Page 7 of Starting Over

“Dec, man, what are you doing?” I heard King’s voice, but it didn’t register. My own voice continued on, calling the man that held me every vile name I could remember. I grew up in the Irish Mob. Many of us had learned and still spoke a language most people in America didn’t know. It was a way to keep things from getting out. I felt safe making a few threats that wouldn’t have me in cuffs, since he would have no way of knowing what I actually said.

The cop leaned over me, his pelvis snug against my ass. His hand around my throat, and whispered, “Ná bagairt ormsa ná armo theaghlach. Ní thaitníonn an toradh leat.”Don’t threaten me or my family. You won’t like the result.

I immediately stilled at his words.

“Declan, let the woman go.”

“Fuck that. You don’t get to say what she said and just go on about your way.”

As the cuffs clicked around my wrists, more headlights shined on us. The cop stood me up, assuming I was no longer a threat, as I watched the largest man I had ever seen walk toward us.

“What the fuck is going on out here? Since when do you arrest women for breaking down?” he asked.

I assumed this must be Tank, seeing as that was who King said he was calling. The name fit him well. Either he hadn’t been far away, or I had been ranting longer than I thought.

“I’m not arresting her for breaking down, asshole. I am arresting her for threatening my life.”

Tank and King both looked me up and down, then looked at the cop before both of them threw their heads back and laughed.

Chapter Two

Declan

I stood there boiling as my brother and Tank laughed. This fucking woman. I turned to look at her. She stood about five foot eight, and I towered over her as we glared at each other.

“You wanna calm down?” I asked, knowing she wouldn’t.

Threatening my life in Gaelige didn’t really mean shit. Was I scared? Fuck no. I knew she did it, thinking I wouldn’t understand what she said. It was a way of making her feel strong, powerful even.

Well, the joke was on her. My mother had taught me her native language, and I spoke it fluently. King had been ten, but hadn’t learned much by the time our parents passed away. In my grief, I hadn’t continued teaching him. I was twenty-two, and once we had adjusted to living together again, with me taking on the role of father more than older brother, he hadn’t wanted to learn more.

“Fuck you,” she said, and spat at my boots.

“Woman,” I growled, stepping into her space.

She shrunk back, and I felt like shit. My threat was empty. I knew it. King and Tank knew it. But she didn’t, and clearly it frightened her. I grabbed her biceps and ushered her toward my car.

“Dec, fucking stop,” King called.

As we walked, I began to read her the Miranda rights, until she cut me off.

“I know my fucking rights. As soon as we get to the station, I want my fucking phone call,” she spat.

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” I remarked.

“Declan, what the fuck, man? You’re really going to arrest her? What the fuck did she say?”

I stopped abruptly and turned her to face my brother. “Go ahead, tell him,” I demanded.

She stood there, quiet. Her wrists bound behind her back; her lips pressed tightly closed. I knew she wouldn’t say it. She threatened him, too. She didn’t know she was threatening him. She had no way of knowing he was my family. But I also knew by her stance, she wouldn’t tell him what she said.

She had been talking shit. Her threats were baseless. I knew that. But there was something about her words that pissed me off. The way she spoke about cops led me to believe she might have been a victim in some way.

It should have made me feel sorry for her, but all it did was make me angry. Anytime someone lumped the good cops with the bad cops, I saw red.

The truth was, there were a lot more good cops than there were bad, but no one ever assumed they were all good. Most people assumed we were all on the take in some way.

So much for being innocent until proven guilty.

---