Page 54 of Player

Finn

The underground is thick with cigarette smoke, loud conversations, and big-headed lads looking for a fight. Little mind is paid to us as I lead Clarissa through the crowd. Something I’ll remedy sooner rather than later.

“This place is mobbed,” she hollers over the noise. She’s looking hot. Casual yet sexy, in a tight red T-shirt and jeans. I’ve half a mind to find out the color of her knickers while having another go at those sweet lips of hers. Drive all thoughts about “nice” and “fine” from her vocabulary.

But if I don’t get my head in the game, there’ll be no kissing, fucking, or explaining to Hayden why I failed to do as he asked.

This club hosts the sketchiest sons of bitches around. Cork has always attracted bloodthirsty dirtballs. Men who’d slit yer throat for a few euros or gamble on someone else for the same bloody outcome. Port cities like Cork have been this way since I was a lad.

I understand this.

I hail from one myself. Growing up in Derry, you become a man the day you walk. You learn to take a tight rap to the head on the way to Sunday mass, then take a few more before sitting down to supper. The Troubles, a bad economy, the drink brewed with whatever chemicals are in the water—whatever the reason, fighting is akin to breathing in Derry. Navigation skills. Negotiation skills. Survival of the fittest skills, that’s the schooling I had.

Along with a few fighting skills.

Street-smart is what Hayden likes his men to be. Whatever else I was lacking, he sure as feck addressed.

I’m the best of the worst lot. No one, aside from maybe Hayden, can beat me. No denying Cork’s a scary scene. But the company I keep will give you nightmares.

These muppets are in for a treat, as is O’Brien.

The mobster’s still in town; Hayden would have called me off if the GPS showed the uranium in transit. If he’s i as big a gambler as Hayden believes him to be, chances are he’ll bite if I can cause a big enough ruckus. A quick side-hustle and a wee bit of fun, that’s what his lot enjoys. Just need the word to get around that there’s a new fighter in town, an underdog with winning potential.

Clarissa is right, though. Time is an issue. Word about me needs to spread quicker than thick slices of whiskey cake.

I push through the crowded room, the minx in tow. An ugly lad with a gold grill notices us first. He gives me the once-over then, bold as brass, settles his attention on Clarissa. “A fine ride you are,” he compliments her, insulting me, the fella with his hand on her arm.

“I’ll walk,” she’s quick with a sharp reply.

I fight off a smile and step in front of her.

“Problem, boyo?” Golden-grin sizes me up and finds me lacking. Granted, he’s a big shite. Intimidating, for most. Thick in the head, for sure. And a real beauty. “Brilliant smile you got,” I say then address the crowd. “If he had another bitta wit, he’d be a half-wit.”

The bloodthirsty lads surrounding us practically lick their bleedin’ lips in anticipation.

I duck down so I’m eye-level with his mouth. Then with over-exaggerated movements, I slick back my hair, using his grill as my mirror.

Golden-grin looks confused.

The lads try to explain it to him. “He’s taking the piss.”

“Bleedin’ eejit doesn’t know who he’s antagonizing.”

Clarissa tugs on my arm.

I pay no mind to her.

“I’d love a drink right now,” she insists, refusing to be ignored.

“Listen to the hussy and take yer shite elsewhere.”

“I’m not a hussy,” Clarissa snaps.

“Yank, hussy, same difference,” Golden-grin insists.

Out of the side of my eye, I catch her giving him the death-stare. Warms my heart, this one. She leans into me. “I’ll take that drink, honey.”

I ever so slightly shake my head.