Page 72 of Dublin Brute

“Is that Laura?” I point to the images. “What is she?—”

“Go to bed, Nora,” he snaps, straightening to throw me a glare.

“What didIdo?”

“You mean aside from slinking in at all hours looking like a cage dancer from a men’s club and smelling of alcohol?”

The words hit me hard, but they don’t surprise me one bit. “First, there’s no shame in being a dancer. Second, I’m a server. I wait on tables and get people drinks. Sometimes drunk people spill drinks on me. Thus the smell of alcohol. That’s a long way from being a prostitute, because that’s really what you were insinuating, wasn’t it?”

His scowl darkens as he waves a dismissive hand toward me. “With those clothes, what am I supposed to think?”

“That I look beautiful, and all grown up? I have Mum’s curves and have had since I was twelve. It can’t be any surprise to you that I might want to take the girls out for a spin once in a while.”

His gaze narrows. “You think this is beautiful? You’re drawing attention to yourself—unwanted attention. I’ve sacrificed for years keeping you safe and it’s like you’re hell-bent on throwing it in my face!”

“Me wanting to live and be seen has nothing to do with you! I’m just tired of sitting around reading books and dressing in fifty shades of beige while life passes me by. I want more. Ever since Tanya died?—”

“—I knew I’d regret allowing you to be friends with her.” He glares at me, his expression pinched tight with disapproval. “That purple-haired tart put these ideas into your head. Before you started up with her, you would never have acted like this.”

“Like what? What have I done that’s so unforgiveable? I’m living my life.”

“Dyeing your hair and staying out late every night dressed like a tramp doesn’t make you an adult, Nora.”

My cheeks burn with indignation as I glare back at him. “What about me moving out? Will standing on my own and cutting ties with my father make me an adult?”

The silence hangs heavy between us for a moment—two warriors standing their ground in an unyielding standoff.

“You aren’t moving out. You have no idea the lengths I go to keep you safe.”

“To keep me your prisoner, you mean. Your quiet, obedient little girl who shrinks into the shadows and is never seen.” I’m seething now, anger coursing through every vein in my body as heat radiates from my skin.

He’s furious, too, his eyes ablaze with oppressive authority. “You think you’re gaining freedom, but all you’re doing is inviting trouble into your life.”

“That’s okay.” My words tumble out before I can stop them and echo through our small house. “Maybe trouble is better than being numb. At least if something happened, I’d know I’m alive.”

“Until you wind up dead in front of a pub with a bullet in your skull! Has it ever dawned on you that if you had come home after the play like you were supposed to, your friend would still be alive?”

I suck in a breath. Is that what he thinks? That it’s my fault Tanya’s dead because we went out for a beer after the play?

With one last furious glance at the man who has held every string of my life for far too long, I stomp up the stairs and slam my bedroom door behind me so hard it rattles on its hinges.

Alone, I let myself breathe as I scan my room. Having moved so much, I don’t unpack everything at every house. Somehow I planned to move away from him from the moment we arrived, because more than half my stuff is still packed in boxes and stacked in the corner.

Perfect. That will make leaving here even easier.

Brendan

Bryan is standing in front of one of the window boxes, drawing on his cigarette, when I arrive at Jimmy’s. The paint on the pub’s wooden exterior was sanded and repainted after the McGuire hit back in the spring, leaving the place looking like a million bucks.

At least something good came out of that chaos.

Well, the pub facelift—as well as Laine and Baby Q.

I can’t stop the smile that breaks free every time I think of Tag’s pending progeny. I’m going to be an uncle and I’m fucking stoked about it. Music and the steady rumble of voices drift out of the dark green building, and I lift two fingers in a wave to my twin.

“How’d it go?” He exhales and the cloud of smoke fills the air between us with the exotic blend of Turkish tobacco he uses in his hand-rolled cancer sticks.

“Couldn’t have gone better.”

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