed Angel’s dismissive attitude.
“I propose a truce.”
Angel raised a brow at the so-called boss.
“We don’t need a truce. I had a job to do. I did it. Now, I’m done and I need to get to the airport,” Angel explained.
He turned to leave but halted his steps when Kelly O’Reilly grabbed his wrist. Angel looked down at the man’s hand and thought of ways to remove it from the man’s body. O’Reilly must have been a mind reader because he dropped his wrist like a hot potato.
“I have a peace offering, O’Reilly blurted. Shantell!” he shouted, prompting a dark-haired woman to approach.
“Shantell will take good care of you,” the Irish boss assured.
Angel looked over at the woman. She was dangerously thin, looking like a barely dressed, half-dead, disease-carrying, Meth head.
“She ain’t gonna be doing shit to me,” Angel affirmed. “This…” he pointed at the woman. “This is a fucking peace offering?”
“I’m outta here!” Angel scoffed.
He slapped Kelly O’Reilly with a look of disgust and turned away.
