be. Even with the fucked-up circumstances that brought you to me.” She touched her neck, over her pulse point. “But when I look at CeeCee and Ryan, in good conscience, I can’t accept adding poison to any community. Not like that. Not when it hits so close to home.”
Before I could say anything, or she could see the truth on my face again, she moved past me in a whirlwind. Her usual bold scent had changed. It smelled metallic. The scent of her blood. She’d opened a vein right in front of me, not even expecting me to stitch her up, but doing it because she believed in a cause she felt I was fucking with.
I was right behind her as she made her way to the car. I knew it was going to be a quiet trip, and it was. She turned her face away, staring out of the window. We parked, and even as we walked the streets, she kept her distance, keeping herself occupied with the sights around her instead of me.
I directed her to the old pub off of Waterloo, and as I stepped inside, the noise pulsated inside of my head after being surrounded by her silence for so long. I took my wife’s coat and set it over my chair at the bar. The black sweater she swore came to her midriff, and her black pants flowed down her long legs. Her hair was a wild storm of red curls, and her blue eyes glowed under the dim lights, making the few freckles over her nose more pronounced.
She was fucking perfect, and it was attracting attention. I stared at one fucking wanker until his eyes moved from my wife to me. He turned away a second later, laughing with his bunch of pussy friends.
My wife flicked me on the hand, and when I looked at her, she had an expectant look on her face. She nodded toward the barmaid. “Bar food good for you, Kelly?”
I nodded, turning to look the barmaid in the eye. “And whiskey. Keep our glasses filled.”
The barmaid stood still for a moment, staring at me like she’d seen a ghost. Her hair was black and her eyes were blue, but they didn’t hold the same power as my wife’s. “Kelly,” she repeated.
I grinned at her, and her breathing picked up. “Not the first time you’ve seen a man who looks like me,” I said. “Tell me where he is.”
“Who?” she said, lying through her teeth. Her hands shook against the old counter. Her left hand had a gold band on it.
“Killian Kelly,” I said, flagging down the man working next to her. “Two glasses. Whiskey.” Then I looked back at her. “You can tell me now.” I shrugged. “Or I wait.”
“Fair warning,” my wife muttered, taking her glass from the barman. “He has the patience of a saint.”
“You’ll be waiting a long fucking time,” the barmaid said, suddenly venomous. Her “fucking” sounded like “fecking.”
“Doubtful. Once the live music starts.”
Her eyes widened. “He doesn’t want to see you.”
I relaxed, putting an arm behind my wife’s seat, taking a drink of my whiskey. A man came from the back room holding a guitar, and the barmaid scrambled to get out from behind the bar, pushing through the crowd.
A man who looked just like me rolled his wheelchair toward the stage, the crowd patting him on the back, letting him through, before he rolled up the incline and took his spot in front of the light.
The barmaid hadn’t been quick enough. His entrance had blocked her from reaching him in time. She stood in front of the stage, waving at him, but he only waved back. He started to sing. Instead of watching him, though, my eyes were on my wife. Her eyes were glued to the stage, and when she finally turned to me, she grabbed for her whiskey and downed it in one shot.
“He sings,” she said, her breath like straight fire that went to my lungs.
I nodded.
“He can really sing,” she said. Not, he’s in a wheelchair; he sings.
“Seems like music is a thing with Irish twins,” I said.
“Can you sing?”
“Just because I can doesn’t mean I do,” I said.
“That’s not really an answer.”
“If it has stripes and teeth like a tiger—” I shrugged “—it is one, darlin’.”
She watched my face, her shock and curiosity waning the longer she did, and then she turned back to the stage. I turned to my food, eating what the barman had brought out.