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He looks like he’s about to argue, his eyes locking with mine. I can see the disagreement but glare back at him, the warning clear in my eyes. This clearly has nothing to do with the Irish, and contrary to Fitzy’s belief, my life outside of the Irish is none of his fucking business.
It's grudging, but his shoulders relax in surrender. He nods to the lads, smacking Lucky upside the head as they all walk out of the room, leaving it empty except for the lass and me.
Wincing as I lift my arm, still feeling tender under it,Wincing as II beckon her closer. She shuffles over, clutching her duffel bag like a shield, stopping about two feet from me. Sighing, I pat the bench next to me.
“Come over here, lass. I don’t bite.”
She stays where she is, studying me for a moment. I keep still like I’m dealing with a nervy dog. It works because she crosses quickly, dropping down on the bench beside me, swinging her legs. She’s so fucking short, her toes only just brush the ground.
“Why did you need to talk to me?”
She lifts her eyes and pins me in position with them at my words. Jesus fuck, those things are a damn weapon.
“What are you doing?” she squeaks.
I pause, my hand cupping her cheek as my thumb rests on her lower lip. Clearing my throat, I let my hand drop away.
“You look familiar, lass.” I shrug, hiding my confusion about why the fuck I just touched her face. “But I can’t place you.”
Tipping her head to the side, she studies me carefully, nodding to herself. Like she’s deciding to trust me. Probably not the best decision she’s ever made in her life, but all right. It will speed things along here.
“I’m Lauren.”
“Paddy.” I nod to her, reaching down and snagging a water bottle to rinse my knuckles.
“I need your help.”
Huh? I freeze, water pooling at my feet as I look over at her in surprise.
“Come again, lass?”
She sighs, rubbing her hand over her eyes, looking fucking exhausted.
“My brother said if I ever needed help, I should go to Paddy Flynn, and he will look after me,” she parrots. “You’re Paddy Flynn, right?”
I nod. Who the fuck is her brother? Why is he sending random women to me to ask for help? I’m not the kind of person anyone asks for help… unless it’s Lucky asking for my help to shakedown a poker player who owes him money.
“So, I need your help.”
Can’t say that random women come to me for help often. Not that kind of help. Help getting themselves off? Yeah. Help looking after them? Not so much.
“Who’s your brother, lass?”
And more importantly, where the fuck is he? Letting his sister run around an illegal fighting ring and asking me for help. It’s not right.
“His name was Josh Carmichael,” she says quietly.
“Jaysus feck,” I curse under my breath.
Josh fucking Carmichael. The fighter from Dorchester. My eyes rove over her face again, and now I know where I fucking know her from. Josh’s funeral.
She stood alone beside the casket, staring at the ground while people murmured meaningless words at her. She never looked up. Otherwise, I would have fucking remembered those eyes.
“All right. What can I help you with, lass?”
She flushes, moving her mouth, but no sound comes out. I lean in closer to her. Through the scents of blood and sweat, I can smell vanilla.
“Come again, lass?”
