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“Are therebars?”
“It’s a town full of fisherman, baby girl, what do you think?”
“I think you’re taking me out, that’s what I think.”
I could, and probablyshould, say no. But the impish grin and excitement on her face is too much.
Also, I might be slightly incapable at this point of saying no to this girl. Which is exactly how, two hours later, we find ourselves at The Surf Dock, a dive of a locals’ spot perched on a pier by the harbor.
It’s not exactly the classic Manhattan speakeasy or high energy nightclub Callie meant when she said cocktails and dancing. But they do serve alcohol, and there’s a jukebox in the corner. I am not a dancer, like, atall. But that doesn’t stop Callie from tugging on my arm after about half a drink.
“C’mon. Dance with me.”
My brow furrows. “We should probably keep a fairly low profile.”
As I said, my house out here isn’t traceable to me, and nobody except Cillian and Ares even knows we’re out here. On top of that, we’re dressed inconspicuously, courtesy of the local Walmart—me in jeans, boots, a button-up plaid shirt and a Yankees hat, Callie in a knee-length skirt, flats, and a long-sleeved sweater.
The look on her face tells me she’s not buying my “low profile” shit at all.
“Well don’t be a sucky dancer and our profile will be just fine.”
I roll my eyes, keeping myself planted on my barstool as I take a sip of the whiskey in my glass. Callie sighs.
“Well, I guess if you’re too scared to dance in front of all these guys…”
I cast a sidelong glance at the collection of grizzled, local fisherman types nursing their beers at the bar before I turn to level a piercing look right at Callie. She shivers, her breath catching as I slide my hand over her hip and lean in close to her ear.
“I’m the fucking king of the Irish Mafia, baby girl,” I growl quietly. “I’m not afraid ofshit.”
In one move, I’m off my stool, pulling her off hers, and sweeping her into my arms. There’s some cheesy 80’s pop shit on the jukebox, and Callie giggles as I yank her across the floor and start dancing with her.
Again, I am reallynota dancer. But with her in my arms, who fucking cares?
So we dance. She’s great, I’m a fucking mess. But I’m having the proverbial time of my life doing it. And for a little while, everything else just fades away—all the drama, all the danger, who we are, even the snickering jeers from a few douchebags at the bar.
All I know and care about is the grin on her face and the feel of her dancing in my arms.
I’m at the bar getting another round when I turn to see Callie messing around with the jukebox. Instantly, my eyes narrow murderously as one of the guys from the bar sidles up next to her with a predatory grin on his face and starts trying to chat her up.
Something red surges inside me. I know I said we were supposed to keep a low profile, and starting a fight with this motherfucker is the exact opposite of that. But I’m still just two seconds away from storming over there and breaking his fucking jaw…when Callie holds up her hand, gestures firmly at her ring, and then smiles as she flips him off.
I burst out laughing.
Atta girl.
But suddenly, he’s grabbing her wrist.
Wrong fucking move.
I snarl, lurching from my stool. Before I can launch myself at him, though, Callie just takes the vodka martini in her hand and chucks it right in his face.
The guy howls, swearing and sputtering and mopping his face with his sleeve. But eventually he turns and skulks back over to his buddies at the bar as they roar with laughter.
Callie turns and catches my eye. She winks at me, and I grin. Then a new song comes on, and I groan as she starts to smile widely at me.
“No…”
“C’mon!” She yells from across the bar as the opening bars of “Time of My Life” fromDirty Dancingbegin to play over the speakers.
