by Fox, Nicole
Usually, I’d be cracking up right about now.
But laughing is painful. Even the smile on my face feels stiff. Half-formed.
I slap my hand against Donal’s shoulder. “I’ll be seeing you, old friend.”
“Stay out of trouble now,” he says. Almost like a warning.
“Impossible,” I reply. “You haven’t seen the last of me.”
“Don’t I fucking know it…”
I give him a nod and then leave the storage room to head back into the main body of the airport.
It’s bustling, fit to bursting with people coming and going. Off on holiday, on business, flitting from here to there without a care in the world.
I can’t relate to any of them. I’m neither a tourist nor travelling for work.
I’m a fugitive.
I have no home. I have no family. I have no friends.
I glance back over my shoulder, but I know I won’t see Donal again. He has a talent for blending into crowds and disappearing. It’s part of why he’s good at what he does.
Which begs the question: what do I do now?
Who am I without my clan? Without my brothers? Without my Ireland?
The answer: I don’t fucking know.
I weave through the airport aimlessly before I finally stumble across the gate where my flight is scheduled to take off.
I check my ticket again and step up to clear the last hurdle. The last tether binding me to my homeland.
The hostess at the gate gives me a bubbly smile as I hand over my passport and ticket.
She glances over it, looks at my face, and then back down again to my passport.
“You’ve changed a little,” she remarks. But there’s no suspicion on her face. Just pleasant idleness.
I notice four cops sweep by behind me, but I keep my head purposefully averted.
“It was taken a while ago.”
She hands back my documents and waves me through.
Only once I’m on the flight do I allow myself to relax a little. Still, I keep my eyes open and my ears peeled. The other passengers board, settle in.
I don’t talk to anyone or even glance up. Nothing is certain yet.
Minutes tick past. We’re on the tarmac for so long that I start to get nervous.
But then the pilot comes on the speaker and apologizes for the delay. The flight attendants start their safety spiel.
I ignore it all and shut out the world until the plane takes off. And the moment we’re cruising through the clouds, I start losing myself to sleep.
But just before I succumb to it, a thought crosses my mind.
I should look out the window.
One last look at the only home I’ve ever known.
One last look at Ireland.
One last look at Saoirse, wherever she may be.
But I don’t.
There’s nothing but heartbreak down there. It’s not my home anymore.
It’s not anything.
18
Cillian
The exhaustion, stress and heartbreak of the last few days catch up to me all at once. I sleep through most of the flight.
When I do wake up, we’re about fifty minutes from Los Angeles. Which means I’ve slept for nearly twelve hours straight.
It leaves me with a strange feeling. Like I’m awake but not quite.
Like I’m in someone else’s body, living someone else’s life.
Nothing about my current situation feels like it belongs to me. Nothing connects.
I think about Da, about Ma, about Sean, about Kian.
I think about my room back at the mansion.
But mostly, I think about Saoirse.
I ought to hate her. And maybe I do, a little bit.
But not the way I should. Not with that clawing sense of betrayal that makes a person feel like they’ve got no option but to move on, no matter what.
I know myself well enough to know that there will be no moving on for me. Not in the ways that truly matter.
“Sir?”
One of the flight attendants approaches me with a tray of beverages.
“We should be landing soon,” she says. “You missed both in-flight meals. Would you like me to bring you something to eat?”
“Hell yes,” I reply. “Also, get me the strongest drink you’ve got on this plane. And then bring me another one.”
She raises her eyebrows, but then nods. “Right away, sir.”
I might’ve come on a little aggressive. But goddamn, I’ve never needed a drink more.
When she brings them over a couple of minutes later, I down the first drink before she takes so much as a step down the aisle.
I take my time with the second, hoping that it’ll numb the heavy feeling in my chest.
I know it won’t, of course. But what else can I do except try?
I barely feel the landing as we touch down. I wait until everyone else has shuffled off ahead of me before I disembark in a daze, realizing that I have absolutely no plan.
I drift through the slightly alien interior of LAX. Everywhere I look, the wrongness of this place screams at me. This isn’t Ireland by any stretch of the imagination.
“Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore,” I murmur to myself as I make my way through airport security. I get a few weird looks when I laugh like a maniac afterwards.
The night is dark and gritty as I step outside the airport, but it takes me only a few minutes to find a cab. I get in without so much as a bag in my hand.
“Yo, man,” the cabbie says without really looking at me. “Where to?”
I think for a moment. “Take me to a pub,” I decide. “The kind of pub you’d find in Ireland.”
“Ireland?” he repeats dumbly. He scratches his beard with a kind of vacant look in his eyes. I get the feeling he’s not exactly a rocket scientist.
“As in the country, mate. Green, clovers, leprechauns. That kind of shit.”
My mood is worsening by the second. I’ve never felt farther from home.
“Yeah, man, I don’t know any of those,” he admits. “But there is this one club downtown that’s got green beer.”
I sigh miserably. It’ll have to do. “Fine. Take me there.”
