Page 8 of The Thief
But forgetting is easier said than done when trouble looks that good in an expensive coat.
CHAPTER THREE
freddie
I can't stop thinking about her.
I’ve spent the day walking Belfast's streets, doing reconnaissance on the address Henry gave me, but my mind keeps drifting back to blue eyes and sharp tongues; to the way she looked at me like she could see straight through the bullshit to whatever passes for my soul.
Dangerous territory. I'm here for a job, not to get tangled up with bar girls who smell like whiskey and trouble.
Doesn't stop me from heading back to Murphy's when the sun goes down.
The pub's busier tonight; same crowd of regulars nursing their drinks, plus a few younger lads who look like they're spoiling for a fight. Football's on the telly and everyone's got an opinion about how shite the ref is. Normal Tuesday night in Belfast.
I slide onto the same barstool as yesterday and watch her work behind the bar like she owns the place. She's got this way of moving; efficiently, precise, no wasted motion. She pours drinks without looking, counts change without thinking, and navigates the chaos like she was born to it.
There's something else, though. Something dark lurking beneath those blue eyes when she thinks no one's watching. Pain, maybe. Loss. The kind of shadows I recognize because I wear them too.
"Back again," she says when she spots me. There’s no surprise in her voice, like she was expecting this.
"Told you I was thirsty."
"Right. What'll it be? Jameson again, or are you feeling adventurous?"
"Depends what you're pouring."
She reaches for the Jameson bottle, and I catch the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. Progress.
"So," I say, settling in for another round of verbal sparring. "Learn anything new about travel guides today?"
"I learned that Dublin boys don't know when to quit."
"That a bad thing?"
"Depends on the Dublin boy."
She pours my drink and slides it across the bar with practiced ease. Her fingers brush mine when I reach for it, and I feel that same electric current from yesterday. She feels it too. I can tell by the way her breath catches and she pulls her hand back like she's been burned.
"You're not really a thirsty traveler, are you?" she asks.
"What gave it away?"
"Thirsty travelers don't wear thousand-pound jackets to drink in shitholes like Murphy's."
Smart girl. Too smart for her own good, probably.
"Maybe I like shitholes."
"Or maybe you're slumming it for reasons you don't want to share."
"Everyone's got secrets."
"Some more than others."
She moves down the bar to serve another customer, and I watch her go. The way she carries herself, it’s all contained strength and careful distance, like she's learned the hard way not to let people get too close.
When she comes back, I'm ready with my next move.
