Mafia King (Young Irish Rebels #2) - Vi Carter Page 0,34
mind is picturing two men in a ring, with large red gloves on them. I’ve always been taken with watching them on TV. I hated the violence, but it was the roar of the crowd. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine all the hairs rising on my body at the noise. That many people screaming at once must be amazing.
“So, is someone you know fighting?” I’m facing Shay and notice how his shoulders rise a bit higher, and his arms grow tenser. His jaw ticks a few times as he works a muscle.
“I don’t know,” His reply has me looking away from him. “The important thing is that you stay with me, keep your mouth closed, and if anyone asks questions, I’ll do the talking.”
“No problem,” I say to the window as I run my hand along the door handle.
“It might get a bit messy.”
I stop touching the handle and glance at Shay. What isn’t he telling me?
“I’m barred, so they might try to kick us out.”
“I thought it was uncharted territory?”
Shay glances at me, and his shoulders aren’t so high now. “It is. Just Amanda, the ring woman, doesn’t like me.”
“What did you do to her? Sleep with her and run?”
He doesn’t answer me, and I hate the tug on my guts that sends heat to my face.
“Maybe I should just ask for a list of who you haven’t slept with.” I hate the words the moment they leave my lips. I sound just how I feel—jealous.
We drive in silence, and I count three cigarettes that Shay lights. When he lights another one an hour later, I ask for one and enjoy it a little more than last night. We stop for takeaway food before we continue on. A sign flashes past us. Welcome to Belfast.
Fear tightens my throat, and I want Shay to tell me that I’ll be okay. A southerner up North. I’m picturing all kinds of things happening to me.
“Maybe we should say I’m from the North.” The fear doesn’t leave my voice.
“That wouldn’t work. You have a southern accent.” That’s all Shay says. No comforting telling me that I had nothing to worry about. His silence on the matter makes my fears grow. We take a side road off the motorway, and I’m sure we are moving away from the city.
Shay keeps driving until we enter a small town. He parks in front of a stone building with large arches that are gated. I think it’s a lot of apartments. I stay in the car as Shay gets out and opens his rucksack that’s in the backseat. I’m tempted to look at what’s in it. He takes something out that is small enough to fit in his pocket.
“Let’s go.” He closes the back door, and I get out, meeting him on the sidewalk. He towers over me, and I’m tempted to touch his hands, but I tuck my hands under my sweater. I’m excited to see a fight, but I also want some sort of confirmation that I’m going to be okay. I take a peek at Shay as he lights another cigarette. I wasn’t going to get confirmation from him.
Shay turns down an alleyway that dips like a ramp into an underground carpark. There’s lots of graffiti on the walls, and I pause as an image of a soldier holding a gun fills one wall. Behind him is a tattered and bloody Irish flag.
Freedom is written under the image. But above all, what captures my attention the most, is the soldier's eyes. It’s like if you step closer, you might see a war reflected in his gaze. It’s the anger, the sorrow, the hate that halts my steps.
“I told you to stay close,” Shay calls over his shoulder.
I leave the damaged soldier and catch up to Shay as he drags open a large, red, steel door. The smell of urine hits me first.
“Don’t touch the railing.” Shay stuffs his hands in his pockets.
I do as he says. “Why?” My voice bounces around the space.
“Some stupid cunts think it’s fun to piss on them.”
I move further away from the railing and skip down the steps after Shay. Four flights down, he stops at the door and takes his hands out of his pockets. He pauses and takes a final look at me.
“Stay with me.”
I nod as a rush flushes fast through my body; if he doesn’t move, I’m going to have to shuffle to release some of the energy.