Page 133 of Dirty Eoin

“Mommy.”

A beaming smile crosses my face as I watch my little boy try to wriggle free from his grandma’s arms. She smiles lovingly at him before placing him gently on the ground.

He runs. He falls. He picks himself back up. Then, knowing all eyes are now on him, and just like his daddy would, he exaggeratedly dusts himself down while wearing the cheekiest of grins, then he runs some more. When he finally reaches me, he shrieks his delight as I lift him as high as I can before spinning him around.

“Hey, little big guy.”

Tears immediately prick my eyes. Happy-sad ones. Happy that I’m so fucking blessed to have this part of my Irish. Sad because he’s never met his son and he’s almost two years old.

“Hey, Jaine.”

“Sarah.” I blink back my tears as I hug Delaney’s baby sister, Cillian’s wife. We see each other most days as she’s always shuttling the kids back and forth.

“Jaine.”

“Jessie.” I hug her even closer. The bond that’s grown between us is beyond any I share with the rest of my friends.

“Now, there’s someone I’d really like you to meet, partner.”

She’s trying her best to sound authoritative but failing miserably. I can’t help but chuckle in response.

Jessie has a unique gift that enables her to lighten any mood, and right now, I’ve never been more appreciative of that.

I turn my attention to Sarah briefly, my expression serious once more. “Take Finian and JJ somewhere else to play. Just for now.”

She nods as I pass my wriggly little boy across, fully understanding why I’m asking. If anything’s going to go down here today, I will not have either of my children witnessing it.

Jessie’s right. I’ve delayed this meeting for as long as I can. I can’t put it off any longer.

I approach Roisin O’Connell confidently, noting that Fergal has now moved to stand by her side. A show of solidarity? Or maybe they’re expecting me to bow to the Irish royals.

Hell will freeze the fuck over first. Jaine Jones bows to no-one.

I look at him first. The man who would have slit my throat had Dylan not intervened. He looks almost normal in his grey slacks and cream button-down shirt.

“Fergal.” I nod.

He nods back. I have no need to look beyond the surface. I’ve already seen what lies underneath on several occasions, and vice versa.

I then turn my attention to Roisin, conscious that all eyes are watching this long-awaited interaction.

I stood her up. In return, she indirectly threatened my life. There’s no love lost between us. There never will be. But we will have to learn to tolerate each other for Fin’s sake.

She’s a petite woman. I’m around five-ten in my fuck-off biker boots while this grey-haired older lady with her stubborn glints of auburn is barely five-feet tall. Her small stature in no way diminishes from the large aura she omits.

Power. Death. Destruction.

All currently hidden behind a pale pink twinset and pearls.

“Roisin.”

I stare at her.

She’s taken a lot of lives. I can see each and every one of them clawing to escape as I stare into eyes the exact same shade of green as mine. But she hasn’t taken as many as I have. Nowhere near, and somehow, she knows it. Somehow, she can feel it like some sort of fucked up sixth sense because, right now, Roisin O’Connell is introducing herself to every single one of the diseased souls that reside within me.

She clearly misses nothing. That makes two of us.

She shares a look with Fergal, and I watch as they silently communicate with each other. I recognize the connection. It’s the same intangible one that Irish and I share. She then turns her attention back to me and nods.

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