Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(42)

She drops her eyes to where her hand rests, and they widen. At least she slides rather than yanks it away. I know she’s attracted to me.

I head for the front, silently cursing myself. Really, this can’t turn into anything because I don’t think I can handle it tonight. My back is still killing me. Rowen and I cut past customers; the dueling guitars haven’t stopped strumming. Collin has sat on that stool and watched this happen so many times over the years that it doesn’t even faze him. In fact, he usually breaks into one of a few tunes he refers to as “fight songs.”

“Have they paid the bill?” I ask Nuala on my way past her.

“Yeah. Right before the arse grabbed my tit,” she snaps back. “If you don’t hit him, I will.” And she will, too. That’s the difference between the birds I’m used to and a girl like Amber, who I can already tell wouldn’t raise a hand to anyone, no matter how much that person may deserve it. She’s so much more refined and even-tempered. I’m honestly not even sure that the two of us would mix well together. Amber flirts with those pretty eyes and smile, and blushing cheeks. But, plans for a torrid affair or not, I’m guessing she’s never just gone home with a fella for a night and expected nothing the next day. She seems too proper for that.

She definitely isn’t the kind of bird to hit the lights on the bar and then grab my cock through my jeans, announcing she’s in the mood, which is exactly what Nuala did.

Rowen and I converge at the table and the telltale first notes of Collin’s favorite brawling song fill the pub. Normally I’d be cracking my knuckles right now.

My brother pushes in front of me. He’s always the more level-headed of us two. “Thank you for your patronage, fellas. Let us help you on your way out.”

Brennan’s already guiding the loudmouth through the door. The rest of his friends climb to their feet, two of them swaying like they’re five steps from doing face plants. “We were going anyway.” The one to my right turns and spits on the floor.

Spits on the floor of my family’s property.

I close my eyes and count to three. Normally, my fist would already be making contact with his nose. Normally, my back wouldn’t be torn up by shrapnel.

Normally, I wouldn’t have a girl watching me who I’d like to impress with my nonviolent ways.

Shoving aside my urge to clock him, I lock the spitter’s arms behind his back and drag him out. The guy’s bigger than me and drunk, twisting and turning and fighting me as we weave around tables and patrons. But I’m stronger and more hardened, and my growing anger only fuels me on when the struggle strains my muscles and my grip. I shove him free of me and watch the group stumble away.

Rowen’s face is a mask of bewilderment. “What was that?”

I shrug. “You’re always telling me to take it easy.” I finally allow myself to flinch, the pain in my lower back searing.

“Your stitches again?”

I nod. I know without looking that the tape Aengus patched me together with has loosened.

“It’s a good thing I stuck a few men’s large shirts in the top left drawer of the desk,” Rowen says casually.

I stop to glare at him. “You mean to tell me . . .”

He shrugs. “Oops. I forgot.”

“You didn’t,” I mutter, shaking my head at my little brother as I chuckle all the way back toward Amber.

She’s standing now, and I can’t stop staring at her legs. I wonder how she keeps so fit. I wonder what they’d feel like wrapped around my hips.

My adrenaline is running too high after that little scuffle.

“Are you okay?” Her smile is tinged with worry. If she’s upset, she doesn’t let on.

“You should be proud of me. No fists, see?” I hold my hands up, the bruises from last night on display.

She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling.

“Actually, I could use your help in the back.” Where I’ll get at least a few moments alone with her. “Do you mind if I borrow her for a minute?” I ask her friend.

Ivy dismisses us with a bored wave.

“Are you sure?” Amber asks her.

“With another shot of Jameson . . . sure.” For such a tiny person, she should be falling off her stool by now. But she’s not, so I assume she’s a seasoned pro.

“My brother will gladly pour you one.” I slip my hand into Amber’s, so slight within my grasp. She lets me lead her back behind the bar and through the door without a word, following me past the dishwasher and storage closet and into the office. I kick the door shut behind her and throw open the lid of the medic kit, still sitting on the desk.

“Alright, nurse.” With a wince, I peel my shirt up and over my head and toss it into the rubbish to settle on my other one. When I look over my shoulder, I find Amber with her hands covering her mouth and a look of horror in her eyes.

“It’s nothing. Just a torn stitch.” I pause, surprised by her reaction. “I thought this would be nothing for you?”

“No . . . I know . . . It’s just . . .” She purses her lips tight. “Those are shrapnel wounds from the bomb, aren’t they?”

“Just a few little ones that didn’t get in too deep.” I reach out to take her hand in mine. It’s trembling. “I was lucky. Some of those things are loaded with nails. This was just a little, empty thing.”