Another tumbler of whiskey showed up at his elbow, courtesy of Tommy. He picked it up, fighting to keep relaxed. He knew from dealing with Brendan and their old man that there was nothing scarier than the eerie calm that preceded an explosion of violence. He hoped like hell that he wouldn’t have to go there tonight, but Ricky was oblivious to the men exchanging leery glances around him. “What are we celebrating?”
“We whooped that O’Malley douche’s ass.” Ricky laughed, too loud in the now-silent room. “You should have seen his face. That pussy went down and didn’t get back up again.”
Motherfucker. He watched any chance of peace slide down the drain, along with his ability to walk away from his brother tonight. He had to make an example of him. Goddamn it. James pushed off the bar. “You beat Teague O’Malley.”
Ricky’s smile melted off his face, as if he was just now realizing there was danger. “He insulted our family.”
The idiot never stopped to consider why an O’Malley would be walking away from one of their pubs without a scratch on him. His younger brother didn’t have the vicious streak that had made Brendan a force of nature, but he was shaping up to be just as stupid when it came to thinking things through. James met each of the men’s gazes at the table in turn. “Get the fuck out.” He raised his voice slightly. “Everyone get the fuck out. Now.”
No one questioned the order, and they scattered faster than he would have credited. Then there was only him and Ricky. He wasted no time grabbing the front of his brother’s shirt and hauling him out of his chair. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Get your hands off me.”
Instead, he shook Ricky. “Answer the goddamn question.”
“He was on our turf!”
Disgusted, James shoved him back into the chair hard enough that it almost toppled over backward. “And you never stopped to think that maybe there was a reason for that, did you? He was here to meet with me so we could attempt to resolve this shit peacefully.”
“Peacefully.” Ricky’s lip curled. “Those fuckers spit in our face. They deserve to pay.”
“You sound like our old man.”
“Maybe because he’s got some balls. Brendan did, too.” He made a show of looking James up and down. “The old man is right—you’re as much a pussy as the O’Malleys and Sheridans. Even more so, because at least they’re willing to fight.”
The decision played out before James, lightning fast. He could yell at his fool brother and hope to God it was enough to make him see reason. Or he could make damn sure Ricky never crossed him again. He was the heir now. He couldn’t afford to spend the rest of his life cleaning up his brother’s messes, or worse, constantly looking over his shoulder.
Fear or love.
It was painfully obvious that love wouldn’t do it—hadn’t done it despite the fact that they’d always been close. The only way to stop this shit in its tracks was to cut it off at the source. He hauled Ricky out of his seat again and dragged the struggling man toward the back room. His brother realized their destination and fought harder. “What the hell? Jesus, James, I was just screwing with you. Stop. Holy shit, stop.”
James shoved him through the door and followed him inside, kicking it shut behind him, feeling like he tore off a ragged chunk of his soul in the process. He took a deep breath, the scent of old blood and fear almost enough to make him gag. “I don’t give a fuck if you hate every damn decision I’m making, you don’t move without my permission. Hell, you don’t even breathe unless I give the okay. You got it?”
“Yeah, James. I get it. I swear I do.” His brother nodded frantically, his hands still outstretched as if that would really save either of them from what was coming.
James rolled his shoulders. “You know the drill, Ricky. Canes or the whip?”
Teague woke up in waves of pain. He felt like a train had hit him—maybe two. It hurt to breathe, and he had no illusions about the fun times ahead when he actually moved. He cracked open his eyes, finding himself in a dim room that he’d never seen before. He looked around as much as possible without moving his head, taking in the feminine four-poster bed and white canopy that wouldn’t look out of place in a fairy tale. Everything was white—the dresser, the vanity, the walls.
“You’re awake.”
He gritted his teeth and turned his head to see Callie standing in the doorway that seemed to lead into a bathroom. Fuck, that hurt. “I thought I might be in heaven, but now I’m sure.”