Page 50 of Steadfast

“I’ve got it,” Cian ground out.

“Cian,” I murmured, putting my hand on his arm. He looked ready to take all of them on single-handedly, and I knew the first one would flatten him before I could blink.

“Alright there?” the old man called, making his way through the bikes.

Cian and I both jolted, looking over at him.

“Said they want to change the flat themselves,” the big biker said, not looking away from my brother. With good reason, Cian was still bristling, his chest puffed out.

“We’ve got it,” Cian repeated, looking at the old man.

“Ach,” the old biker said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Take the help. He’s been changin’ tires since before you were a twinkle in your da’s eye.”

My mouth went dry.

It was wrong somehow, like it was mixed with something else, but the cadence of his voice was achingly familiar. It had been so long since I’d heard an Irish accent that it was a little disorienting.

“You’re Irish?” Cian asked suspiciously. “What are you doing out here?”

The question was funny coming from a kid whose accent at the moment was decidedly Irish.

“Could ask you the same thing.” The old man grinned. “Live here now. Haven’t been home for a very long time.”

“Our dad,” Cian said, glancing at me as if for permission. “He was Irish.”

“Gone then?” the old man asked.

Neither of us answered him.

“We need to get goin’,” one of the other bikers called.

Cian shifted nervously beside me, and I made an executive decision.

“We’d appreciate the help,” I said, tightening my hand on Cian’s arm.

The old man looked at me in surprise.

“Interestin’,” he said softly.

The biker closest to us held out his hand. “I’m Will.”

“Aoife,” I replied, shaking it.

The old biker grinned happily. He looked like a rough version of Santa Claus as he lumbered toward us and shook my hand, too. “Patrick,” he said kindly, a little out of breath.

“Cian,” my brother said, reaching out to shake.

“Ronan, Aoife is going to kill you,” Saoirse screeched from inside the car as our little brother tumbled out of the driver’s door.

“Hi,” he said, smiling huge as he scrambled to his feet. His face was red and sweaty as he gave a little wave.

“Crap,” I muttered to myself.

“They should all get out,” the big biker—Will—said. “That car’s at least a hundred degrees by now, and we need to jack it up.”

“Saoirse,” I called. “You guys can get out.”

Both of my sisters were sweaty and miserable looking as they climbed out of Saoirse’s door.

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