laughed myself. It was kind of a good one.
I saw him then as he rounded the corner. Black curls ran riot over his head, black jeans, black t-shirt, black jean jacket, black boots.
“Who are you? The Dark Lord of Dublin?” I eyed him up and down as he approached, and he rolled his eyes at me.
“And you? Who are you? The Bedraggled Bitch of Boston?” His gaze was equally derisive as he took in my jeans, t-shirt, gray hoodie and boots. My hair was a dreadful mess and my makeup long since worn off.
We glared at each other for thirty seconds before we both burst out laughing.
“You do look like shite,” he said when he’d recovered, but he sounded concerned, not derogatory. I shrugged and remembered what a bastard he was. The warm moment between us evaporated, and he sighed before he righted my suitcase. It dripped, and he grimaced. He shook his head but didn’t say anything, although I suspected it half killed him to keep his mouth shut.
“Did you not sleep at all on the plane?” He started back the way he’d come. My suitcase bumped along behind him, and I was forced to follow him if I wanted it back.
“I can’t sleep on planes.”
“Jaysus,” he muttered. “What is with you and your dire distrust of all methods of modern transportation?”
“It’s not just modern. I’m kinda afraid of horses, too,” I admitted, and he snorted.
“Well, doesn’t that figure.”
“Walking and running are the two best ways to get anywhere, Paddy.”
“If you never want to go more than a couple miles or get someplace in less than a month, I suppose.”
“I also like bikes. The ones with pedals.”
“Aren’t you awful scared you might hit a pothole and fly over the handlebars and break your arm, maybe?”
“If I’m that damn stupid not to avoid the pothole, I deserve to break my arm. Haven’t you figured out yet I distrust putting my life in the hands of someone else? Someone who may fall asleep at the wheel or screw with his cellphone just as the light changes?”
“Control—you just don’t like to give it up. Have you always been this way, or is this a recent character flaw?” He threw me a suspicious look over his shoulder.
“Define recent? You try growing up with a father who takes every last decision out of your hands and makes you feel like you’re too stupid to figure shit out for yourself, and top it off with killing your bond mates in a car crash—and you tell me why I don’t like losing control. Control makes me safe, Paddy O’Reilly, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask to feel safe, do you?”
“No.” His tone was subdued, and I became aware I’d screamed at him and, also, surprise, surprise, I was in tears.
More pedestrians scattered out of my way, some of them even went so far as to turn away so they didn’t have to meet my gaze and perhaps become infected with my special brand of crazy.
“Look, I’m tired and starving to death and all I wanted to do was come into the pub. Only I wasn’t wearing my damn pack ring, so that giant bastard wouldn’t let me in. Why should I wear my ring? You don’t give a shit about me. Apparently the whole frigging pack thinks I left Murphy and not the other way around.” I swiped at my eyes with my sleeve and cursed myself.
“A little advance warning would have been nice, Stanz.” Paddy slowed his pace so he fell in next to me and tried to put his free arm around my shoulders, but I shrugged him away.
“You want to watch me kick Colm’s ass? I didn’t have time to do it on my way out the pub door, but I’d definitely planned on it.”
“Violence doesn’t solve anything. I just think it’s stupid you have to be Mac Tire and wear a goddamn ring to get into a fucking pub. Why isn’t being Pack good enough?” I felt my blood pressure skyrocket, and Paddy groaned.
“Because the pub’s private, woman, but…”
“What the hell kind of bullshit elitist crap is this? A pub just for your own pack members and to hell with
I saw him then as he rounded the corner. Black curls ran riot over his head, black jeans, black t-shirt, black jean jacket, black boots.
“Who are you? The Dark Lord of Dublin?” I eyed him up and down as he approached, and he rolled his eyes at me.
“And you? Who are you? The Bedraggled Bitch of Boston?” His gaze was equally derisive as he took in my jeans, t-shirt, gray hoodie and boots. My hair was a dreadful mess and my makeup long since worn off.
We glared at each other for thirty seconds before we both burst out laughing.
“You do look like shite,” he said when he’d recovered, but he sounded concerned, not derogatory. I shrugged and remembered what a bastard he was. The warm moment between us evaporated, and he sighed before he righted my suitcase. It dripped, and he grimaced. He shook his head but didn’t say anything, although I suspected it half killed him to keep his mouth shut.
“Did you not sleep at all on the plane?” He started back the way he’d come. My suitcase bumped along behind him, and I was forced to follow him if I wanted it back.
“I can’t sleep on planes.”
“Jaysus,” he muttered. “What is with you and your dire distrust of all methods of modern transportation?”
“It’s not just modern. I’m kinda afraid of horses, too,” I admitted, and he snorted.
“Well, doesn’t that figure.”
“Walking and running are the two best ways to get anywhere, Paddy.”
“If you never want to go more than a couple miles or get someplace in less than a month, I suppose.”
“I also like bikes. The ones with pedals.”
“Aren’t you awful scared you might hit a pothole and fly over the handlebars and break your arm, maybe?”
“If I’m that damn stupid not to avoid the pothole, I deserve to break my arm. Haven’t you figured out yet I distrust putting my life in the hands of someone else? Someone who may fall asleep at the wheel or screw with his cellphone just as the light changes?”
“Control—you just don’t like to give it up. Have you always been this way, or is this a recent character flaw?” He threw me a suspicious look over his shoulder.
“Define recent? You try growing up with a father who takes every last decision out of your hands and makes you feel like you’re too stupid to figure shit out for yourself, and top it off with killing your bond mates in a car crash—and you tell me why I don’t like losing control. Control makes me safe, Paddy O’Reilly, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask to feel safe, do you?”
“No.” His tone was subdued, and I became aware I’d screamed at him and, also, surprise, surprise, I was in tears.
More pedestrians scattered out of my way, some of them even went so far as to turn away so they didn’t have to meet my gaze and perhaps become infected with my special brand of crazy.
“Look, I’m tired and starving to death and all I wanted to do was come into the pub. Only I wasn’t wearing my damn pack ring, so that giant bastard wouldn’t let me in. Why should I wear my ring? You don’t give a shit about me. Apparently the whole frigging pack thinks I left Murphy and not the other way around.” I swiped at my eyes with my sleeve and cursed myself.
“A little advance warning would have been nice, Stanz.” Paddy slowed his pace so he fell in next to me and tried to put his free arm around my shoulders, but I shrugged him away.
“You want to watch me kick Colm’s ass? I didn’t have time to do it on my way out the pub door, but I’d definitely planned on it.”
“Violence doesn’t solve anything. I just think it’s stupid you have to be Mac Tire and wear a goddamn ring to get into a fucking pub. Why isn’t being Pack good enough?” I felt my blood pressure skyrocket, and Paddy groaned.
“Because the pub’s private, woman, but…”
“What the hell kind of bullshit elitist crap is this? A pub just for your own pack members and to hell with
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