Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
A waitress comes up to us, a buxom girl with vibrant red hair pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head. “Hey,” she says with a smile. “You’re the Kavanagh girls, right?”
A week ago, we could have come in here, and nobody would have recognized us. Between my sister’s frequent hospital stays and illness, and my hatred for all things social, we barely ventured into town. It was a rare occasion.
“Aye,” I say, with a forced smile.
“You’re Erin,” she says.
I nod.
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes heavenward. “I can’t believe they used your manky driver’s license photo,” she says. “You look nothing like that anymore.”
“Um, thanks?” I ask with a grimace.
“No, I agree,” Bridget pipes in. “Who the fuck runs that account anyway?”
“Dunno,” she says. “Probably some bored eejit with nothin’ better to do. It’s brutal, isn’t it? Don’t be mindin’ them, Erin.”
But how am I supposed to not mind when everywhere I go, someone’s there to remind me?
When we leave the restaurant, the sky is darkening, and I feel restless, anxious.
“I want a drink,” I tell Bridget. “A stiff drink. An alcoholic beverage.”
“You don’t drink,” she says to me. “Ever.”
“Maybe I should start.”
She gives me a curious look. “Maybe you shouldn’t make rash decisions when you’re stressed.”
I grunt. “Are you supposed to drink? With your medication and whatnot?”
“Yes,” she says with a sigh. “Not a lot, obviously, and when I’m on the blood thinners, I can’t, but… What’s the worst that’s going to happen?”
I don’t want to answer that question because I don’t want to think about the worst that could happen.
“We can at least order something non-alcoholic, right?” she says, shaking her head. “I think we can manage that.”
“Alright, fair enough,” I tell her.
The three guards Cavin sent watch us warily as we head toward a pub.
“Why are you going in there?” one says.
“Because I want a drink,” I tell him.
“Well, you shouldn’t go into that pub. We’ll go somewhere closer to home instead. It’s safer.”
“Safer?” That’s a strange thing to say. “What if I don’t want safer?” I tell him, giving him a look. I don’t understand what he’s going on about right now.
“Well, you shouldn’t go in there. It’s not for girls like you.”
Girls like me? Well, the surest way to get me to do something is to tell me I can’t.
“I don’t want Cavin’s bodyguard telling me what to do,” I say. It feels like an extension of him. I’m not exactly going to roll over and beg. I have more self-respect than that.
His eyes narrow. “Mr. McCarthy isn’t going to like you going in there.”
“Well, I don’t belong to Mr. McCarthy.”
“You almost do,” he says.
“Almost doesn’t count.” My voice is rising. Now I’m determined to go into this place he’s insisting I can’t go into.
“Are you out of your mind?” he says to me, tossing his hands up in the air.
I glare. “You know I have Mr. McCarthy’s phone number right here.”
“Call him then,” he says. “Ask him.” Dammit. He wasn’t supposed to call my bluff.
“I’m not asking him, but I am going to tell him that you’re trying to boss me around.”
“Good, maybe I’ll get a bonus.”
“Great. Just great.” I want to stomp my feet.
Instead, I look at my phone and notice that I have not one, not two, but three messages from Cavin.
I tap on the first one.
Cavin
Am I still blocked? Or do you actually see this now? You brat.
The second:
Cavin
I’m sending three of my men to watch over you.
The third:
Cavin
Put on your location tracker so that I can watch you.
I type back quickly:
Number one: You’re not blocked. Number two: I’m well aware that you sent your goons round to watch over me. Number three: Fuck off.
I toss my phone in my bag and take Bridget by the hand. “Let’s go.”
She wobbles a little, and one of the guards steps in as if to catch her, but she quickly steadies herself.
“I’m fine,” she says with a forced smile.
When we enter, I don’t understand why he protested so much. This just looks like a normal pub. There’s a match on the telly—hurling, maybe, or football—playing on a massive screen. Glasses line the bar, bottles gleaming in the low light, and couples sit at round tables nursing their pints. It’s actually quite nice in here, cozy even, though dimly lit.
Nothing sinister about it at all.
It isn’t until my second round of soda water that I see someone questionably dressed walk past me.
“Is that… latex?” Bridget whispers, staring at the girl’s black skirt. “It’s an interesting clothing choice, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” I say, and I watch as she walks to the back of the room, whispers something to someone, and they take her down a little corridor to a separate elevator.
She doesn’t come back.
“Where’d she go?” I say to Bridget. “That’s odd.”