Page 62 of Dublin Brute

In the servers’ station, I dab at my top with a wet napkin. The good news is our uniform is dark enough that the cosmopolitan’s pale pink won’t stain. The bad news is that I have another four hours of working in a damp, sticky shirt.

Ain’t adulting grand?

Kate appears beside me, loading her own tray. “You okay? That guy was a total dick.”

I force a smile. “I’m fine. Just one of those nights.”

But it’s more than that. During our first week, I thought it was nerves. All this week, I figured I’m tired from finishing my last shifts at the library and need to get used to the late hours.

The truth is…something feels off.

The money’s fantastic—I made more in tips last weekend than I would in two months working the library—but standing here in this barely there uniform, getting leered at and propositioned by high, handsy customers, I can’t help but wonder if I made a mistake.

My sketchbook sits untouched in my room. The last time I picked up a pencil was before Tanya died…before Brendan…before everything got so complicated.

I convinced myself this job was a step toward independence. A way to break free from my father’s controlling grip. Wasn’t the point of all this to get me closer to who I really am? The girl who loves art and quiet afternoons and…

“Nora, your replacement drinks are up!”

I straighten my shoulders and grab a fresh tray. “Got it. Thanks.”

Brendan

I’m parked on the street opposite the bus stop where Nora waits after her shift. Most nights, Kate drives her home. I’m fine with that. But on the nights my angel and her friend don’t have shifts that align, Nora takes the bus.

I hate her navigating the streets alone at night. Why hasn’t her father helped her buy a fucking car? He, of all people, knows the things that happen in the shadows of night.

So, on the nights that Nora’s taking the bus, I have Jay send me a text. I ensure she gets on her bus. I follow the bus. And then, I ensure she gets in her front door.

It’s not exactly staying away, but it’s the best I can do.

There she is.I grip the steering wheel a little tighter as she exits the front of the club. She has her jacket tied tight and her purse slung over her shoulder to rest on her opposite hip. That’s good.

She looks upset tonight. “What’s the matter, angel?”

It kills me not to be able to ask her, not to be able to hug her and rub her back as she tells me about her shitty night.

The bus pulls up and blocks my view but a moment later, she climbs the stairs, taps her bus pass, and walks toward the back. She picks a seat about halfway back and settles in.

I turn my keys and start my car. When the bus speeds up and merges with traffic, I pull out of my parking spot to follow.

It’s a little stalker-adjacent—I acknowledge that—but I prefer to think of it as me being her unknown escort home. And I don’t care what it looks like. It’s the only time I get to spend with her.

And as we weave through Dublin, I talk to her and imagine her answering my questions. I know, I’m losing it. But I don’t know how else to be close to her.

Too soon, the bus stops where I let her off my motorcycle that first night, and I pull over to the curb. Nora gets out and heads down her street without a backward glance. I don’t like that. She’s usually more spatially aware of her surroundings.

Something is really bothering her.

I wait until she’s well down the street, and then I pull around the corner. Once she’s up her walkway and inside, I drive past her house, turn around, and park. Getting out, I jog to the black Tacoma hidden by the shadow of an enormous tree and knock on the window.

Tig shouts and then pats his chest as he pushes the button to roll his window down. “Jesus fuck, Mr. Quinn. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Then monitor your rearview so people can’t sneak up on you.” That comes out harsher than I intend, but I don’t have it in me to care. “Is the father home?”

“Yep. He got in around ten.”

“And everything’s quiet? Nothing new to report?”

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