Page 25 of Hostile Vows
Watching them interact makes me both curious and furious at their businesslike attitude. No one gives a shit about my forced circumstances or star-crossed outlook. I mean, how much bad luck could one woman have in the space of a few weeks? At least André’s people don’t kick the shit out of me for being a disobedient prisoner—well, not yet anyway. I haven’t purposefully pissed them off so far.
“Canned cream?” India’s next question punctures my waspish thoughts like a shiny pin bursting a helium balloon.
I move around the island to where she’s standing and focus on the pretty teenager who’s perfectly comfortable in a killer's kitchen, as if it’s her own.
“What do Irish people eat with their waffles?” she asks, looking back at the fridge. “Chocolate spread… honey… or maple syrup?”
“I don't usually eat breakfast.” I rake a hand through my damp hair and tug out a tangled knot. “I’m usually more of a coffee drinker first thing. The bigger the mug, the better.”
Despite my normal morning routine, my concave belly feels neglected. If I don’t eat something, I’ll likely faint, and that’s the last thing I want to do in front of André. Then he really would think of me as a weak little woman.
She closes the fridge door and wanders the length of the walled cabinets. “When I was younger, we’d go days without food sometimes. Reno would steal cookies or bags of potato chips from the local store to make sure I had something to take to school. In my opinion, you should eat breakfast, because you never know when your next meal will be.” Her eyes sparkle, confidence straightening her posture. “Here, try this.” She pinches the corner of a hot waffle and drops it onto a waiting plate, blowing on her scalded fingertips. “I’ll drizzle maple syrup over it. Although, now that you're Dré’s wife, I bet he’ll make sure your favorite Irish food is always at hand… so you don’t get homesick.” If little hearts could spring from her eyes, they’d be battering my unimpressed expression right now.
I walk up behind her and start to open random cupboards, needing a hit of caffeine. “How about I make the coffee?”
“The cups are in that one.” She nods to a slim door above a shiny silver barista espresso machine. “Dré likes his coffee black. Use the Americano setting.”
This girl has no clue what he’s doing to me. “I’m sure he can fetch his own when he’s ready.”
“Okay.” Her lips twitch into a faint smile.
I swipe two mugs, set one on the grilled drip tray, and tap the touch screen display to customize my morning beverage. It’s quite the high-end machine and, of course, uses only the best Colombian coffee pods.
“How long have you known him?” I ask quietly, trying to figure out what all the random options are for.
From the corner of my eye, she picks at the waffle with pink-polished fingernails like a bird pecking for scraps. “A long time.” She shrugs. “Since Reno started working for him. He’s crazy… in an over-the-top, overprotective, big brother sort of way. I love him for it.”
The rich smell of steamy coffee reminds me of misty drizzle, cold slab floors, and the first punch of caffeine before the doors to The Rusty Shamrock open. Although the recollection is homely, it also stirs up the bone-deep remoteness that comes with it. Dull mornings spent checking stock levels and lonely nights sitting by the fire, wishing there was more to life—more adventures, fun, excitement—more.
“Coffee?” I ask, setting a fresh mug in the machine for her and reviewing the catalog of options on the display.
Her nose scrunches. “None for me. Reno won’t let me drink it, says I’m hyper enough without caffeine. He won’t let me smoke weed either or have alcohol. My big brother tries his best to protect me and, in return, I’m the best-behaved sister he could ever ask for. I owe him that.” She offers a cheeky grin. “Have you got any brothers or sisters?”
I rip a corner off the waffle India had prepared for me and chew it slowly, not liking how sickly sweet it is. “No. It’s just me and Mammy.” As soon as I think about her, my stomach aches from sadness, quickly turning queasy after I take a sip of strong coffee. “She’s back home in the northwest of Ireland.”
“Does she know about the wedding? I mean, it was kind of last minute. Especially when André had a blonde here the other night…”
I stare at her in disbelief, watching her gaze drop and her mouth snap shut. “I’m sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I mean… he told me you met each other a long time ago… so…” Her shoulders bounce lightly as if she’s given up trying to defend him. “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other now. Maybe we could go shopping together sometime?”
I sigh, doing my best to work through my frustration without snapping at the poor girl. “Sure,” I reply, even though I’m mentally planning a way out of this that wouldn’t put Mammy in danger.
It’s damn well impossible when the Italian mafia are stalking her every move. However, I’m clearly not his type and André’s a typical male born without the desire for commitment. I’m betting this sham of a marriage won’t last longer than a week. Guaranteed. “How long has he had the tree tattoo on his back?”
“Since I’ve known him.” Indie’s curious gaze meets mine. “Why?”
“No reason. It caught my eye earlier, that’s all.” I take another mouthful of coffee and feel the heat of it warm my belly.
It was our meeting place.
The lonely old Hawthorn tree that had sheltered us from the rain and heard all our secrets.
Except this particular version represents something far more expressive than the memories I cherish. Finely stenciled branches are abundant with foliage on one half of the image and eerily skeletal on the other. A micro flock of birds swarm the partial barrenness and soar toward a powdery pale moon. Below, where the roots reach deep into the shaded earth, a solitary skull sits proud, hauntingly isolated.
The more I think about it, the harder my heart slams into my achy ribs.
“I should get dressed.” I push the unwanted waffle across the counter and grab the bag of dry cleaning. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“I’ll see you later,” she shouts after me, but I don't reply. I’m doing my best to focus on the steps, their formation blurred as a result of my anxiety.
