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“Excuse me, but I overheard that girl over there tell her friends ya were bleedin’ massive.”
The man follows where I’m pointing, and his attitude soon changes.
“Janey Mack,” he says, smirking. “Excuse me, lads.”
This ballbagwouldbelieve a table of pretty birds are interested in him because he’s a cocky cunt. He doesn’t need any further encouragement and heads off into their direction.
Cian shakes his head, just as disgusted as I am. “Oh, yer excused, cockhead. Ack, these fuckers sound like buck eejits,” he says under his breath.
And he’s right.
Their slang and accents are different. I studied some basic lingo and hope it’ll get us through without being detected for who we are. But the reason I sent that knob away is because now I can subtly earwig on the conversation in front of us.
“I don’t care whatcha think. I’m askin’ her,” the eejit with red hair persists.
His friends all laugh, apparently not having much faith in his pickup attempts.
“Yer full of wind and piss. Besides, a girl like Erin is too good for a gom like you.”
“And her two brothers are scary as all shite. They rule Dublin. Stay away. I’m not savin’ yer pig-ignorant arse. Again.”
“Run yer lamps over her,” the infatuated eejit says to his friends.
Cian, Rory, and I follow his line of sight and when we see he’s drooling over the blonde bartender, we all make the same assumption.
This is Erin Doyle—the only daughter of Brody Doyle.
Cian grips my bicep to stop me from advancing. It was an involuntary movement. My body is prepared to fight as this pub has a Doyle working behind the bar. I doubt it’s because she needs the money. This pub is owned by the Doyles and is definitely a front for something.
And I intend to find out what that something is.
The three men wait until Erin can serve them, and when she makes eye contact with the eejit, she rolls them.
“What’ll it be then?” she shouts to be heard over the music.
“If yer not on the menu, I’ll have three pints of the black stuff.”
Cian snorts while I try not to boke at the lame pickup line. No wonder his mates were having a laugh at him.
Erin doesn’t crack a smile when she pours the three drinks and places them on the bar. “Anything else?”
I don’t hear the eejit’s reply because my attention is diverted to the big lad who just walked behind the bar. Erin doesn’t seem bothered that he’s helping himself to the top shelf whiskey. He’s tall and has light brown hair.
His hard face reveals he doesn’t take shite from anyone. He has a sense of control, entitlement, which means he has to be a Doyle. And the way girls are falling over themselves to get a juke at him confirms this.
I’m guessing this is Liam—the eldest Doyle sibling.
They say he’s dead spit of his dad, so I take a close look at him, memorizing the face of a monster. He grabs some glasses and walks over to a table in the corner of the room. I see three older men, laughing rowdily without a care in the world.
I gesture with my head that Cian and Rory are to go check it out while I deal with Erin.
The eejit doesn’t take no for an answer, and as Erin waits for him to finish whatever nonsense he’s carrying on with, her gaze lands on me. I expect her to look away, but she doesn’t. She makes it very clear that she’s checking me out and likes what she sees.
My skin crawls, but my mask is firmly in place as I grin, then raise my eyes to the heavens as if bored by the cockhead in front of me. Erin smiles, brushing a piece of blonde hair behind her ears.
The eejit finally gets the hint, and he and his friends leave, which gives me room to step forward. “Three pints of Guinness, thanks,” I say in an American accent that would make Amber proud.
Erin nods and commences pouring my drinks.