“Fair warning: the crowd hanging around that pub can be a little dodgy.”
“So much the better.”
“Aye-aye!” He gives me a salute and we start the drive into the city.
I pay attention part of the way. The city has a strangely manicured vibe to it. Like a middle-aged woman who’s got a lot of plastic surgery done. She’s still kind of beautiful, but you wish she’d just aged gracefully instead of plastering on all that fakeness.
I know I’m not inclined to be generous right now. Especially because my yearning for Dublin at this moment is deep.
So I decide to withhold my opinion of the city until I know it a little better.
Although, come to think of it, I don’t actually have to stay in L.A. I can do anything I damn well please. I don’t owe anything to anyone anymore.
* * *
The traffic is surprisingly bad, even at this time of the night. The streets are packed, too. And the buildings are dripping with so many different colored lights that it feels like it might induce a seizure if I stare too long.
I turn my gaze from the window and try to breathe through my new reality. It still feels like I’m having an out-of-body experience.
Who knew that wasn’t always a good thing?
“Here you go, man,” the cabbie says, pulling to a stop in a crowded section of the street. “It’s just down there. Byrne’s.”
“Got it. Thanks.” I check the meter before I pay him for the ride from the pile of cash my father handed me.
I get out of the vehicle and head straight for Byrne’s. I’m a few yards away when a young woman with a face caked full of makeup and a ludicrously short skirt steps up to me.
“Hey, handsome,” she says, giving me a salacious wink. “Need some company tonight
?”
I survey her outfit. Tiny, neon blue miniskirt over fishnet stockings. Red heels at least three inches tall and a bralette with lace trim that highlights her small but perky breasts.
“Not tonight,” I grimace. “Not quite my type.”
Truthfully, I’ve never wanted anything less.
She sighs. “Shame. With that face, you’d have gotten a discount.”
“Better luck with the next john,” I mumble as I slip inside the pub. I head straight for the bar.
“For God’s sake, please tell me you serve a fucking Guinness,” I tell the bartender.
He gives me a weird sideways look, but he turns to pour me a dark, beautiful beer from the tap.
The bartender sets the glass in front of me without a word. He poured it like a jackass—way too much foam—but I grab it and drink it like I’m dying of thirst in the desert.
And just like that, I’m transported back to Dublin.
It’s both the best feeling in the world…
And the worst.
“Oi,” I call, getting the bartender’s attention again. I drop a couple hundred bucks on the bar top. “Keep them coming, mate. Don’t even think about stopping.”
* * *
I’m eight or nine bears in and rip-roaring drunk. But I don’t care. The alcohol is making me feel better.
It hasn’t taken away any of the pain or the loss. But it’s masked it well enough that I feel like I can change my trajectory.
I can prove myself and go back to Dublin one day.
I can see my family.
I can see Saoirse.
Somehow, some way.
“Another one!” I yell out sloppily.
This time, the bartender makes eye contact. He walks over emptyhanded, his lips pursed. He’s a brawny guy, lean and tough, and at least ten years older than me. Maybe more.
“I think you’ve had enough, pal.”
His English is slightly accented. Something vaguely Eastern European. I don’t know how I missed that until now.
I raise my eyebrows. “Fuck you, mate. I’ll decide when I’ve had enough.”
“Actually, since I’m the bartender, I’m the one who gets to make the call.”
“I’ll come back there and pour it myself then. You do a shit job anyway.”
“If you come back here, it won’t end well,” he rumbles. “I can get you a glass of water. That’s it.”
“What are you, my fucking mother?”
“There are people who want that stool,” he says, eyeing my spot.
“Jesus. City of Angels, my ass.”
I force myself off the barstool and stumble away from the bar. I’m heading to one of the booths in the back when someone bumps into me.
Usually, something like that would roll off my back. But I’m looking for a fight tonight.
I’m looking for something that will make my adrenaline flow and stave off the unwanted feelings coursing through me right now.
I turn and shove the guy away from me. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘sorry,’ gleas.”
The man stumbles back, but he manages to steady himself almost immediately. He’s wearing elaborately ripped jeans and an Ed Hardy shirt with cutaway sleeves.
He’s also got a big, ugly eagle tattoo inked across his neck.
“‘Sorry’?” he scoffs in a Polish accent, his eyes bulging with rage. “Who the fuck do you think you are, ya mick?”
I’m intensely glad he’s decided to go racist on me. It’s the perfect justification to swing.
And that’s exactly what I do, with passion and enthusiasm.
Or at least, it’s what I intended to do.
Except that I’m pretty fucking drunk and the punch doesn’t quite connect the way I’m intending it to.
I clumsily graze the side of Eagle Tat’s jaw. Which really only serves to piss him off further.
He, quite reasonably, lunges forward with fresh rage and proceeds to beat the shit out of me.
On a normal day, with my head in the game, I could have easily had the asshole on his back. But I have no strategy and no skill today. All I have is grief and heartache.
I’m just throwing my fists at this point and hoping they’ll make contact. Most of the time I miss, and the rest of the time, I get fucking slayed.
