Page 2 of Kissin Irish by Morgan
“You ripped that son of a bitch a new asshole.”
My brother Opry pressed a pint in my hand. “Holler and swaller,” he said as a toast.
I downed the beer, thankfully an Irish Red Ale.
Opry started slagging me. “You lucky motherfucker.”
Riff punched my arm and said, “I thought you were finally going down.”
Payday snuffed out his cigarette on the side of my glass and complained, “I’ve lost four grand betting against you.”
Winchester didn’t really get the game. Being English, he was thick as a brick. “Smashing match, Irish.”
My best bud and roommate when I stayed at Royal Road, Cousin, gave it to me the hardest. He tussled my red hair, “You only won because of your lucky charms.”
That was until Pagan came up behind me. “I’m pretty sure Sid threw that fight.”
We weren’t close, so he wasn’t just roasting me. He was serious. My brothers disregarded such a suggestion and continued to rib me. Our Vice President or not, Pagan wasn’t going to ruin our good mood. Any other time I’d partake in their shit talking as they called it, but as it was, I excused myself. All my brothers knew why, so they didn’t argue, but Pagan gave me a stare that reminded me of Villain’s words.
Sure, I got that I was a bit of a celebrity at the moment, around Nashville anyway. It’d be better for business if I were to stay single. But fuck Pagan and Villain. Two sides of the same coin, they were. Where Villain could pass for angelic, Pagan came off as barbaric with his long, ratty beard and beady eyes, but they were both evil. They had to be. They were officers under our mad king. Someone had to keep order while Kingpin played God.
I made my way to Charlotte ready to sweep her off her feet. That’s before I noticed she was with a friend.
“Howeyeh,” I greeted her.
“Nervous, honestly. Oh, I’m sorry. I forget that you’re not asking how I am.” Charlotte turned to her friend. “That’s just his Irish way of saying hello. Joan, this is Patrick Kelly. Or Irish around here.”
The woman offered her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I took it for a moment and exchanged all politeness, but only so I could turn my attention back to Charlotte. For a month, we’d done nothing but text back and forth. Not even a bleeding phone call so I could hear her sweet voice. No pictures exchanged.
She’d wanted to be considerate to her late husband. Or wait until his Will was read. Either way, I could respect her wishes, but I didn’t care to show the bastard any reverence. Now that the niceties were over, I was ready to plant a fiery kiss on her, like I’d wanted to greet her from the start.
But Charlotte asked, “Patrick, how are you?” She expected an answer.
“Grand. And you?”
“Better. Look at you.” Her wee hand brushed my beard. “This and that leather vest.” She touched my arm. “These tattoos. You really did it.”
When Charlotte did the dirt on me, I’d only been thinking of becoming a prospect. Sometimes, I thought me wanting to become a Royal Bastard was the reason she chose the old geezer instead. She didn’t want to be a biker’s ol’ lady, as they called it. They weren’t talking about their mothers, but their wives. No, she didn’t want to be a biker’s ol’ lady, and before the Royal Bastards, I had nothing but the shirt on my back. Couldn’t compete with the millionaire who asked for her hand.
Locking eyes with her, I wiped out the bad memories. I had so much more to offer her now. Not only had I earned my patch and my back tattoo, the Royal Bastards MC’s three-piece patch in my skin, I’d made myself a name around Nashville in the ring. Lifting the glass to my lips to take the last swig of beer, I told them, “I’ll start a round.”
“Oh, no. I’ll leave you two alone.” Thankfully, her friend excused herself.
Seizing the opportunity, I leaned into Charlotte. Our foreheads touched. My hands ran up her bare arms, under the thin green fabric. My lips hovered over hers. “I missed ye.”
Charlotte tensed up before she backed away. I’d forgotten. She’s not like the club whores around here. One of the many reasons I longed for her. Nevertheless, her brown eyes still twinkled at the sight of me.
Taking her waist, I drew her close to me again.
Trembling, she blew out a breath.
Just the sensation against my skin drove me mad. To be honest, I still sported the woody from earlier, but now it beat against my denim.
Hugging herself, Charlotte frowned as she glanced at the crowded bar. It dawned on me, maybe she cared about appearances too. It had only been a month since her husband died.
“Do you want to get out of here?... To talk,” I offered with a wink of my eye.
