Maeve’s always telling me I need to start writing things down or using those reminder apps on my phone like a normal person.
But every time I try, I forget to check the damn reminders anyway, so what’s the damn point?
My baby sister got the brains in the family. I got the fists.
Fair trade I guess, all things considered.
The Banshee slips into view at the end of the block, dark and quiet now that closing time’s come and gone.
Tom’s probably already home, which means I’ll have to use the alarm code to get in.
He gave it to me years ago, back when I first started working for the Callahans and the pub became my unofficial second home.
Tom’s good people—one of the few civilians who knows exactly what I do for a living and doesn’t flinch when I walk through the door with blood on my knuckles. He’s had enough experience with the Irish mob to know we’re fair men deep down.
So long as you don’t fuck us over, we won’t fuck you over.
I’m about halfway down the final block when I hear it.
Glass shatters from inside the pub, sounding five times louder in the silent night.
I freeze mid-step, every instinct snapping to attention.
Then comes a woman’s scream. It’s sharp and panicked and cuts off too quickly, as if somebody’s shut her up midwaythrough.
What the fuck?!
I break into a run, closing the distance in seconds. I press myself against the brick wall beside the window and peer through the grimy, dark glass.
The lights are off inside. The chairs are stacked on the tables like they should be after closing. But there’s movement in the shadows—large shapes converging near the back of the pub.
Three men. Big guys, moving with purpose.
In the middle of them, struggling against the grip of the largest one, is a woman with messy, curly hair and glasses that are hanging crooked off her face.
The new server. The rude little thing with the sharp tongue and the bad attitude.
She’s fighting like a wildcat, kicking and clawing at the men surrounding her, but she’s half their size and there’s three of them.
One of them backhands her hard enough to send her glasses flying to the ground, and she crumples against a table.
Rage explodes to life from within, and I’m in go mode all at once. I’m inthatheadspace, where I blackout and give into fighter instincts.
Killer instincts.
I don’t know who these fucking assholes are or what they want with the server girl. The same girl I can’t even fucking stand.
But I know predators when I see them, and I made a promise a long time ago I’d never standby as a man put his hands on a woman.
Not after the household I grew up in. Not then and not now.
Looks like I’m going for round two after all. T-Bone was the warm-up. Let’s see what these fuckers are made of.
FOUR
Jhene
The voices are getting closer.
