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Prologue
Quinn
I workmy shoulders as I throw back my Jameson, waiting for it to mix with the first drink before surveying the crowded Irish pub. This place used to be my favorite hangout. It got rowdy, downright dangerous for those on the wrong side of the family. I made sure of that.
Now as I sit belly-up to the bar, hiding beneath a wool ivy cap, my usually burnt copper hair black thanks to the temporary dye job, I barely recognize the place. The Dirty Dog has gone through its fair share of owners. Every time the pub runs into any trouble with the law, it shuts down, only to reopen months later under new management. That, I also make sure of. As the man now running the O’Reilly family business, I have enough power and influence to make anything happen in this area of town.
“Another, Quinn?” The bartender shrinks back when I nail him with a lethal glare.
“I told you I didn’t want anyone here to know who I really am, Seamus.” I nod at my empty glass, and he quickly fills it. The man has been the bartender here for longer than I’ve been alive. He was old thirty-five years ago. Now he’s ancient and has the memory of a goldfish.
“Then you need to do something to cover your face.” Seamus replaces the bottle behind the bar. “You got the O’Reilly eyes, son. Greener than the rolling hills of our motherland, they are.”
He’s right. If I’m going to pull off remaining anonymous, I need more to my disguise. It’s the first day in the celebration of the Irish’s independence from the British, and those who celebrate come out in costume. Some wear nothing more than period-specific attire, like me. The ivy cap, the slim-fit vested suit, wingtip shoes. Others go all out—mostly the women—dressing up as flappers from the 20s, all cute little bobs and short, short dresses.
Like the sexy-sweet flapper with the stunning whiskey brown eyes sitting to my left. She’s alone, not really looking for company, but not completely shut down in her body language, either. Maybe she, like me, is here to get away for a little bit, a little R&R before the pressures of reality kick back in.
“Seamus, see that girl over there? The one with the eyes?”
The barkeep sweeps his gaze across the long bar before looking back at me. “They all have eyes, Q.”
He couldn’t see her even with his glasses on, which he does not. “The one in costume, with the blonde wig.”
“The one who looks like Carol Channing?”
I have no idea who that is, but I nod anyway. “That’s the one. What’s she drinking?”
“Jameson, neat.”
“Woman after my own heart.” I glance her way, taking a few extra seconds to admire the way her shapely legs look creamy enough to lick. “Give her a drink on me, will you? And while you’re up, you got any masks back there?”
“I got a Zorro mask someone left here last Halloween in the back.”
“Go on and get it.”
He turns to leave, then asks, “You want the hat, too?”
I give him a look. He nods in return and disappears into the back, reappearing moments later with a black mask that, indeed, looks to be part of a Zorro costume. Why he kept it, I have no idea, but I’m happy he did and slip it on. Before Seamus can deliver the drink to her, I take it from him and approach.
“Looks to me you’re about empty,” I say and set the whiskey down in front of her.
She takes her time regarding me, sizing me up with those incredible eyes. When she licks her lips, I lick mine in return as my attention stays on her face. “Jameson?”
“Neat.” I hold up the same drink.
She holds up the one I just delivered and taps it against mine. “Thanks.” We both take long drinks. “What do I owe you for the drink?”
Loaded question. I smile as my cock comes to life, jumping eagerly at the thought of a little attention. “Your name.”
“You first.”
“Zorro.” I grin and take another drink.
“Funny, you don’t look Spanish.”
“The real Zorro was actually born in Ireland,” I point out. She blinks, clearly not believing me. Instead of giving her a history lesson, I wait for her to tell me her name. When she doesn’t, I ask again, “Your name?”
“If you’re Zorro, then call me Lolita.”
