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Gibsie frowned and tilted his head to the side, clearly racking his brain for the memory.
I decided to help him out. “Away game against that school in Tipperary back in third year?”
Recognition dawned on his features.
“Oh, yeah,” he snickered. “That wasn’t a bath. That was a shower stall in their school changing rooms and those bastards deserved it. And in my defense, I was only fourteen.”
“In Brian’s defense, he’s only a cat,” I shot back.
“That fucker knows exactly what he’s doing,” Gibsie grumbled. “Anyway, he destroyed the gaff, Johnny, and went for us when we tried to pick him up. Shannon just walked right in and scooped the furry little fucker up and walked him home. And do you know what he did to her? He purred. He was in his bloody element, lad. Delighted with life being curled up to her.”
Lucky Brian.
“Why am I only hearing about this now?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral.
“Sorry,” Gibsie snickered. “I wasn’t aware I had to run it by you every time I talk to the girl.”
“You don’t,” I muttered. “I just—”
The sound of banging on the front door filled my ears moments before a door closing filled the air.
“Kavanagh?” a deep voice called out.
“Come on up!” Gibsie called out, replying for me. Turning to face me, he winked and said, “Best behavior, lad. Big brother’s here.”
Brilliant. Fucking perfect.
“Jesus Christ,” Joey Lynch stated when he stepped into the kitchen a few moments later with my phone in his hand and sporting a beauty of a shiner under his right eye that I had been too drunk to notice last night.
In the clear light of day, I found myself sizing up this guy. He was tall, but I had a good three inches on him, like I had on most lads our age. He was obviously in good shape, too, but it was that typical hurler physique with lean, cut muscle, built for agility and speed, rather than packing any serious muscle.
“You should have a tour guide at the front door,” Joey added, looking around my kitchen before settling his gaze on me. “This house is like a museum.”
“That it is,” Gibsie snickered. “It’s a manor.”
Pushing off the stool, I closed the space between us and greeted him.
“Thanks for this,” I said, taking my phone from him. “Appreciate you driving all the way over with it.”
“Yeah, well, King Clit was very persuasive,” he shot back with a smirk. Turning his gaze on Gibsie, he arched an expectant brow. “How’s my food coming along, chef?”
“Faster than a whore at a brothel, good sir,” Gibsie called back over his shoulder. “Egg?”
“Lad,” Joey mused, sauntering over to where Gibsie was ducking and dodging splatters of grease. “Are you old enough to use the cooker without your mammy?”
Christ, this fella had some pair of stones sauntering into my house and demanding food. Oddly enough, I liked it. Joey Lynch seemed like a straight shooter. I respected that in a person.
“I doubt it,” Gibsie replied with a laugh. “It’s my first time.”
Gibsie fiddled with the knobs on the stove and a huge flame flew upward, singeing his eyebrow.
“Jesus Christ!” Gibsie roared, slapping his face. “I’m on fire.”
“Give me that thing before you hurt yourself,” Joey ordered, snatching the spatula out of Gibsie’s hand, and stepping in to flip over the rashers and eggs.
Adjusting the hob to medium heat, Joey snagged the tea towel off my best friend’s shoulder and began to mop up the grease splatters.
“Fucking private-school boys,” he muttered under his breath. “Used to having everything done for ye.”
