Page 8

Four
Conner
There are three things I can’t say no to.
A pint of Guinness.
A willing woman.
My family.
All three have caused me more than their fair share of grief over the years. You’d think I’d learn my lesson. Slow down on the booze and the women. Learn to say no. Use my brain a little more and my fists and mouth a little less. Grow the fuck up.
At least that’s what big brother Declan says. Me? I say I like things just the way they are.
I drink. I fuck. I fight.
That’s about as good as my life’s ever gonna get.
“What can I get you, Sweetness?” I say, leaning into the pretty blonde on the other side of the bar, shooting her the patented Gilroy grin. She’s cute in that generic, college transplant kind of way. Definitely worth considering.
Too bad I already fucked her.
I’m not a return to the scene of the crime kinda guy. Once I’ve been there, I don’t go back.
Not ever.
She gives her hair a flip and narrows her eyes. “Malibu and cranberry,” she says like I should already know. Like I should remember.
Thing is, I do remember. Her name is Taylor. She’s a business major at Boston College, and she makes this high-pitched humming sound when she comes.
But if you start confessing that you remember things like drink orders and names and that one time you had them bent over the bathroom sink in the ladies’ room, women get the wrong idea.
They start thinking you actually give a shit.
And giving a shit is bad for business.
“You got it,” I say, reaching under the bar for a rocks glass. I mix her drink, pouring coconut rum over ice before hitting it with a quick shot of cranberry from the mixer gun. I slide it across the bar. “Seven bucks.”
She looks at me like I’m joking, her smile doing a quick fade when she realizes I’m not. “Seriously?”
If I gave free drinks to every girl I’ve Gilroyed, we’d be out of business by the end of the week. “Yeah. Seriously.”
“You’re an asshole,” she hisses at me.
I give her the annnd? look until she finally gives in. “Here,” she says, digging into the pocket of her cutoffs to pull out a ten. She drops the bill on the bar and walked off in a huff, drink in hand.
“You want your change?” I call after her, and she flips me the bird over her shoulder. “Thank you for your patronage,” I say because I’m an asshole and because last words are kinda my thing.
“Another satisfied customer?” Declan says beside me, and I cut him a quick look. He’s at the taps, filling pitchers for a bunch of bros playing pool. It’s Wednesday—the shotgirls Patrick hired are doing a brisk business, switching out their empties for the pre-prepped trays in the walk-in cooler at a quick clip. That means all Dec and I have to do is mix the occasional drink and pour a fuck-ton of beer.
“Fuck off,” I say without much heat, dropping the leftover money into the tip jar. My constant irritation with my brother makes any other response nearly impossible, even when I’m not actively angry at him.
“It’s Wednesday,” he gripes, slamming the register a little too hard. “What are you even doing here?”
At the end of the bar, there’s a tight cluster of what look like flight attendants giving me the eye. Thanks to Patrick and his minor celebrity brought on by that ridiculous magazine spread, it’s not just college girls I’m landing these days. All kinds of women are coming in here looking for him. And find me instead.
“Making the world a happier, brighter place, brother,” I say, shooting a wink at the flight attendants down the bar.