Page 2 of Mob Star

Those comments were about her? Motherfucker better run.

“Nope. Take it outside.”

This time Cormac and Seamus ease in, so Cormac doesn’t touch the woman. They each grab the guy by an arm, though either of them could take this arsehole outside without a problem. Together… They won’t hurt him, but they will scare the shite out of him.

The woman stares at me before she realizes the entire bar is now watching the scene. Her cheeks darken, and she’s even more pissed at me than she was before. She didn’t rush after the guy, and she didn’t put up much of a defense. But there’s still more than just colleague familiarity between them.

Her gaze sweeps the bar, and so does mine. There are some regulars relegated to corners since there’s about twenty people in here who came together for whatever the hell this office shindig is. It’s an enormous bar, so there’s more than enough room, but this new crowd has spread out and taken over. They’re buying plenty of drinks, so I don’t care. Most of them have ordered meals because we’re known for generous pours— until midnight, then they get stingier and watered down. Patrons are usually already drunk and willing to pay for what they don’t notice is less booze, which makes them buy more —along with our food.

The goddess looks back at me, then glances at the window, looking out to the street, then back at me.

“Was it really that bad?”

“I thought it was enough to kick him out.”

“And you won’t repeat it?”

“No.”

“And it was about me?”

“Yes.”

She looks back at the window and nods. We can see the guy arguing with Cormac, who weighs at least eighty pounds more than the DB. That’s eighty pounds of muscle because Cormac is the cleanest eater I’ve ever met. My uncle’s been making vegan birthday cakes for him since he was twelve and read some article that made him refuse to eat most processed sugars or most things that aren’t plant-based. Fortunately for the rest of us, plenty of vegan foods are delicious, and my uncle’s a great baker.

“Shit!”

Green Eyes hurries to the door as we watch the shitbag lunge toward Cormac and try to shove him. I promise you; it was like hitting a brick wall. I have a completely unobstructed view, and I watch Cormac tense just before numb nuts’ hands touch my cousin’s chest. He’s not preparing for impact. He’s making his body as hard as he can. The guy’s kinetic energy is enough that he rebounds from Cormac and stumbles backwards. Seamus steps up, so the guy lands against him, now boxed in. Neither of my cousins touch him except for where he’s collided with them.

I observe as the woman— who’s likely a doctor or nurse since everyone else in the party is —walks up to them. She doesn’t insert herself into the conversation or try to intervene. She shakes her head at something Seamus says then turns toward the street, raising her arm. She hails a cab and grabs the guy’s arm. Now she’s talking to him, and the douche follows her to the waiting car. I watch it drive away before my cousins come back inside.

Cormac’s lip curls as they come over to the bar. They’re not even a year apart since Cormac was two months premature. You’d never guess at the sight of him now. The man’s an ox, and so is Seamus. They could be twins like my brothers Sean and Shane. Yes, we are that Irish.

“Can I get some hand sanitizer? I feel dirty just being near a fecker that skeezy.”

I pass him one of five bottles I keep under the bar, never mind the two I have attached to the wall behind the bar where all the bottles sit. All the patrons have lost interest in the exchange that just happened. Even the others in the party are more interested in their libations and sustenance. That’s what Nana called it to justify her grandsons doing more than having a nip of whiskey on a frosty night. Never mind that she got me the liquor license three months before I turned twenty-one.

“What’d the woman have to say?”

I try to keep my tone neutral and not give away my interest, but they turn matching smirks at me. It’s fecking annoying because it’s practically like looking in the mirror. They’re near replicas of each other, and all of us in the O’Rourke family share the same shade of emerald-green eyes and varying shades of red hair. That’s the easiest way for people to tell us apart, besides the fact that Sean has a freckle on his throat that distinguishes him from Shane. This is what happens when three sisters marry three brothers.

Cormac’s smirk turns into a scowl. “She apologized and said she’d get him home. By the time we got outside, the drinks were catching up to him. How many did he have?”

“Like three light beers. Not much for a dude his size.”

“Lightweight.” Cormac rolls his eyes.

“Didn’t you smell the scotch on his breath?” Seamus’s brow furrows as he looks at his brother, who shakes his head as he frowns.

“I didn’t serve him any hard liquor. He must have pre-gamed, which is alarming since half of them are still in scrubs and came straight from the hospital. He’s one of them.”

When he sat down with his friend, I got the impression they’re nurses from something the other guy said. But I don’t know about the woman. A doctor or nurse doesn’t matter to me if she makes house calls. But if she left with the douche, then they’re probably a couple. His comments about what he’d like to do with her weren’t just your average misogynistic shite that even I’m guilty of, too. They were more than that. Gross enough to make me certain they aren’t related, but I didn’t see a ring on either of their left hands. I even checked her right hand.

“They’re gone now, so as long as he doesn’t come back, who gives a feck?” Seamus, the perpetually pragmatic one.

I nod and go back to serving drinks, but it nags at me. I don’t know why the woman created such a lasting impression. When you have the wealth my family has, attractive people have a way of glomming onto you. She’s stunning, and I’m definitely attracted, but I’m not used to beautiful women making me think about them for hours after they walk away. Maybe it was a combination of my attraction to her and revulsion toward him. But it just doesn’t sit right.

It should be out of sight, out of mind. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself as I lock up. But it feels unresolved, and I don’t like that.

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