Page 18 of Her Irish Savage

“Your father did shite.”

“He—”

“Shut it.”

“I’m—”

“Yer a girl,” Moran sneers, his accent thicker than it’s been all day. “Yer nothin’ but a feckin’ girl.”

I smooth my catsuit. The action’s automatic, but I take some comfort in the feel of the smooth vinyl beneath my palms.

When I catch Moran looking at me, I arch my spine. I can’thelp it. I almost laugh when I hear his hard swallow. I say, “I’m taking over the Crew.”

“Sure you are.” He’s humoring me.

“It’ll just take a little longer than I planned.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The captains will vote on a new general for the Grand Irish Union in one hundred days.” That’s the post my father held, the way he ruled over all the captains in the States. Tradition says all of us mourn, counting off the days, and then we act, choosing our new leader.

“And you think you’ll be that general.”

I shake my head. “Some of the captains have never even met me. It’s unrealistic to think enough will vote for me in just three months.”

“Unrealistic, eh?”

The Irish at the end of his question—a combination of good humor and raw doubt—makes me angry, but it locks in my determination. “Every man in the Old Colony Crew will swear his loyalty to me as Queen by the Grand Irish Union vote.”

I’ve watched a bunch of podcasts about achieving your dreams. They all recommend setting SMART goals. S—make it specific. M—measurable. R—relevant. T—time-bound. I’ve just done all that.

Yeah, there’s an A in there too. The goal’s supposed to be attainable. Moran’s going to tell me I’m being utterly unrealistic. I might as well say I’m going to win an Olympic gold medal in the decathlon.

But Moran doesn’t say anything at all. Which only makes me want to work harder to prove him wrong.

He’s slowed the car to a normal speed. We’re in a busier part of town; restaurants and bars line the streets. We’re getting close to the Commons, where tourists throng.

He nods toward the backpack by my feet. “You still have my clothes in there?”

My chin juts defiantly. “Yeah.”

“Get dressed.”

I snort as I look out the window. “Here?”

“Just do it.”

Knowing it’ll drive him mad, I moan as I reach for the hidden zipper along my spine.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Just cover yourself. Put those on over your…whatever.”

“It’s vinyl,” I say.

“So help me God…”

I peel off my long black gloves, plucking the fingers one by one. I have to undo my seatbelt to pull his sweatshirt over my head, and an alarm shrills like the vehicle is about to self-destruct. I slip off my stilettos so I can negotiate the sweatpants. Moran mumbles something in Irish as I raise my hips, definitely making me wish I’d learned more Gaelic.

He takes a sharp right turn into a well-lit driveway.

---