Page 30 of The Irish Redemption

And then I curse myself. It’s not normal to want that, right? The man kidnapped me, for crying out loud. I should want to get as far away from him as possible.

If only I could stop thinking about him.

The next few days pass in a blur of job applications, promising my mom that she can set me up on blind dates in exchange for rent money, and drinking away the last of my savings. For two nights straight, sleep escapes me until I down a bottle of wine. Luckily, the wine sends me right off to sleep before I can act on the urge to call the number Cormac gave me back at the motel.

He’s probably changed it by now. In fact, he’s most definitely not thinking about me at all. A man like that wouldn’t get this hung up on a random woman he met, and I shouldn’t be either.

But he’s like a drug, swimming around my thoughts just out of sight.

Friday night rolls around, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief as I send off my rent payment. That’s one less worry for the next month. Unfortunately, none of the jobs I’ve applied for have gotten back to me, so with my last bottle of wine sitting next to me, I pull up countless job websites and begin the search for the umpteenth time.

After a few hours, I wonder if I can hire out my basic services as a bug planter. Crime pays, right?

Deep in thought, the sudden rapid, loud knocking at my front door makes me jump out of my skin. I glance at the clock. It’s eight at night and I haven’t ordered food. Who the hell is that?

Climbing out of the nest of blankets I created on the floor, I hurry toward the front door. It’s impossible to stop my mind from leaping to the hope that maybe, just maybe, it’s Cormac.

I can’t think of a reason he’d come to visit, but he’s the only person I can think of since I never get visitors.

The knocking comes again as I hurry down the hallway. “Hold on!” I call, pausing to adjust my hair and sort my clothes. Fuck. Well, he saw me at my worst when I was sobbing in that chair, so what I look like now is surely a huge improvement.

My heart races while I unlock the door, then I pull it open with an expectant smile.

My smile fades instantly.

It’s not Cormac.

The man on my doorstep grins a gap-toothed smile and flicks a cigarette out of his fingers onto the step below. He stamps it out with crocodile leather boots and shoves his hand against the door before I can even contemplate closing it in his face.

“Hello, Evelyn.”

My gut knots instantly. “Harry. What are you doing here?”

“Take a guess.” He speaks slowly and leans in close so the last curls of cigarette smoke invade my lungs. I tighten my grip on the door, but Harry’s already pushing it open wider so he can step inside.

“I don’t have your money,” I say tightly. My heart begins to pound, filling my ears with a strange pulsating sound. “I told you I’d call when I had it.”

“You did,” Harry says and with one last shove, he forcefully pushes his way into my apartment. I have no choice. Releasing my grip on the door, I stumble backward as he straightens up and fills my hallwaywith his tall, thin form. The front door kicks closed behind him. “But you haven’t called.”

Cautiously, I step backward, trying to keep distance between us, but each time I move, Harry mirrors it with a step of his own.

“I don’t have your money,” I say, cursing internally when a tremble slips into my voice. “Not yet.”

Nine months ago, I was drowning in debt to more credit cards than I could keep track of. Bad spending habits plus a desire to feel loved through material means. The way store owners would light up when they saw me was a feeling I chased, as if any of their affection was real. When the banks repossessed my apartment because I couldn’t pay and threatened me with legal action, I did the only thing I could think of.

I went to a loan shark. Harry gave me enough money to pay off my entire debt and get this shitty new apartment. Then I only had to worry about paying off one person rather than five. But I was naive. A loan shark was not the answer. The interest Harry piled on top was enough to make me sick the first time he mentioned it.

“Not yet.” Harry tuts softly and sucks on his upper teeth. Suddenly, he flies forward and slams one hand around my throat while the other grabs a handful of my T-shirt. He uses that grip to slam me up against the wall, and fear lances through me like a knife.

“Harry—I’ll get you your money!” I gasp, clutching at his narrow arm that tenses each time he flexes his fingers around my throat.

“Will you?” Harry growls, shoving into me. “Little birdie told me you’ve been spending a lot of time at the police station. You wouldn’t be ratting me out now, sweetheart, would you?”

“No!” I gasp, fighting his tightening grip. I kick out my legs, but he shoves me higher up the wall so that I no longer touch the ground. “Harry—I wouldn’t! Please!”

Releasing his grip on my T-shirt, Harry strikes me across the face. My head snaps to the side and heat explodes through my cheek and jaw. He strikes me again and again until my ears are ringing and my head is spinning.

“Don’t lie to me!” he yells. “What the fuck were you doing down at the cop shop?”

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