Page 23 of Irish Fire and Forbidden Love
I leaned my head back against the seat, the adrenaline ebbing and leaving behind a throbbing ache. The cold night air seeped through the cracked window, stinging against my skin.
“We’re lucky,” I murmured, watching the sheep slowly settle back into grazing. “It could’ve been worse.”
He let out a strangled laugh, then climbed out of the vehicle, surveying the damage. I still gripped his phone in my hand, so I called for help.
“Hey, Frank,” I said, and for the first time in a long time, I was relieved to hear his voice.
“Where the hell are you?” Frank snapped, never been known to mince words.
“It’s a long story,” I groaned. “Look, can you come get me? I got in an accident.” I looked for nearby mile markers or street signs, and when I found one, told him the coordinates.
He cursed under his breath. “You really know how to make a situation go from bad to worse, don’t you?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then he said, “I spoke with that business owner,” he said.
“You spoke with Maeve?” I had hoped I’d have just a little bit of time. “I thought you were going to wait until we went in together.”
He snorted. “Yeah. She’s pretty. I get why you’re hesitant. Feisty, too.”
“Frank—” I started, but stopped, then said, “Can you get me?”
“You’re not that far away. Call a taxi.” Then he hung up.
I stared at the phone for a moment, disbelief coursing through my veins. Then red and blue lights filled the street.
Chapter 9
Maeve
It wasdark when I stepped into the kitchen, and I didn’t see the glass shard on the floor until my shoe cracked beneath it. Nearly the whole place was in disarray, the walls were dirty, and the hallway window was cracked, but the kitchen had a quaint sort of feel to it, with its 19th century table and the small doily in the center.
“This was my gran’s,” said Seimon. He was tall and skinny. He gestured to the table and chairs. “We try to keep this clean.”
I’d recognized the voice in the phone’s background. It was the same voice that had sung at open mic. He had a rare angelic voice, one he showed on rarer visits, but when he visited, he earned thunderous applause from the audience.
He was too young to drink, by about a good three years, but he never seemed to care much for alcohol. His attention was always focused on the stage— when he could sign up, who’d play as his back up.
I’d been to his house only once before, right at the end with his gran. He and his brothers hadn’t been doing well, so I checked in. Seeing the current state of things, I was sorry I hadn’t checked in more.
I sat in the chair that faced the kitchen and watched him bring over two cups of steaming black tea. Then he pulled out Rory’s wallet and phone and set them in front of me. A flush crept up his neck and face.
“We took his clothes, too, but we’ve already sold those. I used up the cash in his wallet, but I haven’t touched his credit cards. I’m not that stupid.”
I knew boys like him. I’d grown up around my fair share of impoverished families. My dad never wanted anything to do with them, but I liked to help when I could, giving them money or food when I had some to spare. It was partly why I had the open mic, and why I didn’t require a drink purchase to play on stage.
“Thank you for giving these back,” I said.
“I didn’t know he was one of yers. I wouldn’t have bothered if I did?—”
“It’s okay. I promise.” I touched his hand and his shoulders relaxed.
There was a knock, and Larry, the tall, hulky, redhead big brother stepped into the room. He wasn’t a musician, but I’d seen him plenty of times at the table with the other brothers, clapping for Seimon.
He smiled at me. “It’s good to see you, Maeve!”
I stood up and embraced him in a tight hug. “Good to see you, too.”
