Page 79 of Dublin Brute

I let off a little laugh at that thought. “Your idea of keeping me out of harm’s way would mean keeping me naked and under your blankets.”

“Aye, you know me well. But you’d be damn content as well as being safe.”

“I have no doubt.”

The sudden burst of music signals someone coming back from the club and ends my privacy. “Thank you for the call, sir. I appreciate you letting me know.”

Brendan chuckles on the other end. “I like you calling me sir. Let’s revisit that another time. Until then, if you see anything suspicious, don’t handle it yourself. Call me immediately. Promise me.”

“I promise.” I grip the phone tighter.

“Keep your eyes open, angel. And stay safe.”

The line goes dead and I stand there for a long moment, my heart racing. The pulsing music from the club seems more ominous now. I take a deep breath and head back out—I’ve got drinks to serve and customers waiting.

But now, as I scan the bustling crowd, I’m seeing the well-dressed men with fresh eyes, wondering which of them might be wolves in sheep’s clothing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Brendan

After speaking with Nora, I call Frenchie and let him know I’ve spoken with my girl and if trouble arises, he and Drake are good to break cover and intervene. “Take care of her, boys. I mean it. She’s out of her depths and in the crosshairs of too many dangerous men.”

“Aye, we’ve got her, boss. Don’t worry.”

If only that were possible. Fucking hell, I’d be at Legend and guard her myself if I didn’t think it would put her in more danger.

I should take a page out of Tag and Sean’s book and kidnap her and force her to come home with me. Technically, I suppose I already did that.

The possessive rage I felt when that cocksucker was running her down in the alley outside the gym still runs hot in my blood. And it makes me homicidal that I never even bothered to ID the guy.

Dammit, on the list of things I’d like a mulligan for, that’s at the top.

Then, when he somehow dragged his busted-up pathetic self out of that alley and disappeared, we would still have something to go on.

A knuckle rap on my window makes me curse and practically jump out of my skin. Bryan frowns at me and draws on his cigarette. “Are you done jacking off? Can we go in and get to work?”

I pull my keys from the ignition and get moving. “You said you needed a minute to have a smoke.”

“And you’ve been moping in there for almost ten. Get your head in the fucking game. We’ve got jackals in the henhouse and we need to ferret them out.”

I laugh. “You’ve got a few too many animals in that metaphor, brother, but I hear you. And I assure you, my ten minutes of phone calls and moping were all about the fucking jackals in our henhouse.”

We slip the bouncer on the door of Dance Dublin a fifty and a Quinn business card and he lets us in ahead of the line of late arrivals snaking up the sidewalk and around the corner.

Inside, with the flashing lights and the cloudy dimness, I can barely see where I’m fuckin’ going. After knocking into a table, Bryan and I aggressively encourage a couple of drunk assholes to give up the seats at the end of the bar.

With a good view of the dance floor—now that my eyes have adjusted—we sit our asses down and wave the bartender over. The guy is wearing a black hat and thick guyliner and looks like he should be on a burlesque stage instead of behind the bar. “What’s your poison, mates?”

“Two whiskey neats and an in-person with whoever is in charge.”

“I can get you the drinks, but I don’t have time to find Dallas. I’m the only one on the bar tonight and I’m getting slammed.”

Bryan slides a few bills and our card across the bar.

The guy sets up two tumblers, pours, and then picks up the stack. It’s obvious and rather hilarious the moment it registers that he’s just blown off the Quinn twins. “Oh, shit. Sorry. I, uh…I’ll be right back.”

When the burlesque bartender bolts across the floor, Bryan sips at his drink. “That never gets old.”

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