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“I think we can both say that I won that round.”
Chapter 5
Rose
Thebarwasoneof hundreds of red-brick hole-in-the-wall Irish pubs in New York. Little shamrocks dotted the decor, and the lacquered tables always smelled like beer and cleaning agents. LeBlanc always loved it here, and I was never sure why. He said it reminded him of home.
Guys in plaid shirts, and low caps hunched over their drinks at the bar and grabbed at peanut bowls as the bartender, Quinn, dried a glass.
“Hey, Rosie,” greeted Quinn. “Where’s Ajax?”
“He’ll be along in a minute.” I told him, hoping that was true.
I took a seat at a booth in the back. I expected my accidental companions to sit together on the other end, but instead, the burly Frenchman sat across from me, while the trim Brit sat by my side, blocking my exit.
Quinn came by with his hands in his pockets. He was an artist, covered in tattoos, with a man bun. He always wore a lot of silver rings, many displaying skulls which did little to hide his knuckle tattoos.
“Who are your friends?” he asked me in a bland voice. Then he looked at my blond companion with a strange curiosity, as if he recognized him. The Brit didn’t return his look, but glanced over Quinn’s head to the mirrors behind the bar.
Maybe the stress of the day was playing tricks on me, but I swore that my recent lover shook his head slightly before Quinn tore his eyes from him.
“What can I get you?” He said to the table.
“A vodka martini with a lemon,” the Brit said.
The Frenchman mocked his friend’s proper manners, mouthing the words and adopting a pinched nose, and frown. The Brit chuckled, and I smiled. What an odd pair.
“Beer,” the Frenchman said, his accent adding extra syllables to his order.
“What kind?” Quinn asked, as if the order confused him.
“The beer kind.”
“Got it.” Quinn shrugged. “And a San Miguel for you, Rose? I just got some.”
I nodded to Quinn, and he went off to get the order started.
I wracked my brain, trying to remember what happened to LeBlanc. I heard a gunshot and saw him fall. But was there blood? Had he been shot?
Quinn came back with our drinks. Before I could take a sip, the British guy swiped my fat beer bottle out of my hand and took a swig. He quirked a brow at me as he set it back down.
“That’s how the avian flu spreads,” I protested.
“Also herpes.” He smirked.
“Jesus,” I rolled my eyes while taking back my beer.
“Is this a special kind of beer?” he pried.
“It’s from my home country.” I reached out and took his martini glass, bringing it to my lips and taking a more than generous sip. I set his half-empty glass in front of him and raised my brow, seeing if he’d protest.
He didn’t.
“The Philippines,” he said, not rising to my bait. “Tell me about it.”
The door chimed as a customer came in.
“Rosie!” a high-pitched voice squealed.
