“We clearing the place out?” Lake asked.
“We’re waiting. Backup is coming in about five minutes.”
Matt cocked an eyebrow at him. “What backup? As soon as those guys start playing, they’re going to wind up the folk who are already halfway to tanked, and the weasel producer is walking through the crowd stirring things.”
Flynn followed Matt’s gaze to see the gleeful expression on Brian’s face as he “interviewed” some of the guys with scarier tattoos. It was obvious from the angry reactions his questions were designed to antagonise.
“Spill,” Lake ordered. “What’s the plan?”
Flynn heard a familiar car engine sputtering along and pointed. “That’s the plan.”
The men turned as one to see a station wagon coming down the drive. It was followed by several sensible cars and two people carriers. The station wagon swerved off the road and squeezed through a gap in the fence someone had taken down earlier to make space for parking. It drove at about two miles per hour straight through the crowd, aiming for the stage and blasting its horn to warn people to move out of the way.
Matt started to laugh. Lake’s lip twitched in his version of hysteria.
“You called the vicar?” Matt said. “I take it back. You do have a brain.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll get the boys to position themselves beside the band and their roadies. From the looks of it, if there’s trouble it will start there.” Lake waved his hand at his men. They nodded, seeming to know by telepathy exactly what their boss wanted. Flynn was impressed. It was one scary talent.
“Is that the knitting group?” Matt asked with a grin.
“Yep.”
Matt patted him on the back. Flynn wasn’t ready to celebrate just yet. Things weren’t anywhere near under control.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he told them. “I’m the MC.” He headed for the stage, nodding and smiling as he went.
By the time Flynn got there, the local vicar was already standing on the platform, glaring at people. He wasn’t angry—that was just his face. Flynn smiled at the lead singer of the band.
“Glad you could make it,” he told the guy. “When I heard you lot were turning over a new leaf and looking for some good publicity, I was happy to help out. One reformed bad boy to another.”
The tattooed skinhead scowled. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Language,” snapped the vicar, giving the guy his own scowl.
The look of confusion on the singer’s face was priceless.
“My producer, Brian—he’s the guy over there.” Flynn pointed at the weasel and waved. Brian looked confused. Good. Scared would be better, but hopefully that would come later. “He set this up. He said after last year’s arrest you were having trouble. I believe in second chances, so when the vicar here organised this rally, I suggested you guys. I’m grateful you could make it. Did Brian mention you’d need to tone down your lyrics? Wouldn’t help the cause if we offended the local women’s group.” Flynn pointed to the mass of middle-aged women approaching the stage.
The singer’s jaw dropped as Flynn’s aunty Heather waved at him.
The women of Knit or Die, plus quite a few others from the church who’d been roped in, filed onto the stage. Each of them held a small bucket, and they were wearing matching pink shirts with Knit or Die in bold over their chests. They were also giggling like schoolgirls.
“What the fuck?” the singer said again.
The octogenarian vicar reached up and smacked the guy on the back of the head. “God is listening, boy. Have some respect.”
The singer actually seemed a little ashamed. Flynn grinned at him before tapping the microphone. He looked out over the crowd, noticing Lake’s men and his ex-football team members were dispersed throughout, ready to quell any trouble before it broke out.
“Hello, everybody,” Flynn called. “Thanks for coming out today. This event means a lot to me, and I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you here.”
The crowd roared. He spotted Matt laughing, and ignored him.
“I think there might have been a bit of a mix-up in the information you got along with your invite,” Flynn said. “It looks like some of you are here ready to party hard.” Another roar. “And that’s great. You can get to it, as soon as you’ve supported the cause.” There were murmurs of confusion. “Before I give the mic over to Reverend Morrison, I want to thank the boys of Royal Flush for coming out at such short notice. The church and I really appreciate the time you’re giving up for this worthy cause.
