Page 5 of The Thief
Dad would've fit right in here. He loved me fiercely, protected me completely, and made sure I never doubted for a second that I was the most important thing in his life.
"You're my heart walking around outside my body," he'd say while tucking me into bed when I was younger. "Nothing matters more than keeping you safe and happy."
He kept me safe right up until he couldn't keep himself safe. He kept me happy right up until the day they put him in the ground.
"Another round, Tríona?" Tommy calls from his usual corner booth.
"Coming up." I pour his whiskey—a double because he tips better when he's properly drunk—and carry it over. Tommy's been coming here since before Dad died. He always sits in the same spot and orders the same thing. He’s a creature of habit, like most of Murphy's regulars.
"How's the young one tonight?" he asks, because Tommy knew Dad and feels obligated to check on me.
"Can't complain."
"Aye, well. Your da always said complaints never got anyone anywhere."
I smile despite myself. Tommy's got a selective memory when it comes to Dad. He remembers him as a gentle giant instead of the hard man who'd break your legs for looking at his daughter wrong. But that's grief for you; it softens the sharp edges until even dangerous men become saints.
The door opens around nine, letting in a gust of Belfast wind and trouble in an expensive coat.
I know immediately he doesn't belong here. It's not just the clothes, though the jacket probably cost more than I make in a month. It's the way he moves, like he owns every room he enters. The way his eyes scan the pub, cataloguing exits and potential threats without seeming to.
Dangerous. Professional. Definitely not local.
Dad's voice echoes in my head: "Trust your instincts, mo stór. They'll never lead you wrong."
My instincts are screaming at me to be careful.
He slides onto a barstool, and when he speaks, his accent confirms what I already suspected.
"Jameson. Neat."
Dublin. Of course.
I pour his drink without making eye contact. Rule number one when dealing with dangerous men: don't give them anything to latch onto. Dad taught me that, along with how to spot unmarked cars, which streets to avoid after dark, and why you never trust a man who smiles too much.
"If someone seems too good to be true, they probably are," he'd say. "And if they seem too dangerous to handle, they definitely are."
"Quiet night," the stranger says.
I make a noncommittal sound that could mean anything. Small talk's not part of the job description, and something about this one sets my teeth on edge. Not in a bad way, which is worse. In a way that makes me want to lean closer instead of backing away.
That way lies trouble.
"You always this chatty?" he asks.
Now I look at him properly. Mistake. He's got dark hair that needs cutting, darker eyes, and the kind of face that belongs in old paintings, all sharp angles and shadows. Handsome as the devil and probably twice as dangerous.
The kind of man Dad would've warned me about. The kind who could make a girl forget everything she's been taught about staying safe.
"Depends who's asking," I say.
"Just a thirsty traveler."
"Right. And I'm the bloody Queen of England."
He laughs, and the sound does something stupid to my chest. Low, rough, like he doesn't do it often. Makes me wonder what it would take to hear it again.
Which is exactly the kind of thinking that gets girls like me into trouble.
