My whole body goes tense.Blood pounds in my ears.
That's the same fucker I saw near her building.Same build, same posture, same alertness.
He's not here by accident.He's watching for her.
I'm off my bike before I think, crossing the street with long strides.The man sees me coming, sees the patch on my jacket, and bolts.
"Oi!"
I chase him.Down the street, around the corner, weaving through pedestrians who curse and jump out of the way.He's fast, but I'm faster, fueled by a week's worth of pent-up rage.
But then he ducks into a crowded shopping centre and I lose him.Too many people, too many exits.By the time I make it through, he's gone.
"Fuck!"I slam my fist against a nearby wall, ignoring the pain that shoots up my arm.
He was right there.Right fucking there.And now he's gone, and I still don't know who he is or what he wants with Enya.
But I know enough.
Someone is definitely watching her.Following her.And from the way she's been acting, she knows it too.
No more distance.No more respecting boundaries when her safety's at stake.
I need to talk to her.Now.
I head straight back to the pub, adrenaline still coursing through me.I force myself to breathe, to calm down.I can't storm in there looking like I'm about to start a war.That'll only scare her more.
Inside, O'Hara's is moderately busy.Lunch crowd.Normal chatter and clinking glasses.Everything looks fine on the surface.
But Enya's behind the bar, and one look at her tells me nothing's fine.
She's paler than last week, the dark circles under her eyes so pronounced they look like bruises.Her shoulders are hunched forward like she's trying to make herself smaller, movements mechanical and jerky, like she's running on fumes and fear.
Christ, she looks like she's about to shatter.
My chest aches.Not just concern.Actual physical pain at seeing her like this.
This ends now.
I don't take my usual seat at the far end.I don't give her space to ignore me.I walk straight down the bar to where she's working.
She sees me coming.Her whole body goes rigid.
"Enya."
She doesn't look at me.Just keeps wiping down the bar with sharp, aggressive movements."I'm working."
"I know."
"Unless you want a drink?—"
"We need to talk."
"No, we don't."Her voice is clipped.Defensive."There's nothing to talk about."
"Yes, there fucking is."I keep my voice low, controlled.I don't want to make a scene."Not here.Somewhere private."
"I told you, I'm working."