“I realise that, like me, you boys have had some bad press. Maybe made some decisions resulting in fallout you weren’t expecting. Well, that’s all behind us here. Today we’re starting again. We’re turning over a new leaf. United in helping the church of Invertary get back on its feet. Reverend Morrison is a great believer in second chances. That’s why this cause is a perfect fit. The church building needs a second chance at life too. And with your donations today, they’ll be one step closer to achieving that goal. Thank you all for coming. The church ladies will be here later on with cake and tea. In the meantime, let’s show this town how fundraising is done! Reverend, the microphone is yours.”
Flynn stood beside the lead singer of the band while the vicar grabbed the mic. Shock rippled through the crowd like a Mexican wave at a football match. The sight made Flynn want to grin, but he didn’t. He kept a look of serene conviction on his face and reminded himself the old bugger talking had conned him out of a fortune for his appearance at this fundraiser.
“The church needs a new roof,” the vicar barked. “And we need new carpet. I’m told the chairs are so old they’ve retained the bum shapes of some of the parishioners, which makes them uncomfortable when other people use them, so new chairs would be good. Our sound system is rubbish. We need a new one. I put it on the list, but the church committee took it off. Some of them like that they can’t hear my sermons. Oh, aye, and we need a new organ.” He glared around the crowd. “For you young folk who don’t turn up at church, an organ is like a piano—only louder. It isn’t a body part.”
Some people stared at the minister open-mouthed, while others chatted in confusion. No one quite knew what to do.
“Now, as the ladies move through the crowd with their buckets, make sure you give generously. And smile while you do it. The Lord loves a cheerful giver,” the vicar said with a growl and a frown. “I’d like everyone here to know that all donations to the church refurbishment fund come with a ten percent discount on any weddings held in the building.” He pointed at a couple who were locked at the lips, the guy with his hand in the back of the girl’s shorts. “You two,” he shouted. “Save it for your wedding night.”
Matt’s laughter could be heard in the ensuing stunned silence.
“Now,” the vicar continued. “I know you young folk expect more than one act at a gig.” He turned to the singer. “That’s the right word, son, isn’t it?”
The singer just stared at him. The minister rolled his eyes and muttered something about a mind ruined by drugs. He turned back to the microphone.
“We brought along an opening act to warm you up for the main event. I want you all to give a warm welcome to our very own church a cappella group. They’re going to sing a medley of popular hymns while the women collect your money. Thanks again for coming out. And thanks to Flynn for letting us use his land.”
He pointed at three women who stood behind the Knit or Die group. Flynn almost choked when he spotted one of them was Morag McKay, owner of the town’s only bakery and leader of the local morality society—a group made up of Morag and her two best friends picketing anyone they disapproved of. Those friends were on the stage with her now. The women wore matching polyester coats in shades of blue. Their grey heads were permed with tight curls in the fake, no-movement look some old women thought was the height of fashion. They adjusted the microphone as the crowd fell into stunned silence. As one, they started a harm
onised rendition of “The Old Rugged Cross.”
“Is this a joke?” the singer said to Flynn. “Is there a hidden camera somewhere? Are we being Punk’d?”
“Sorry, mate, this is real. I thought you knew. I thought we were on the same wavelength here.”
“No way in hell is this happening.” The guy looked like he was about to explode. His neck turned beetroot red.
Flynn faked confusion. “I thought you wanted to change your rep? Brian Flannigan insisted you needed a gig like this. He was the one who called you. There he is, over there.” Flynn pointed at the weasel again, before giving him a cheery wave.
The weasel looked ready to spit his dummy out the pram.
The women started singing something about the joy of the Lord—without cracking a smile between them. Meanwhile, the women of Knit or Die were shaking buckets under the noses of the crowd.
“I’m not playing,” the singer said.
“But you’re the main event. We need you.” Flynn hoped he sounded sincere. “You’ll be on TV.”
