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Who will be waiting for me on the shores?
And… what will these evil men do to me?
Chapter Three
Callum
He sits across from me at the red leather semi-circular booth in the Hobgoblin, a pint in front of him. He’s got no idea what the true purpose of our meeting is. Or what’s currently happening at his home in his absence.
“I said I don’t have it.” As he flattens his palms against the worn wood of the table, trails of swollen blue veins run down the backs of his hands.
My tone could be more understanding. “If you cannae pay, why’d you borrow it?”
He looks at me like I’ve set him up. Accusation hangs heavy in his tone. “Why did you let me?”
I press on him. “Take responsibility for your actions. All those kids and you gambled your money away instead of buying food.”
“I’m a good Catholic. I’m proud of the size of my family. Unlike you Protestants.” He tosses a pious sniff my way.
“Did God want you bettin’ on horses and guzzlin’ Guinness, too? Living off Baynes’ charity, feeding the wee ones scraps from his cattle? Your bairns would have gone hungry if God hadn’t deemed you would have a rancher for a neighbor.”
“I worked,” he says. “Hard. It’s a lot of mouths to feed. But your type wouldn’t know anything about that. Would you?”
“I don’t make it a point to investigate the birth control practices of my fellow Protestants, no. But we can agree on one thing.” I give a weary sigh. “Jesus was a fisherman, aye?”
“Aye…” he agrees with trepidation.
I corner him. “You fish our waters. Get money from our seas. Then you piss it all away. Would Jesus do that? Drink down all the blessings from his Father?”
“Jesus drank.”
“The man could turn water into wine. Free booze.” I raise a brow. “And still, the man dinnae get drunk.”
The silence stretches between us. Our jaunty chat has run its course. His eyes, red-rimmed from his morning whisky or still tired from last night’s bender, slowly rise to meet mine. “What do you want from me?”
“Payment,” I say.
An indignant snort leaves him. “I’ve lost my wife; I think you’d have some common decency to mind the grieving period; my wee ones have moved on, and my old truck sits dead in the yard, as you can see.”
“You still have something of value.”
“You know I have nothing besides the house, and I dinnae think it’ll appeal to ye now.” His eyes form a hard glint. “Word on the island is that you no longer stay on our island. Word down here at the pub is you’ve moved to the big city. And that you live in a mansion that could pass as a castle. My three-bedroom dump isn’t your style. It hasn’t even been updated since the day it was built.”
“Yer right. It’s not my style,” I say.
I have my eyes set on something far more beautiful.
My silence has him on edge. Finally, he asks, “What do ye want from me?”
“I think you already know.”
He stares at me.
The familiar craving wells inside me as I remember her sitting in this very booth. I strutted over, tugging the end of a lock of her hair and twirling it around my index finger, the one tattooed with the K of my Kings.
I asked her for a dance.
She denied me.
