Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(33)

I ignore him. “Time to go. You know this place gets watched. I figure you’ve got,” I glance at my watch, “twenty minutes before gardai start sniffing around.”

“You sound like you’re expecting them,” Jimmy says in that calm, too soft voice that always sends chills down my spine.

I level a warning glare at Aengus. “Never can tell when someone will ring them.”

Aengus isn’t smart but he hears my threat—though empty—loud and clear. He kicks a box of coasters out of his way, reaching out to throttle me.

“Aengus, enough!” Jimmy snaps, and my brother freezes, though his stance stays rigid. “Have they come around in the last three days, River?”

He means, since the bombing happened. My eyes lock on my brother. Did he tell Jimmy I was there? That I know what happened? That I’m the Irish “jogger” who the gardai could connect to the crime, who could tie Aengus—and possibly, Jimmy—to it, should I want to avoid jail time? Because I wouldn’t put it past a guy like Jimmy to put a bullet in my head, just to make sure I don’t have a chance to talk. “No. They haven’t.”

“That’s good.” Jimmy twirls a pen between his fingers, his attention somewhere beyond the palpable tension in this cramped office. Scribbling a number down on a piece of paper, he pats it twice. “You’ll ring me here if they do?”

“Aengus will be the first to know.” And I’ll burn that number the second this cocksucker is gone.

“Cheers, brothers.” He exits the office quietly. I watch his back until it disappears through the door in the rear, and then I kick our office door shut and shove Aengus into the wall with all my strength.

Even though I’m ready for the blowback, I’m not strong enough to withstand it. Aengus sends me flying into the filing cabinet, the corner of it jamming perfectly against the wound in my lower back. I cry out as a sharp spasm of pain radiates, my knees weakening from the intensity, ready to puke up Ma’s stew. That doesn’t stop Aengus from pinning me with a forearm against my throat, his fist yanking at my shirt hard enough to rip the collar.

It takes a few deep breaths to see through the pain. “What the f*ck are you doing, bringing him in here? You know there are always eyes on this place,” I hiss.

“They can’t prove anything.”

“And if they do? What’s Jimmy gonna do? He doesn’t want to go back to jail.”

“None of us do.” Wild eyes that remind me of the color of pond scum right now bore into mine. “I didn’t tell him you were there. All he thinks is that it was some muppet who knows better than to get involved with the gardai.”

After a lengthy, wordless showdown, Aengus’s arm finally relaxes. I let my head fall back against the nearby wall as a sharp ache throbs in my lower back.

When he speaks again, the fire in his voice is gone. He sounds tired. “I didn’t know he’d show up here. Honest.”

I don’t believe him. Aengus lies so much, I don’t think even he remembers what the truth is anymore. “What’d he want?”

Aengus releases a mouthful of booze-scented air and begins pacing. “Beznick’s sister and her kids have gone to ground. Probably back to Romania.”

And they’re surprised? I could have told them that was going to happen. “So he got the message, I gather.”

“He did.” He pauses, twisting his mouth in disdain. “And just threatened retaliation on whoever was responsible. Tit-for-tat.”

“What the f*ck does that even mean . . .” I tug at the hem of my T-shirt until I can see the dark spot forming on the material. I must have torn a bloody stitch. “If anyone wants a tit, it should be me,” I mutter.

“That Gypsy bastard thinks he can threaten us!” Aengus bellows. Now I know why he was pacing the room when I came in. He’s spitting mad.

“And so you thought it’d be a good idea to meet with Jimmy here and talk about it?”

“Like I said, I didn’t—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” I cut him off, yanking my T-shirt over my head, and reach for the medic kit. Being the pub that we are, it’s well stocked. I dig out the roll of tape quickly. “How bad is it?”

“Two stitches. Here . . .You can’t reach that.” Aengus grabs the roll out of my hand and rips off a strip with his teeth. He’s always been good at quick bandaging. He’s had a lot of experience. I clench my jaw against the sting as he pulls the skin back together. “Pansy.” In another second and with some gauze in his hand, he adds, “That should hold, if you stay out of any more fights tonight.”

I toss the soiled and torn T-shirt into the rubbish can and rifle through the box of spare work shirts we have in the office. “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me . . .” The largest one I can find is medium. And women’s. “Shite,” I mutter, pulling out my old one to check over it again. There’s no hiding that that’s blood. And the tear . . . I can’t be behind the bar with that, especially after a dozen witnesses watched Jimmy and Aengus come back here. That’ll spark questions.

I have no choice. “For f*ck sakes.” I ease the new one on, tugging it over my torso.

Aengus doubles over in loud, raucous laughter. I haven’t heard him laugh like that in years, and it releases some of the tension in the air.