“We don’t want airtime if we need to share it with them. Our rep will be trashed.” He cocked a thumb at Morag and her friends. “We’re outta here.” He unhooked his guitar strap from his neck and nodded to his band. The looks of disgust were priceless. “We still get paid, right?”
“I’ll make sure Brian pays you every penny you’re owed. It’s the least he can do.”
With growls and cursing, the men started packing equipment back into the vans. In the distance, Flynn spotted cars sneaking away as the crowd thinned. By the time Morag had finished her set of classic hymns, the only people in the field were his football mates, the women from Knit or Die and the church, the vicar and Lake’s boys.
Flynn sat perched on the edge of the stage.
“I’m impressed,” Lake said as he came up to him. “Next time I need a crowd cleared, I’ll give you a call.”
“Don’t call me. Call the vicar.”
Lake actually grinned outright. Such a rare occurrence that Flynn checked the sky for an eclipse.
“Did you tell someone to watch Abby’s house?”
“Ryan.”
Flynn narrowed his eyes. Ryan was as big a player as he was. “You told him he was just watching, right? Not flirting.”
Lake shook his head as his lips twitched, his yearly smile obviously over. “You are so going down.”
Flynn frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Lake patted him on the back. “Remember my business when you’re booking security for the wedding. I’ll give you a discount.” He wandered off, leaving Flynn to scowl after him.
“We made a fortune for the church.” Flynn’s aunty Heather bounced over. Her grin was sparkling and it eased something in Flynn’s chest to see it. Eight months ago he’d watched her face crumple when she’d buried her husband, and Flynn had wondered if he’d ever see her smile again.
“Don’t forget your donation,” the vicar ordered Flynn from his chair by the stage. He was eating carrot cake and drinking tea.
“You’ll get your money, old man.”
“This is the best fundraiser we’ve had since Josh put on a concert for the town.” Heather grinned widely. “You and Josh should get together for the next fundraiser. Imagine the money you’d raise. I’ll talk to your mother and we’ll set it up. The town needs a new youth centre. I bet we could raise enough for one.”
“I had nothing to do with the money pouring in,” Flynn said. “People were paying to shut Morag up.”
“Forget about a youth centre. We’re sorting the church first, woman,” the vicar snapped. “I need a new armchair in the vestry. The one I’ve got has a stray spring that digs into my back. A man can’t focus on his prayers when he’s in agony.”
“You mean you can’t nap in the chair, more like,” Heather said.
The vicar ignored her while he polished off his cake.
“Thanks for helping out, Aunty Heather,” Flynn said.
“That’s what family is for.” She patted his hand. “If your mum wasn’t running errands in Fort William she would have been here too. You did a good thing here. I’m proud of you.”
Her words produced warm fuzzies in him he wasn’t used to feeling. “It’s not enough, though, is it?” He nodded towards the two camera crews and the woman with a baby on her hip. “We’re still going to be on TV. Abby will still get hit with the fallout.”
“It’s not your fault,” Heather said.
“Aye,” Flynn said. “It is. I get it now.”
“You’re a good boy, Flynn Boyle. You’re trying hard and I’m proud of you. We all are.” Heather gave him a quick hug before trotting off to shake her bucket with the other women. The group were toasting their success as extortionists with cake and tea.
“Don’t get discouraged,” the vicar snapped at Flynn. “Abby needs someone in her corner.”
“Maybe I’m not the right guy for the job.”
“Ha! Of course you aren’t. But you’re the one she wants.”
“Thanks. Did you learn this encouragement technique in vicar school?”
“Vicar school?” The minister threw back his head and laughed. “Young people know bugger all.” He shuffled over to the table with the cakes, lifted a plate with an unsliced chocolate cake and took it to his car.
Flynn smiled at the sight of his friends and family. People who’d come through for him. He should probably hang around and socialise. But he didn’t want to. There was only one place he wanted to be.
With a nod at his teammates, he headed towards Abby’s house.
31
"Until we're out of the Champions League, we're still in it."
