Page 62 of The Lies We Tell

I glance down at my watch before I turn to face Cillian Ó Ceallaigh. He’s wearing a black suit, crisp white shirt, and shoes so polished you can see your reflection in them. Two men loom ominously behind me. The bulge beneath their jackets tells me they’re carrying.

“An errand for a friend,” I say. And, as if I’d planned it all along, I add, “There’s a reason I’m not wearing my colors. Respect and all that.”

Cillian studies me intently, then steps right up into my space. I’m taller than Cillian, but only by an inch or so. And I figure, given the cut of that suit, he’s got a bare-knuckle fighter’s build. “I find out King sent you down here to gather intel on us, I’m going to rip your balls off and shove them down your throat.”

“Yeah. He sent a single man, without his cut, to stand on a sidewalk in Manhattan on the off chance I see something. That really speaks to genius.”

Cillian purses his lips. “You want to watch that mouth of yours, preacher man. Stick to Bible quotes. Leave my city to me.”

“Thus I will punish the world for its evil and the wicked for their guilt. I will put an end to the pride of the arrogant, the insolence of tyrants I will humble.”

There’s silence for a moment. “I heard you were a Baptist, preacher man.”

It’s starting to bug me that he’s using the name my club sometimes uses for me. “And?” I say.

“I’ve always thought Baptists favored the King James Bible. Shouldn’t that quote be ‘And I will punish the world for their evil, and the wicked for their iniquity; and I will cause the arrogancy of the proud to cease, and will lay low the haughtiness of the terrible.’”

My stomach flips, but I maintain the harsh grin. “Perhaps I thought it would resonate better with an Irishman if it came from a Bible he used at Mass on Sundays.”

Maybe he suspects something, but the enemy of mine enemy is my friend. He hates the club. I’m meant to be on the other side of the club. It was one small slip. “Perhaps the words spoken should concern you more than the source.”

I pull myself up to my full height and cross my arms in front of my chest. I want to retaliate so bad, I can taste it. But out of the corner of my eye, I see Briar jog down the steps of the building.

Fuck me.

She’s wearing navy and orange. I think it’s her favorite color combination. Her long blonde hair I love to fist swings in the watery sunlight.

“Hey,” she says, when she reaches us. “I’m all done.”

I see Cillian glance down her body, then back up. “And who are you, little one?”

There is uncertainty in her eyes as she looks between us.

“She’s my neighbor’s granddaughter who needed a ride for an important interview. And now we need to be going.”

Cillian disregards me and takes Briar’s hand. “Conas atá tú? Cillian, is ainm dom.”

“I’m good,” she says without batting an eyelid. “Pleased to meet you, Cillian.”

Cillian raises an eyebrow without letting go of her hand. I’m ready to rip his motherfucking hand off, but one of the things with bomb disposal, you learn that taking any unnecessary action can lead to detonation. Briar does not look distressed.

“You speak Gaelic?” he asks.

“Nuair is gá in am riachtanais.”

Cillian grins.

“We need to get going,” I say.

“Not until I know why such a pretty young American speaks my language like she was born to it.”

“Irish grandfather,” Briar says. She looks up at me. “I told Pop I’d be back by one to help him get to the doctor’s.”

I make a show of looking at my watch. “Get in the truck.”

She does as I ask, and I wait until I hear the door slam.

“What’s her name?” Cillian asks.