Page 66 of Her Irish Savage

The old man who brings us our ice cream looks like he’s been here for fifty years. His face is a perfect mask as he serves Fiona’s malt. He leaves her the metal mixing cup and a long spoon, along with a whipped-cream-capped glass.

Fiona laughs at my bowl of ice cream. “Vanilla?” she asks.

“It’s a flavor,” I say defensively.

“Not one I ever thoughtyou’dbe interested in.”Daddy.She starts to say it. I see her tongue curl behind her upper teeth. But something makes her think better of yanking my chain in public.

Maybe she’s remembering the look on Oona’s face. Maybe she’s thinking about Dowd.

Her fingers go to the red marks on her arm, the ones already turning to bruises.

She’s definitely thinking about Dowd.

My own fingers curl into fists by my thighs.

But she takes a sip of her malt, drawing on a straw that’s as big as my little finger. The hollows of her cheeks tug something inside me, something that turns to melted beeswax as she registers the taste. “This is amazing,” she says.

I nod, because I knew she’d like it.

She takes another long draw. And then, casually, like she’s commenting on the music: “I’m going to kill him.”

Not if I get there first.But I humor her. “That’ll cost you, in the long run.”

Defiance turns her jaw to stone. “I’ve done it before. Four times.”

I keep my gaze steady. “More like seven, from what I’ve heard.”

She sucks on the straw, like she doesn’t care. But sometime in the past three weeks, I’ve learned to read the expressions on her face. She’s embarrassed. Angry. Determined as fuck.

“Who were they?” I ask, when she’s swallowed enough whiskey and cream to soften the blow.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” I argue. “Because killing your own uncle will haunt you like those three you don’t want to count. The ones you forget to mention when you tell men how tough you are. The ones you want to erase.”

She pours from the silver cup into her glass, concentrating like it’s brain surgery. She applies the same careful attention to her lipstick-stained straw, placing it in the bottom of the glass like it’s a fuse on a nuclear bomb before she matches the print of her lips.

When she’s finished, not getting close to answering my question, she sits back on her side of the booth. “I’d like another one of those,” she says.

I think about telling her to slow down, but she’s the one who got pawed back at thedún. And she’s the one fighting, body and soul, to keep from telling me about her past. If she’s not afraid of an ice cream headache, then she can do as she wants.

I play my role all over again, going to the counter and ordering her drink. I choose more music—“You Make Me Feel So Young,” “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered,” and “The Things We Did Last Summer.”

She’s halfway through her second Millionaire before she starts to talk. She looks at the glass instead of at me. She traces a pool of condensation on the table, running her fingertip in circles.

“Some men need to die.”

I nod, because that’s obviously true.

“But da saida good King chooses his battles.”

I wait, because that’s another truth. And finally she goes on: “There were two of them. But Da said it must have been my fault. I picked a fight. Went irregular with my uniform. Whatever—I started it, Da said, and he’d have nothing to do with ending it.”

I still don’t know whatitis, but I’m pretty sure I can take a guess.

“I made things look like a robbery,” she says. “And I gave the money to St. Vincent-de-Paul’s.”

“Good thinking, that."

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