Page 31 of Go Luck Yourself
A pause for pictures. Smiling still.
“Was that the apology you had in mind?” I whisper up at him. “Or should I go on about how all the rainbows in Ireland point to the pot of gold in your asshole?”
Those fingers on my shoulder are going to leave a bruise.
The muscle tics in his jaw. “You have na yet begun to repent,” he mutters.
“I agreed toapologize,not repent.”
“You’re in Ireland. That’s what we got here, repentance and Guinness.”
I angle for the reporters off to the side, smiling, and saccharinely tell him, “I will make your life a living hell these next five days.”
Lochlann rocks my shoulder and stage-laughs again. “Now, boyo,” he whispers to me, “how would that look for these nice reporters when you came here to be my wee bitch?”
My nostrils flare as journalists start asking questions about the events we’ll be doing.
I did try to play nice.
But I’m going to get proof that he’s the one stealing from my Holiday.
Then I’m going to go Christmas nuclear all over his St. Patrick’s Day ass.
Chapter Four
Questions answered, pictures taken, Wren leaves, and so do the journalists. But the stiffness of performing carries over to dinner in an appropriately medieval dining room with the same dark wood beams offsetting the bright white walls. A long polished table way, way too big for four people is set with places for Lochlann, his sisters, and me.
Across from my seat, Siobhán darts looks at me. Fionnuala deliberately doesnotlook at me.
And Lochlann, to my left at the table’s head, sits so rigid that I wonder if he’s having a muscle spasm.
I rip off a hunk of soda bread and stuff it in my mouth so I have something to do that isn’t talking until I can get my head to settle.
Firstboyo.Nowbitch.
Him and his motherfucking accent, I swear.
And also screw this bread, holy shit it’s good.
In our painful silence, a butler emerges from a side door and sets a first course in front of us. It’s a bright green leek soup that is also maddeningly delicious, savory and creamy. I eat quietly, not even letting my spoon hit the bowl too loudly, because it feels like another ploy for victory. Whoever talks first loses.
I take a mouthful of whatever the butler poured in a squat glass on my right.
Oh shit.
Whiskey. Straight whiskey.
Of course it’s whiskey. What the hell did I think it was? It’sbrown,for fuck’s sake.
My tongue burns where I hold the whiskey in my mouth and it’s everything I can do not to choke, eyes watering, throat contracting—
—until I realize Lochlann’s watching me.
He clocks that I’ve got a gulp of whiskey I can’t swallow and his face lights up like a Christmas tree.
Challenge so strong I can feel it bruising my skin, he lifts his own glass and downs the whole damn thing in one go.
Don’t give in. Don’t bow to his juvenile taunting.
