Page 25 of Irish Fire and Forbidden Love
“Are you still going to sing?” he called after me.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I hurried down the street toward the pub, daring them to follow me.
Inside, the Anchoring Pig was packed. The music boomed, and the crowd roared over their pints. Eliza was behind the bar, expertly working alongside my other bartender, Marla, in their seamless bartender’s dance. She spotted me, then the men trailing behind me. Her eyes widened— and so did mine when I noticed Frank sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a beer and staring at Eliza.
When she froze, Frank followed her gaze and smiled. The expression didn’t reach his eyes. He stood, leaving his beer, and approached Rory with an exaggerated slap on the back. Rory winced.
“It’s about time you got here!” Frank crowed.
But Rory didn’t embrace his brother. He stepped back, his voice monotone. “I could’ve gotten here sooner.”
Frank waved him off and pulled out the infamous documents, the ones giving him and Rory control of my family’s shares. He handed them to Rory. “I just need your signature to make it official.”
I turned away, unable to look. Unable to breathe. It would all be over with a few strikes on the paper. By a name I had called out at my most intimate moment.
I went to the stage instead. The drummer had just finished his solo and the next act was gearing to get on. I plastered on my best smile, and shouted, “How are you guys doing at open mic?”
The crowd cheered in response. There had to be more than double—triple the clientele than normal. I recognized some of the usual open-mic-ers, but there were many new faces, with earnest eyes, and big smiles. And they were all vastly different people.
That’s what I loved so much about music. It brought people from all walks of life. With different shapes, forms, ideas. Two very different people from very different backgrounds could come into open mic and find camaraderie.
I said, “Remember the only rule in open mic is?—”
The audience roared as one, “DON’T BE A DICK!”
“Right!” I clapped my hands, gesturing to the bold, hand-painted sign hanging crookedly over the bar that read the same in large, messy letters. Just beneath the sign was Rory and Frank. The papers were in Rory’s hand. Everything I had ever worked for was in his hands.
I turned back to the audience, with the same big smile. I wanted to reiterate the fundraiser, how their contributions—though meager last I checked in the fundraising bucket—but I couldn’t because it really didn’t matter, did it? Nothing mattered.
“Next up, we have…”
“Are you gonna sing for us, Maeve?” the voice was lost somewhere in the crowd.
“I’m only singing if we make our donation goal tonight, and it looks like we’ve still got a ways to go.” More than a ways. We had maybe a few thousand. I needed fifty grand to buy the shares, or I would have if Rory hadn’t…
“How much more do you need?” this came from a different voice, and it came closer, right up to the stage. It was Rory with his checkbook in hand.
“Very funny,” I said, crouching down, away from the microphone. I tried to make it sound angry— spiteful, but I couldn’t muster the emotion. A numb had rolled across my body. Maybe this was what Old Bill had felt, too.
“Fifty thousand dollars. I’ll donate fifty thousand dollars to your fundraiser if you sing right now.”
“Fifty thousand dollars?” I breathed. “Now, I know you’re actually joking. I saw you with the papers, Rory. I saw what you did?—”
“Then you would have seen me rip the papers, too. The deal’s off. I told Frank to call your family right now. To tell them you’re going to be buying the shares instead.”
“But I don’t have the money,” I said softly.
He scribbled out a check for fifty thousand and shoved it in my hand. “Yes, you do, but you have to sing. This is your pub, not Frank’s and mine. I want you to buy your family’s shares. Get out from under them. Make this place what you want it to be.”
My heart jumped into my throat, and I only just managed a “but?—”
I looked at him, then at the crowd. Curious eyes stared back. Even with that money waved in my face, I almost said no, but I managed a nod. I walked stiffly up to the stage and in a wavering voice, I said, “It looks like we hit our goal!”
The crowd erupted in applause.
Emotion clotted my throat, and I almost couldn’t speak, but at the last minute, right when the audience went quiet, I was able to manage out, “It looks like I’ve got to sing.”
And then came a louder applause. It was near stifling. I knew people cared about the open mic, but I never expected them to care so much about whether or not I sang.
