Page 5 of Of Grief And Gratitude

“It’s not that I dislike him,” I hedged, not wanting to offend my friend over her choice. “I’m just not sure how much potential I see there.”

Sloane nodded and tugged on the waistband of her leather pants to cover a sliver of her pale midriff below her sparkly black tank top. I heard at least one onlooker groan in protest before she shot him a lethal look and wrapped her fingers around a pool cue. “What was that? You want to come over here and say it to my face?”

The drunk man glared back and took a step forward. He must not have known who he was talking to. He looked like a gym bro, shorter and stockier than his friends. The type that was all muscle for show. His blonde hair was buzzed close on the sides and spiked with gel on the top of his head. I could smell his cloying cologne from where I stood off to Sloane’s right. Asshat.

Sloane’s body tensed, her bare arms flexing as she readied herself for a physical altercation and tossed her blonde ponytail over her shoulder. I sighed, knowing there would be no stopping my friend if the man challenged her. She wouldn’t let a slight like that go. It wasn’t the O’Connor way to turn the other cheek; her father and brothers had taught her how to defend herself.

I felt a presence at my side and turned my head to see Ben holding three beers. I took one from him and finished the glass I’d gotten earlier. He nodded toward Sloane. “What’s going on? Should we help?”

“Don’t you dare,” I warned, shaking my head. “She’s got this.”

“Bitch,” the man slurred, stumbling toward Sloane. Her green eyes narrowed at the insult. “You think you can hurt me?”

“I think I’ll have you crying on the floor before you can touch me,” she shot back with a smirk. “Maybe your buddies will carry you home to your ma when I’m finished with you.”

Sloane hadn’t grown up in Ireland, but occasionally when she was irritated or upset, she adopted a hint of her father’s lilt. Usually, men loved it, but Mr. Muscles was beyond reason. He lurched forward, hands outstretched like he was about to grab her, and she took a step to the side, tripping him with the pool cue and dropping him to the ground in one smooth motion. She rapped the wood on his hands, making him howl before she brought the stick down hard on his ass with a loud crack.

“Stay down,” she ordered when he moved to rise. “Or you’ll be nursing broken ribs for the next month.”

The man swore as his cronies surrounded him and pulled him to his feet. He looked ready to lunge again, but one of the others whispered harshly in his ear, nodding toward Sloane before circling his hand in the air to indicate the bar. It looked like the guy had figured out who she was, and he was wisely warning his friend away from engaging further. The asshat’s shoulders slumped slightly as he glanced warily at Sloane before turning and weaving away through the gathered crowd.

“Here.” I thrust a beer into Sloane’s empty hand and clinked my glass against hers. “To the champion!”

A few cheers went up around us as the regulars laughed at the night’s entertainment. Sloane made a dramatic bow and waved to her fans. “Thank you, thank you! Thought I’d liven things up a little.”

“What if he comes back?” Ben asked, his eyes roaming over the crowd. Nervous wasn't a good look on him.

“He won’t,” Sloane replied. “Security will make sure of it.”

Ben nodded, satisfied with her response. She’d left out that security worked for her father, the head of the Irish mob in Chicago. Their methods ran less along the lines of trespassing somebody from a property and more towards beating the shit out of them so they’d think twice before coming around again. The O’Connor family did a fair job keeping out of news headlines while still making their power known in the neighborhood.

“How about that game of pool?” I suggested, setting my beer on a nearby table and grabbing the other pool stick. Ben settled on a stool at one of the tall tables to watch Sloane and me start the game.

She pointed at the balls and chalked the tip of her cue. “You can break.”

I tipped my chin and lined up my shot. “What’s the bet?”

“Loser does dishes for the next week.” Sloane always wagered something at the pool table, and she took great pleasure in winning nearly every time.

Luckily, I didn’t mind the dishes. “Deal.”

My shot scattered the balls and pocketed two solids—a decent start. Sloane and I got lost in the game and our competitive banter until a cheer went up in the bar. I paused, lowering my cue and realizing I’d neglected Ben the entire time we played. He looked bored, staring at his phone screen and swiping his finger over it every few seconds.

I should have felt worse than I did. Somebody started an old Irish pub song, and the regulars joined in while I leaned over the table and took aim at the eight ball. A weight pressed against my back as I snapped the cue forward, throwing my aim off. “Shit!”

I spun, coming face-to-chest with six feet-something of Sloane’s older brother Sean. I barely came up to his shoulder. All the O’Connor men had black hair and striking green eyes, with physiques that would make asshat gym bro jealous because much of it was genetic. At least he smelled of leather and something spicy; much better than gym bro. He’d be perfect for that railing, but I’d firmly friend zoned all the O’Connor men when Sloane and I became friends.

Sean was a notorious flirt and didn’t recognize the friend zone. He grinned and feigned innocence. “Oops, sorry about that.”

“You dick,” I hissed, shoving at his chest and turning in time to see Sloane sink the last ball effortlessly.

“You’re on dish duty!” she exclaimed, pointing her cue at me.

I glared at Sean. “I should make you come over and do the dishes for the next week for pulling that stunt.”

“Dishes?” he asked with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Is that your name now?”

“Fuck off with that.” I flipped him off, and he laughed.

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