Page 16 of Dublin Charmer
I hold up my hands. “I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort.”
“Oh, well, good. Tag and Sean both gave us a bit of a ribbing.”
“First, they have no room to cast stones. Tag moved Laine into the house the first night he met her, for fuck’s sake. And Sean wasn’t much better.”
“And second?”
“Why am I the last to know?”
“Sean knows because he went to Piper’s favorite jeweler and we needed his contact info. Tag knows because Sean doesn’t take a piss without telling him first. It wasn’t like we told them and kept a secret from you intentionally. Besides, you’ve been busy with your computers.”
There’s no judgment in his voice, just fact.
“Which paid off. You really came through today, Finny. You gotta know Tag, Sean, and I are tickled with how you turned the tables on Gravely. It’s exactly what we needed to get the pendulum swinging to our rhythm.”
It is at that. Pride swells in my chest again.
“But,” Bryan adds, “if the truth be told, we didn’t want any of you to know. The three of you can’t keep a secret for shit.”
“I can too.”
He barks out a laugh. “Remember when I got Tag that restored Triumph for his birthday?”
“That was different. I was excited.”
“You told him three weeks early.”
“I was fifteen!”
“You told Sean when Da got him his first gun.”
“I didn’t know that was a secret.”
Bryan shoots me a look. “So, I’m telling you. This is a secret.”
I slump in my seat. “And I won’t tell a fucking soul. I swear.”
He takes a turn toward the city center. “You better not, because if you ruin this, both Brendan and I will kick your arse.”
“No pressure.”
Bryan grins. “None at all, little brother. None at all. It’s just our life and our happiness in your hands.”
I roll my eyes. “Asshole.”
I push through the heavy stained-glass door of Jimmy Frances Pub, breathing in the familiar scent of stout and whiskey. The long wooden bar stretches down the right wall, its brass rail polished to a warm glow by generations of patrons. The Celtic soundtrack playing over the speakers has the folks in the back dancing on the wooden dance floor.
The air in the pub feels almost stale next to the crisp bite of the night. I saunter in, glancing at the vintage Guinness ads and faded photos of Dublin through the ages. Behind the bar, Jimmy’s head bobs as he pulls a perfect pint, foam cascading over the rim.
“Evening, Jimmy.” I rap my fingers on the new granite surface of the bar. Jimmy had it replaced back in April when four of the McGuire boys took a run at Tag. “Ginny around?”
He wipes his hands on a bar towel. “Upstairs. She worked the day shift, and is taking the night off.”
“Mind if I pop up and check on her? Wanted to see that she’s all right after last night.”
Jimmy gives me a nod and goes back to tending bar. “Aye, go on then. You know the way.”
I head to the back, past the dartboards and up the steps to the staff area. Past Tag’s office, there’s a door with a security keypad. After I punch in the code, the keypad beeps, then I take the narrow stairs two at a time to the flat above.