Bobby Robson, former Newcastle manager
Brian wasn’t sure how Flynn had pulled it off, but the event he’d staged fizzled out like the Alka-Seltzer he needed for his stomach. Even the band, with its reputation for destruction, left without damaging a thing. There should have been a fight. A drunken showdown or two. At least one shot of Flynn losing his cool. Instead, he had hours filled with women singing dirge after dirge and speeches by a minister who needed a personality transplant.
“You promised me this would be good for my career.” Peaches pouted beside him.
The woman was an abomination. She used her kid as an accessory. She freaking matched the boy to her dresses. Right now they were both sporting bling-embellished denim. He vaguely wondered who the father of the baby was. He wondered if she even knew. He expected she didn’t care either way. Poor little bastard. If the woman got even a whiff of fame, he’d be left in the dust.
“Brian,” she whined. “You promised, and this isn’t working out. I can’t get any time alone with Flynn. He won’t even look at Georgie.” She held out her baby in case there was any doubt who Georgie was. “I need to get a DNA test to get a headline. It doesn’t matter if it’s negative; the test will still make the news.” She pushed her collagen-enhanced lips out even further. “You need to give me the money for a test. My production people won’t pay for one. They said Flynn flattened the last girl who told him he’d knocked her up. They don’t want to risk losing money.” She ran a talon down his bicep. Her false lashes batted. “They don’t see how important it is, but you do. Don’t you, Brian?”
He shook her off. “We don’t have the budget for one either. You were supposed to distract him with your charms, make him forget about playing nice.”
She looked down at her ample cleavage. “I did use my charms. I think he’s gay. Are you sure all these women he boinks aren’t a cover?”
“I’m sure.” Brian watched as Flynn hobbled back to his girlfriend’s house. Fury coursed through him. He would not be bested by an idiot like Flynn Boyle. He signalled to his cameraman.
When the man sauntered over, Brian glared at him. “Did we get anything of use at all today?”
“Depends what you were hoping for,” the guy said. “We mainly got what you saw. Church fundraiser. Grumpy-arsed band.”
Brian clenched his teeth. “What about the other crew. They get anything useful?”
The guy shrugged. “They got Flynn and the chick making out Hallmark style at her house last night. It isn’t much.”
Brian grinned as his world righted itself. “Get the footage. Cue it. I want to see it all.”
“There’s nothing in it. They just get all mushy, then she invites him in for coffee, if you get what I mean.”
“Go get the footage ready.” Brian stared the man down.
With another shrug, the cameraman wandered off.
“Is this good?” Peaches asked. “Will it help get us more airtime? Should I put it on my Instagram account?”
“Yeah.” Brian grinned as he dialled a number in London. “Put it wherever you like. Make sure to mention the father of your baby won’t deal with you because he’s too busy screwing his neighbour.”
Her frown was calculating. “I can do that.”
Brian turned away from her as the person on the other end of the line answered.
“I’d like to speak with Lord Montgomery-Clark. I have information his mother would very much like to get her hands on. It concerns her daughter Abby and her relationship with Flynn Boyle.”
A moment later, the lord himself came on the line.
“I thought you’d like to know,” Brian said, “that Victoria is keeping things from you. Things that could bring a lot of bad publicity your way.”
The outraged bluster demanding details made Brian’s heart sing.
32
“If you’re in the penalty area and don’t know what to do with the ball, put it in the net and we’ll discuss the options later.”
Bob Paisley, former Liverpool manager
It was the calm before the storm.
And the storm was coming. Abby knew it deep in her bones. Flynn might have headed off trouble at his place, but the event had still attracted too much attention. It was only a matter of time before her mother stepped up her attack. And Abby didn’t know how to prepare for it. As she sat on the top steps at the back of her house looking out into the darkness, she heard the familiar lopsided tread on the floor behind her. A throw blanket covered her shoulders and she smiled up at Flynn.
Bad Boy (Invertary Book 5) Page 23