Page 32 of Irish Vice

Fiona’s leading the lads in a chant, slicing the air with the edge of her hand like she’s holding a conductor’s baton. Half the boys in the room are drooling so hard they can hardly shout: “Sam! Sam! Sam!”

Fiona gulps from her glass of whiskey, leaving a ring of scarlet lipstick on the rim. When she passes the glass to Samantha, her eyes spark with a devilish challenge.

Samantha takes the whiskey. Downs it all. Swallows hard and looks around at the men hooting her name.

She takes a deep breath and says, “Jack and Jane went down the lane?—”

The boys start booing before she finishes the line. Fiona makes the sound of a game show buzzer. “Wrong meter. Time to drink!”

One of the lads passes up a full glass. Samantha takes it automatically.

Fiona says, “Drink it down and try again.”

Samantha seems as dazed by Fiona Ingram as my men are. She downs the whiskey like it’s a requirement for getting paid.

The crowd settles to an unruly hush. Samantha closes her eyes and recites, “Mary, Mary, quite contrary?—”

Groans drown her out. Fiona calls over to Cormac, who’s closest to the bar. “Pass us the bottle, will you? Sounds like she’ll need it!”

Samantha flushes—from the alcohol or from embarrassment I can’t be sure. She tries to step out of the circle, but Fiona grabs her arm. “Not so fast!”

Samantha says something, but her protest gets lost in the boys’ roar. She looks around, confused, with just enough fear in her eyes that I know she’s hopeless as a poet.

She needs me.

And it’s easy enough to oblige.

I shoulder through the crowd and take the bottle Cormac’s handed over. The room falls dead silent as I raise it overhead.

“There was a young couple named Kelly,

Who met on the steps of a deli.

He fed her his cock,

Till she couldn’t walk,

And now she has twins in her belly.”

I suspect Kieran Ingram hears the cheers up in Boston. Fiona spins toward me, closing her hand over mine, where I grip the bottle. She raises the Jameson to my lips and sees to it that I down a shot or three.

When I wrestle back control, she laughs and tumbles into my arms. Her mouth lands on mine, hot and ready, her tongue taking advantage of my surprise to go deep. I find her hips andpush her away, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth to clear away her lipstick.

Laughing, she takes the bottle and raises a toast: “To Himself!” My men echo her words, hooting and hollering like a flock of feckin’ jackdaws.

I finally manage to turn toward Samantha.

She’s staring at me like she’s the queen of England. Her spine is stiffer than I’ve ever seen it before. Her jaw is frozen in marble.

Her chin quivers just a little, not enough that any man would see it who hasn’t already carved her face on his heart. Her eyes gleam like the bottom of a whiskey bottle, unshed tears trembling.

“Come on,piscín,” I say, pitching my voice just for her. “It’s a joke.”

She turns and flees the room, pushing her way through the crowd of my astonished men.

I take two steps, but that’s all I can give her. I can’t leave Fiona here, can’t trust whatever game she’s playing. There’s Madden, too—the fecker’s on my last nerve, and I don’t like the way he stared daggers when I caught him taking the piss out of Samantha.

That flower-covered skirt disappears upstairs. I stop short of calling after her just before she clears the landing. Instead, I shove the whiskey bottle toward my brother. “You’re up,” I say.