The death of the security guard sits like a weight on my shoulders. I could literally smell his blood in the air, and even though I did what I could to preempt it from happening, I still feel shit about it. Although, I think I’m the only one. Everyone else acts like it never happened.
“Tally, you ’right? You need a hand or a break?” Walsh stands behind me, talking quietly as I pour a round of Guinness.
He’s been overly attentive ever since the guard incident. Probably worried I’d run off, like one of the other girls nearly did.
“If I can go to the loo soon, I’ll be fine for the rest of the night.”
Walsh answers by taking the order of the next person in line. I’m back to serving drinks within minutes.
He stays to help until there’s no one waiting to be served. Instead of leaving, he does a slow sweep, making sure no one is watching before he digs something out of his pocket. He has the good grace to show me the baggy of white powder he retrieves. His beady eyes do another check before he turns into one of the corners, piles up a sizable hit on the back of his hand, and snorts it away.
I get busy unpacking the portable dishwasher. Walsh can do whatever he wants. Every time I turn a blind eye, it only gives him more reason to trust me. Not that I’m expecting big things from him. At the same time, men like him always slip up and spill things they shouldn’t.
While a lot of my focus is on him, for obvious reasons, there are also things happening behind me. The air gets heavy like it does before a thunderstorm, and the room quiets.
Walsh takes another big step, and I’m forced to move out of the bar area to avoid him. When his eyes move off me for a splitsecond, he does the most obvious one-eighty I’ve seen a person accomplish. He rushes past me, straightening his clothes out and running his hand over his hair along the way.
With him away, I slide back into the safety of the bar, and like every other person in the warehouse, I watch the newcomers arrive.
I know enough of the players to be able to identify a few from the group that just walked in. Being here tonight, in this crowd, is what I’ve been waiting for. These men are all “foot soldiers,” not responsible for much besides clout, and most definitely not the ones who make decisions, but they bring a dangerous edge to the event.
Considering the party is being hosted on the opposite side of the river well, and further from O’Connor heartland, it’s an easy assumption that the majority of people attending would be aligned to the Kelly gang. It’s interesting to watch the guests already here moving towards them like they’re desperate for a second of their attention. But some people are always drawn to danger, like moths to a flame.
Women want to tame the bad boys; men aspire to be them. And the newest arrivals love the attention, judging by the swell of laughter and conversation. The music gets turned back on, and the stage fills with naked women dancing. Around the gyrating women, stage hands carry in equipment while a large screen lowers at the back of the stage.
Before the first song is finished, and the dance done, the screen displays a clip of the next lot of items included in an auction, which explains why we’re here.
In the real world, the collection would have people horrified, but this isn’t the real world, so as the clip of cars, weapons, women, and jewelry plays like a music video in the background, the crowd cheers.
My bar area is empty, and the lull in customers waiting for a drink is an opportunity waiting to happen. Grabbing a tray, I weave through the groups of men, picking up empty glasses and bottles. On my first few trips, I pick up only small talk. After serving a couple of customers, I take another walk around the room, and it coincides with the emcee starting the auction.
He does a sales pitch, which is probably quite different to the way Sotheby’s does theirs. He gives this crowd what they’re after, though—a rundown on how much time has passed since the item was stolen, where it was taken from, and the estimated street value.
The bidding for a Kawasaki Ninja superbike is fast and furious, and it’s the only lot that piques my interest. Clearly, there’s an untapped market for stolen Porsches, because they also sell quickly.
It’s almost amusing the way the energy of the crowd dips as the auctioneer introduces the artwork being offered. Only one person bids on two bronze statues, snapping them up at a bargain price. I would have, too, if I was into possessing stolen goods, but they’re clearly the most valuable offering so far. When the auction moves on to stolen jewelry, it’s like being at the races as an electrifying buzz settles over the crowd.
Getting bored watching them hustle over cheap diamonds and gold, I grab my tray again and go deeper into the crowd, hoping to hear something, anything. This time, I overhear talk of who the people being held in the back are, people loyal to the O’Connors. It sounds like they’re not even involved in the mafia world, which is wrong on so many levels. I clean another table, and the group of men with loose lips keep spilling secrets. In addition to it being nothing more than a spiteful gesture—killing innocent people, I mean—I also overhear there’s a small child included. I miss if she’s meant to be sold or killed off, because the group drops that pertinent piece of information before theystart catcalling and laughing about a Kelly’s ex being up as a lot tonight.
Although I was only meant to be gathering intel, as soon as I saw the people being held in the back room, a plan started formulating. Hearing a tiny bit more about the people only confirms I need to do something.
The emcee announces a break, and the dancers from earlier return to the stage. Instead of a dance routine, they sit on the stage in pairs or groups of threes and entertain the crowd in the different ways they can, using their bodies.
There’s a rush of people wanting drinks, so my idea of slipping out to the back while everyone was watching the live sex show gets tanked. But with each person I serve, I see firsthand how many guests are also off their faces, under the influence of whatever party drug is being shared around.
I turn a blind eye to the egos and shitty attitudes and the open drug taking. Why anyone would let themselves lose their full wits here tonight blows my mind, but they do. Walsh included, though he was wasted the last time I saw him. Now he’s messy, and his eyes are locked on me like I’m a prize he’s been waiting for.
It’s either stay in here or run. I don’t like the thought of running, considering the crowd. It’s likely to appeal to their primal urges. Being protected by the bar area is my only option.
I make it blatantly obvious I don’t want Walsh anywhere near me by shooing him off like a pesky fly. The stupid git is high off his head and is incapable of reading my disinterest. He picks up speed as he dodges people, and I haul arse, shuffling boxes of spirit bottles to form a wall.
There’s still plenty of time for me to grab a few more, but coming in hotter than Walsh on drugs is something else entirely unexpected. So much so that I start heaving. Air rushes past my lips in a loudwhooshlike I’ve had a punch to the chest.
The first hit comes from dark chocolate with a twist or two of freshly cracked pepper. Strange combination, but it works wonders together. I get caught up in the moment completely, shutting my eyes and tasting the air.
That scent by itself should be outlawed, but surrounding it is another equally criminally enticing scent. It’s as sweet and definable as chocolate and pepper—cinnamon and sugar. Exactly like the first scent combination, this one has my mouth falling open, desperate for a taste of the sweetness.
The last scent is so much fainter. But perhaps because I already know who owns it, and he’s been haunting me ever since I got a sniff, the lemon verbena isn’t subtle like a Beta’s scent usually is. Honestly, his perfume is so obvious, it’s as though Tynan has his neck pressed up to my face.
