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May you live long! =Go maire tú!(Guh morra too!)
May you live to be 100! =Go dté tú an céad!(Guh day too un cay-ad!)
God’s blessing on you= Beannacht Dé leat!(Bannocked day lat!)
May your journey be successful= Go n-éirí an bóthar leat!(Guh nye-ree un bow-her lat!)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Writing has always been a hobby for me, ever since I was little. But it wasn't until I took some time off from work to raise my daughter that I really had a little more time to set aside to properly focus on my passion and bring the very real people in my head alive on the page.
I find the best way for me to write is to immerse myself in a story, let my characters take me where they want to go, and hope for the best. When finishing a book, I always like to leave my characters at a point in their lives where I know that they are happy, in love, and hopefully, going to go off and live good lives without me looking over their shoulders. I hope that I have managed that!
When I'm not living in the world of my characters, I live in Brisbane, Australia, with my very understanding husband, our wonderful little girl and chilled out son, and our two energetic cats.
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Find out more about K.S. Ellis’ latest releases at ksellis.com
Read on to see what happens in Niall’s story, Bad to the Bone, availablehere.
Chapter One
MELLIE
Oracle, in West Boston, doesn’t look like a strip club. There’s no neon sign with “X’s” or the word “GIRLS” flashing anywhere. There are no scantily clad women out the front, luring patrons in. There are no pictures of scantily clad women in the windows.
It looks like any other bar, situated in a gorgeous historical stone building. It has an imposing façade in the daytime, and I imagine it must look quite spectacular at night when it’s all lit up.
There is a nondescript, dark-colored sedan across the road with two men sitting in it. They’re clearly cops. I’m not sure whether they are not bothering to hide the fact that they are staking the place out or if they don’t care.
Ignoring the feeling of their eyes on me, I clutch my denim jacket closer to my chest as I hurry up the stairs and dart inside the club.
I pass a small coat check area, unmanned and empty since it is only one in the afternoon. Continuing through the silent hallway, I walk through an elaborately carved wooden doorframe into a largish bar area.
I haven’t been into many strip clubs in my life –Dad would have had my head –but it’s exactly how I imagined one would look.
There is a stage at the far end with a prominent pole for the strippers. An old-school wooden bar runs the length of one side of the room, and tables and red leather-clad booths are scattered around the space. There are no exterior windows, though the overhead lights are currently brightly lit. I can see a strobe light mounted on the ceiling, and the stage appears to have a serious lighting system.
Over near the bar, there’s a shiny jukebox, and to the side of the stage, a DJ’s booth. This is a pretty cool space. I’d totally come to a party here. The club isn’t completely deserted. A sole male bartender stands watching me, stacking glasses.
He has a bushy red beard and matching bushy eyebrows and glances up when I enter, eyebrows raised.
“Are you lost, love?”
I relax at once as his broad Boston accent rings out. I don’tknow, but I don’t imagine the Irish Mafia would have broad Boston accents. Would they? Wait. Do the mobsters inGoodfellashave New York accents? Oh god. What if he is an Irish mobster? Everyone in town knows they own this club, which explains those two cops out the front.
I’m here because the Irish run this place, but that’s my business. And just because I know they run this place doesn’t mean I’m ready to come face to face with one of them.
The bartender is still staring at me, looking condescendingly up and down my body. Shit. I should have dressed differently. I shuffle by strappy stiletto sandals and wish my dress was a little longer.
“No, I’m not lost.” I square my shoulders, approaching the bar. “I’m here for a job.”
His bushy red eyebrows rise as he sweeps his gaze over me. I definitely wish I wore a different skirt. This isn’t the best start for a job interview in a strip club; hating how this guy’s eyes linger on me.
I clutch my jacket tightly to my chest, fighting the urge to wrinkle my nose at this asshole. I might be here to try to get a job as a stripper, but I’m not about to give away the goods for free.
