“Nope, you didn’t. I took the liberty myself. I believe it’s why you liked me in the first place—my initiative.”
“I knew that was going to come back and bite me in the butt,” I complain dryly.
March smiles cheekily.
I sigh heavily. Oh, how I love him and how hate him. “Send me all the deets. And book me another hotel room, please.” Looks like I'll be staying a little longer in the dirty South.
Once we disconnect, the music starts playing through the speakers again. I turn up “Bad Girls” by M.I.A., the edgy melody infecting my senses as I speed down the deserted road.
I ditch the rental car on the outskirts of the French Quarter and then hop on a streetcar that will take me to my intended destination, or at least close to it.
March sent me all the info. I’m supposed to meet a man named Declan at an Irish pub in the northern part of the Quarter. How am I supposed to know what Declan looks like? Yeah, I asked that, too. Apparently, I’m looking for a guy in his late twenties with black four-leaf clovers tattooed on the backs of his hands.
Piece of cake, right?
I track down the pub and see myself inside. It’s pushing six in the evening, but it’s still as bright as midday. Outside, that is. Inside, the pub is small, dimly lit, and has that indescribable hole-in-the-wall smell. It’s dark, save for the neon lights on the wall and light bulbs showcasing the array of Irish whiskeys behind the bar. Tucked in an obscure corner, I scan the scattered tables and barstools, looking for anyone fitting my man Declan’s description. Squeezing the straps of my black leather backpack every few seconds, I spy a man at the end of the bar, facing the door with a backwards flat cap. I watch him take a sip of his beer and spot the clover on his hand.Bingo. Here we go.
I move in closer, cautiously approaching him. Even though we’re supposed to be working together, you can never be too careful in this career field. I don’t know how he’s going to respond to me. He may want my help, he may not. And if he doesn’t, it’s going to make my job a hell of a lot harder.
I sidle up next to him and catch the bartender's attention.
“What’ll it be, deary?” He doesn’t have an Irish accent, which is disappointing. It would have made the place so much more authentic.
I scan the array of whiskies on the shelf. There is an impressive collection. When in Rome, right?
“I’ll try a Dead Rabbit and Coke, and back up my friend, please.” I gesture with my head to the guy sitting next to me.
He lifts his eyes to me, and I smile. The bartender walks off, and I use our semi-private moment to confirm he’s who I’m looking for. “Declan?”
He inspects me from head to toe, not speaking a word. Then he nods, less than thrilled to make my acquaintance.
Shitballs.I know right off the bat this job is going to be a royal pain in my ass.
The bartender drops our drinks, and I want to grab for mine and swallow down a huge gulp. On the other hand, I don’t want to show any susceptibility, reveal any cracks or fallibility he can use against me.
Instead, I collectively reach for the glass and suck the dark liquid through the thin cocktail straw. Not a ruffled feather to be found.
Under the ceiling stapled with a million dollar bills, he watches me indifferently. Void of emotion, lacking enthusiasm. He may not want me here, but Ronan does.
I don’t know if his balls are big enough to go against his boss, but if he’s smart, he’ll play nice and just get the fucking job done.
He can spare me the tough-guy act. We all know you’re a badass. You wouldn’t work for Ronan Kennedy if you weren’t. He doesn’t employ pussies.
“Look.” I lean on the bar a tad bit seductively but really all business. “I’m all for the strong, silent type, but we have a job to do. So, if you could just stick your ego up your ass for the time being, we can get the damn thing done.”
Declan’s eyes widen, and then thin. He swallows the rest of his dark beer in three gulps, then slams the glass down onto the bar top, causing a mini earthquake. I prepare for a fight. Or at the very least, a “fuck you.”
“Fine,” he spits, surprising me. “But let me make one thing fucking clear,” he finally speaks, and much to my delight, a melodious, accented timbre flows out. An Irish accent to accompany the Irish bar. The authenticity I was looking for I just found. “I don’t need your help. I have everything under control.” He stands and is fucking huge. Like, a rock-solid foot taller and wider than me.Holy. Man.
“Clearly, or else I wouldn’t be here,” I smart off, my nerves rattling just a bit. Just enough to remind me I’m still alive, and to the contrary of my personal belief, not invincible.
“Agh, just keep your snarky mouth shut and stay out of my way.” He stomps off, leaving me to follow.
Fun times ahead.
I hurry to catch up to him, powerwalking out the front door of the dive as his long strides carry him down the sidewalk. Once back in the orangey glow of the New Orleans sunlight, I get my first clear look at him. A clear look at the fresh gash down his cheek on his ruggedly handsome face, his long, tangled black eyelashes, and green eyes that are as bold and bright as a rolling hill of the Emerald Isle. Attractive is a mediocre way to describe him. Asshole is much more accurate. Sadly. With a sculptedface like that and body to match, it might have been worth breaking my professional rule. Too bad his shitty attitude completely ruins it.
His loss.
