Page 30 of Guilty as Sin

This shift at the pub will be quite the trial for her.

Chapter 14

Cora

This shift at the pub is going to be fucking torture.

I have no idea why we’re doing something so banal, but I’m here to show the O’Sullivans who I am, not because I’m an obedient wife. This is not capitulation, this is power recognizing power. And I’m going to need all of my stubborn strength for today.

Brady, Finn, and I arrive at the pub before it opens. I’ve passed by it before, this corner spot with its dark green exterior and multipaned windows. But I’ve always avoided going inside. During my years as Samantha, I’d resisted participation in anything Irish. It’s too much of a reminder of what I left behind.

I brace myself as Brady unlocks the front door. He’s got as many keys as a janitor, but instead of one large ring, he keeps them on a series of cascading loops. The result is a handheld chandelier of brass teeth, the arrangement of which is known only to himself. It’s evidence of Brady’s hyper-organization. He’s more intelligent than the average mafia thug, which is an unfortunate trait to have in an enemy. If he’s three steps ahead, I have to be four. He’s cunning, but I am too.

Inside the pub, the scent of polished wood and whiskey fumes makes me feel welcome in a way that I hate. I don’t want to be here. Still, when Brady flicks on the lights, the warm glow from the stamped copper ceiling bathes everything in a sense of camaraderie. This is the type of place cherished by regulars. Even empty like this, with the scuffed wooden chairs all stacked on the tables, it’s obvious that this pub is special to many.

Finn tosses an apron at my face. I grab it before it hits me and tie it on without acknowledging him. Then I notice that neither he nor Brady put on an apron themselves, and I realize it’s a hierarchy move. Only the lowliest have to wear aprons. Fuck it. The apron has pockets at my hips, perfect for slipping things into unnoticed. I’m not planning to steal anything, but having light fingers and a ready hiding place is always useful.

I’m in no mood to follow instructions, so I start unstacking the chairs from the tables before any orders are issued. Finn puts on a classic rock station, and I use the blare from the speakers to mask my slamming down the chairs a little too hard. Maybe it’s immature, but it’s cathartic.

I decide that for my next self-assigned task, I want to stab something. Brady’s busy with the chalkboard, and Finn’s disappeared into the kitchen, so I set to cutting limes behind the bar. For the first few, I pierce them like they’ve wronged me before actually cutting them.

“Have you never used a knife before?” Brady asks.

I startle, brandishing the blade reflexively. The man’s presence is powerful, and he’s so close that he’s all but invading my space. Every muscle in my body tenses at his sudden, silent proximity. He’s like a goddamn jungle cat, and the image of him prowling toward me makes me swallow hard.

He raises an eyebrow at the knife I’m pointing toward him. He’s completely unconcerned, as if confident he could disarm me without a second thought. I turn back to what I’m doing without answering him.

He chuckles to himself, then gets out his own knife and cutting board, setting it so close to mine we’re nearly elbowing each other. As I cut limes, he slices lemons with easy speed. His long fingers dance as he discards the stringy core from each wedge, lightning-quick before his blade comes down. It’s terrible knife safety, and though I would never admit it out loud, it’s impressive.

Soon enough, we’re racing, slicing through fruit in a whir of blades. With Brady standing so close, my focus drifts to his body heat, the way he towers over me. My knife slips. Shit. As the blade clatters to the floor, my face goes hot. Picking it up will be an act of shame, an admission of defeat.

Or I could use it to my advantage.

I turn my backside to Brady and bend from the waist. I know I have a nice ass. Sure enough, I hear him stop cutting, and I know he’s watching me. I take my time picking up the knife, reminding him of what he can’t have. Finally straightening, I stride away from him toward the sink, exaggerating the sway of my hips.

When I glance over my shoulder, he returns his attention to his cutting board. But my distraction technique worked, and we both know it. While not the cleverest of tricks, it’s good to know I have that kind of power over him.

As I wash the knife, Liam comes in through the back hallway. He barely acknowledges me, which is just as well, because I know he was the one to beat Connor’s face to a pulp, and I just so happen to have a knife in my hand.

Brady abandons his lemons to talk to his older brother at the far end of the bar. My impression of Liam as a black-and-white movie star remains unchanged, despite my dislike for him. Today he looks like Gregory Peck, his dark wavy hair swept back from his face as he broods, the weight of the world behind his eyes. Serves him right.

He and Brady speak with their heads together, voices low. I surreptitiously turn off the water so I can listen, but of course Brady notices. The only word I catch is tonight before the brothers withdraw into the back hall.

When Finn comes out of the kitchen, he glances around the empty bar, deems me unimportant, then also disappears into the back hallway. I remind myself I don’t care. Not about what’s back there, and not about what they’re discussing. My focus is on making it through this fucking day with my sanity intact, which means keeping as far away from Brady as possible, not following him into shadowy back rooms.

I blink away the image of him and me in a dark corner, my back pressed to the wall as Brady looms over me, the way he did last night when he talked about bending me over his knee. If you enjoy it, it’s not really discipline, is it? A shiver runs through me, and I refocus on wiping down the bar.

The bell over the door chimes to announce the first customer, a bland-looking man in his forties. When the brothers emerge from the back hallway, I’m pulling the Guinness he ordered. I’ve tended bar before, I know how to do it, but Brady hovers over me like I’m bound to fuck it up. I don’t let his presence intimidate me, overwhelming as it is. When I’ve completed the perfect pour, he snatches the glass from me to deliver it himself. If Brady’s going to behave like that with every male customer, then this will be a very long shift.

Given that the pub doesn’t serve food, only a few patrons trickle in over lunchtime, people grabbing a drink on their way to somewhere else. Brady takes it upon himself to handle every customer, not just the men. I tell myself it’s fine, because it’s ultimately less work for me. I mix drinks and pour beers while Finn plays on his phone, and Liam returns to the back rooms.

Brady’s ease with the customers reminds me that he’s the one in charge of the O’Sullivans’ hospitality branches. He’s good at what he does. When a group of twenty-something women come in, his effortless charm shifts into shameless flirting. One blonde in particular demands his attention. She leans over the bar with her elbows tight together, pushing up her breasts and ignoring my husband’s wedding ring.

He throws back his head to laugh at something she says, and I train my attention on the tiers of bottles along the mirrored back wall. So many bottles, all smashable glass, all easily throwable at Brady and the woman he’s talking to. When I imagine my fist connecting with her cheek, I know I’m in trouble. Even so, I let my jealousy heat me from within, and the feeling is perilously good. Like my anger, its ten-year seal has been broken. There’s no stuffing it back now.

I sense Finn watching me from his barstool. He catches my gaze to nod toward Brady and the punchable woman, and grins like he’s trying to stir up trouble. Choosing not to play Finn’s game, I force myself to shrug, but it’s stiff.

“It doesn’t bother you?” he asks. “Your husband flirting like that right in front of you?”