Sometime later, I’m on the ground. Fists and elbows and boots and Polish curses all raining hell down on me.
But the pain feels good.
Keep fucking coming, I growl silently as blood pools in my mouth. Make it fucking hurt.
It does that. Keeps coming. Keeps hurting.
…until, suddenly, it stops.
I spit the blood from my mouth and glance up, wondering why the kicks to my gut have halted.
The two men standing above me are a little blurry, given that my head just got rung like a bell and I’ve had enough beer to drown an elephant.
I can make out Eagle Tat, but he’s got his back to me now, his attention pulled in another direction.
This one is taller, lean but well-built. He looks young. My age, give or take. But there’s a confidence about him that resonates with me.
Except, where my confidence is more sarcastic and quippy, his is dark and calculated.
“This ain’t your business,” Eagle Tat is saying with clear agitation. He glances down at me like he’s raring to finish what I started.
“I’m making it my business,” the younger guy replies coolly. His voice is deep and commanding. Natural authority radiates from him.
I push myself off the floor and clamber to my feet. My whole body is aching, but I welcome the physical pain. It’s precisely the distraction I was after.
“Fuck off now,” the new guy snarls.
Eagle Tattoo growls unpleasantly. But to my amazement, he turns and leaves. He doesn’t even glance back in my direction.
I turn to the dark-haired man in front of me. I was right in assuming he’s young. And I was right about the confidence, too.
He’s just got something too him. An element of shadow shimmering below the surface.
Poor bastard looks awfully serious, though. Reminds me of Sean in some ways. Like the weight of the whole damn world rests on his shoulders.
“My hero,” I swoon sarcastically. I spit more blood on the ground.
The dark-haired man stares at me for a moment. Then his face splits into an amused smile, and I can tell I’ve taken him by surprise.
His features don’t look typically American. In fact, there’s very little about him that smacks of this country.
“You’re an idiot,” he informs me matter-of-factly.
I shrug. “That’s neither the first time nor the worst time someone’s called me that.”
“I believe you. Come on.”
I didn’t expect an invitation, but what the fuck else do I have to do?
I follow him outside the pub. There’s an alleyway a few doors down from the pub and we turn into it.
It’s fucking huge. But at least it’s quiet. Quiet enough that the pounding in my head abates ever-so-slightly.
I glance around and then at the dark-haired guy in front of me. “Listen, I know I called you my hero and everything,” I begin. “And I’m flattered that you came to my rescue. Really, I am. But I’m not into guys. Although, if I were—which, as we established, I’m not—you’d definitely be my type. This whole ‘dark-and-dangerous’ thing you’ve got going on really works for y—”
“Are you still fucking talking?” he interrupts, raising one dark eyebrow at me.
I smirk. “You’ll get used to it.”
He nods slowly, still scrutinizing me through narrowed eyes. “I’m Artem,” he says eventually.
“Cillian. Pleasure’s all mine, really.”
“New in L.A., huh?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You might as well have a neon sign plastered above your forehead.”
“Funny. My da used to say I’m a few watts short of a lightbulb.”
Artem doesn’t exactly smile, but his eyes look amused. “What the fuck were you doing back there?”
I shrug. “Having some fun?”
“It looked like you were getting your ass handed to you.”
I snort. “I could have taken that walking dumbbell on any normal day. I’m just jet-lagged.”
“When did you land?”
“Two hours ago, I think?” I say uncertainly. “Or maybe it was three. I lost track of time around the seventh beer.”
“Jesus,” Artem grimaces. “And the first thing you did as you landed was to come to a bar and get piss-drunk?”
“Sure did.”
“Damn. I like your style.”
“Most people do.”
“Where to from here?” Artem asks curiously.
I look around the alleyway like I’m weighing it as a possibility for my new turf. “I’m effectively homeless,” I explain. “But I’m pretty. So I figure I can make some money hooking on the streets.”
Artem snorts with laughter, but I can tell he’s studying me. “Sounds like a solid plan,” he says. “But I may have a better one.”
“Oh, yeah? You gonna rescue me again?”
“Only because I have a feeling you’re gonna die out here without me.”
I smirk. “Buddy, don’t let my model-esque good looks fool you. I’m tough. I’m hardcore. I land on my feet.”
Artem narrows his eyes at me. “Do you now?”
“Fuck yeah. Fight for the Family, die for the Family. That kind of thing.”
He whistles like he’s impressed. “Talk about finding your own.”
I raise my eyebrows as the pieces click together. “You’re not saying... Shit, mate, are you connected?”
“I’m the heir to the Kovalyov Bratva,” he says proudly. “You’ll come to recognize the name soon enough.”
No wonder there’s a natural authority about the guy. He’s been groomed to take over one day.
Just like Sean.
“Come on,” Artem says. “You can crash with me.”
And since I have no plan, I accept.
“Thanks, man,” I say. “I’d give you a big ol’ smooch of gratitude if I didn’t think I’d get punched.”