I nab my backpack and let the other waitress know I’m finishing up.
Opening the back door, a cold wind nearly blows me off my feet, and I curse the change of weather, especially since I didn’t bring a hoodie. Not one of mine, anyway. Rafferty’s forest green one is in the bottom of my backpack, but I’m dead certain it wouldn’t be a good move on my part to pull it out. It would be a reminder of where my loyalty lies. If Walsh chooses to ignore my connection to the O’Connors, that’s not on me.
Returning inside to the staff room, I take the time to peel off one of the small trackers that come disguised in a headache medicine box. Activating it, I have it stuck to one of my fingers while I dig through the lost and found box in the staff room. I pull out a construction worker fleece that’s dirty but not offensively stinky. The florescent strips aren’t great for hiding, but the polar fleece is going to keep me warm, no matter what we’re doing.
Walsh is already in the box truck. The white side is plastered with the distinctive cyan and yellow logo of Commercial Fleet. As I walk around the back of the truck to the passenger side, I drag my hand along the side, sticking the tracker right in the middle of the logo. It’s small and discreet, and the clear backing means it blends right into the logo.
As I climb in the cab, he waits until I’m buckled in before taking off.
“Goddamn, it’s cold,” I mumble, reaching over to turn the heating to high, but he flicks it back to low.
“Got shit in the back that can’t get too hot.”
I turn, resting my back against the door so I can keep up the appearance of being friendly, encouraging any mindless chatter as we drive. Because Walsh is too proud and not smart enough to know what he should and shouldn’t be sharing with people.
“Where are we going?”
“About an hour away.”
I open one of the packets of crisps and pass it over. His favorite too. Cheese and onion, and he takes them without thanks. “I didn’t realize the Kellys have more properties.”
“Here’s the thing, it ain't one of theirs,” he gloats, smiling like the cat that ate the canary.
I let my mouth fall open in mock surprise before I dial up the charm, even throwing in a few flirty giggles for encouragement. “Walsh, I knew you were important, but I didn’t realize you were theman.”
“Well, I ain’t the man, but I work for him. You can’t be telling anyone this, Tally. I mean, even Black and his lot don't know the extent. And definitely not the O’Connors. It would get you and me killed.”
“What? Why me?”
“Because you can’t know.”
“Oh my god, then don’t tell me.”
“Ahh.” He waves my mild theatrics away.
“You don’t have a problem with what happened after Mass?” I ask, triple-checking I’m not walking blindly into a trap.
“I was a little manky to start, but like you said yourself, you’ve been a good lass and not been sharing what happens in my pubs. You think Keegan was speaking the truth about me sacking ya?”
I wait until he looks at me before I roll my eyes and wave the suggestion off. “Nah. He’s just like that. Bossy, I mean. But I meant what I said before, Walsh, I’m not giving up my independence till I know if I’m staying.”
“Aye, sure, I get that. Though most in your shoes would have been done with their deciding by now. The O’Connor boys are royalty. You not up for that?”
I glance away and chew on my lip for a bit, to add a bit more angst to my response. It must be working because he reaches over and pats my leg.
“Sometimes things are just arseways, until they right themselves. You’ve got a job with me for as long as ya need, Tally.”
“I appreciate ya, Walsh. I’m damn grateful every day, I answered that ad.”
And then I draw my knees up and put my feet on the seat making, it hard for him to reach over again. Opening my crisps and eating them, we drive in quiet for a bit until his phone rings.
Walsh uses his headphones so I can’t hear the other person speaking. But given the short answers Walsh uses and the long pauses where he does nothing but listen, it’s easy to assume it’s his contact.
Reaching forward to put my empty packet in the front of my backpack, I try to see the number on screen, but there’s no number, just “No Caller ID.” It’s a missed opportunity that leaves me dealing with rising frustration. I’m annoyed becauseWalsh clearly doesn’t trust me as much as I need him to, and I’m searching for ways to bridge that gap when he takes a roundabout too fast.
The wheels on one side of the truck lift, and there’s a god almighty bang in the back of the truck as something heavy falls over. I startle, making a girly noise, and he reaches over the space, his hand patting my knee in comfort again. I have to bite my fist so I don’t punch him in the snout, but at the same time, I’m stoked with my acting skills.
Walsh quickly finishes up the call, then diverts the truck to an emergency lane before pulling to a stop.
