He couldn’t even stand to look at her right now.
The band around his chest that never quite seemed to go away tightened until black dots danced across his vision. He’d thought Carrigan understood, but how could she? She hadn’t been there on that street so strikingly similar to this one, hadn’t seen the headlights cut through the darkness—the only warning they got before things went tits up. And she sure as fuck hadn’t been there on her knees, helplessly watching Devlin bleed out.
They’d both lost a brother, but he was only now starting to realize that the demons inside him that rose that night weren’t ones easily exorcised.
Lights broke up the relative darkness of the street and he glanced up, not even a little surprised to find himself outside Jameson’s. His feet always seemed to take him here when he wasn’t paying attention, as if he could somehow change the events of that night if he walked through it enough times.
He almost turned around and left. There was nothing for him here and he damn well knew it. But the siren call of the last happy night he’d shared with his brothers was too much to resist. Maybe if he went inside, he could actually manage to draw a full breath again. He pushed through the door, the heat of the room making him realize just how cold he’d been.
The place was packed tonight, though the crowd seemed subdued. Or maybe that was just him. He made his way through the full tables and snagged a seat at the bar. The normal bartender, Benji, was nowhere to be found. Hell, no one was behind the polished wood. He took in the people’s drinks on either side of him. Benji must have run out back for something.
But when the door to the storage room opened, it wasn’t Benji who backed through. Cillian’s first glimpse was of a mane of dark hair, wild and untamed. Then she turned around and every cell of his being went still. She was the most striking woman he’d ever seen. Her features were timeless, and combined with her dusky skin tone, seemed to indicate Middle Eastern descent. And the body he got a glimpse of when she hauled the giant box onto the bar…Fuck. More curves than a racetrack, her clothes seemingly designed to bring that to his attention without trying at all. The writing across the front of her faded T-shirt was mostly gone, and her holey jeans probably hadn’t come that way.
He had to know more about her.
He leaned forward, deciding to start with something simple. “Hey, sweetheart, how about a drink?” A minute passed, and then another. Nothing. She just kept unpacking bottles into the fridge below the bar. Cillian frowned. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”
“I heard you, pretty boy.” She didn’t look up. “And since your eyes don’t seem to be working, let me clarify something—I’m not your bar wench.”
“I never said—”
“Leave me alone. I’m working.”
He sat back on his stool, stunned. He’d thought he was being perfectly polite. Charming, even. He’d never had a woman shut him down so effectively when he didn’t actually deserve it—there had been plenty of times he deserved it, but tonight wasn’t one of them.
The storage door opened again, and this time it was a familiar face who came through. Benji grinned when he saw Cillian. “Back again?”
Like I can stay away. “You knew I would be.”
“That I did, that I did.” He moved around the woman, a careful swing of his body that left as much space between them as possible, and ambled over. “The usual?”
“Yeah.” Even though he told himself not to, his gaze angled toward her again. She’d moved further down the bar and was now unloading a second box of beer bottles. “What’s the new girl’s story?”
“Olivia?” Benji raised furry eyebrows. “I wouldn’t.”
He couldn’t look away from her. Olivia. The name made him think of someone old world…or just plain old—definitely not a fit for the woman in front of him. “Why not?”
“She’s not like the other bartenders who come through here.” Benji paused. “Don’t step on toes.”
Easier said than done. He seemed to have offended her just by sitting down at her bar. Cillian had frequented a lot of bars, clubs, and pubs, and the universal rule seemed to be that bartenders were flirty and snarky and good times. They had to be, since tips could make or break them. They sure as hell didn’t snarl at a man just trying to get a drink. It couldn’t be clearer that there was something about him she blatantly didn’t like, and damn if a perverse part of him didn’t want to know why.
A glass hit his hand, breaking his thought process. Benji crossed his big arms over his chest. “She’s not for you. I like the girl, and she’s a hard worker. I won’t have you running her off because you don’t know how to take no for an answer.”