Not that talking about the attack wasn’t important—quite the opposite, in fact. Those few hushed moments, when River leaned in close, his undivided attention on me, allowing me the chance to speak out loud about it for the first time, were therapeutic. I feel a little bit lighter now.
A howl of laughter to my right pulls my attention to a group of friends in their early twenties. I can’t tell if they’re tourists or locals but they’re definitely drunk, one of the guys nearly knocking over a floral planter as they spill out of a pub. Then again, this is the Temple Bar area and I’ve been told that no local with any common sense would come here, so . . . they must be travelers.
I sigh, wishing, as I have occasionally, that I weren’t making this trip alone. None of my friends have the good fortune that I do, though, of being able to just leave their jobs for four months and have it waiting for them when they get back. I’d like to think that a lot of that leeway has come on account of my stellar performance at St. Charles Medical Center, but I’m sure having my mother, the highly respected Dr. Meredith Alwood, working there as well helps.
I move on, heading down the now familiar Grafton Street again, where a new round of performers demonstrate their talents—a guy throwing flaming knives, a bikini-clad woman juggling glassware, an older gentleman thumping on a bodhran. The lady manning the flower stand from this morning catches my eyes and I decide that I definitely need those sunflowers.
I fish through my purse as she wraps a bunch, my fingers deftly identifying and dismissing the bristles of my brush, a small umbrella, my tube of lipstick . . .
I frown, opening it up wide, peering inside.
My stomach drops as the realization hits me.
“Dublin sucks.”
“So, you lost some money. You didn’t get blown up by a bomb or anything.” Jesse’s cool, bored tone fills my ear and my heart with homesickness. I miss my brother right now. Even when he’s making bad jokes.
“Three hundred euro. And my license. And my bank card.” That’s two strikes. I don’t want to find out what the third may be. Ireland is officially a bust. I should just pack up and leave.
“But not your passport or your credit cards or any plane tickets or—”
“Since when did you become a ray of optimism?” He’s right, though. Thank God I wrapped all my valuables, including my passport, in a plastic bag and stuck it into the fireplace. Because Sheriff Gabe Welles always knows best.
Metal clangs in the background, telling me that Jesse’s in the garage, tinkering with one of his engines as usual. It’s after two p.m. in Oregon, eight hours behind Dublin time, and five hours since I realized my wallet had been stolen. It took me that long to swallow my pride and call, hoping my dad would somehow be able to help me, even from thousands of miles away. “Where’s the sheriff?”
“Just ran into town a little while ago.” Jesse sighs. “He fucked up his brake job this morning, so he had to go for new parts.”
I chuckle, despite everything. It’s nice to see the two of them getting along well, after so many years when they didn’t.
“Did you call the bank already?”
“Some 1-800 number, yeah. The card is canceled and I can use my credit card to pull money through my account. It’s just . . .” I bite my lip.
“I know. You feel violated. But you’re safe, and you don’t have to go to the embassy and jump through hoops for a new passport.”
“What about my license? Now I can’t drive anywhere!”
“Well, you can. Just don’t get caught.”
I roll my eyes. Totally a Jesse thing to say. “No. Definitely not risking that in a foreign country.” I don’t need any more run-ins with gardai. Plus, I’m not even using my own car. I would never be that irresponsible with Simon’s generosity.
“So then . . . whatever. You take trains, the bus, cabs. Don’t let some dickwad ruin this trip for you.”
I heave a shaky sigh, collecting the ball of used tissues from the kitchen counter, my cheeks finally dry of tears. “How do you think someone got it?”
“What do you mean, how? They stuck their hand into your purse and they took it out. They probably bumped into you so you wouldn’t feel the lift.”
“Is that how you would have done it?” The question slips out before I can stop myself.
“If I stole wallets, sure.” Irritation slides into his deep voice.
I sigh, not wanting to bicker. “I know you wouldn’t do that, Jesse.” Despite everything he has done—and the list is long—I know my brother’s heart and he’s not a lowlife.
There’s a long pause and then Jesse finally asks, “So? Is this trip everything you hoped it would be?”
Aside from a few brief hi’s and ’byes as he wanders past the camera during my Skype calls with Alex, I haven’t really talked with my brother since I left. And the last time we spoke in person, a week before I hopped a plane to Vancouver, it ended in an epic fight. Jesse’s friend Luke Boone had come by with another car for Jesse to fix up and flip. I told Jesse that I thought he was an idiot for still associating with that guy and he needed to cut him off. Luke may look like the perfect package—money, good looks, impeccable grooming—but by the bits of information I’ve been able to piece together, he’s also one of the reasons Jesse got into that spectacular mess back in Portland. Of course, that’s all a lot of speculation because no one will tell me shit.
Despite the wedge that’s grown between me and my twin brother, I do care about him, which is why I said what I did. He didn’t appreciate it, though, deciding it was the right time to lay my own faults and bad choices on the table. Apparently, I spend too much time worrying about what everyone else thinks, and maybe I should look at my own group of friends because they’re all a bunch of stuck-up bitches and they’ve made me a judgmental snob. But that wasn’t enough. He had to lay into this trip, too. I’m going to waste all this money to figure out there’s no big miracle waiting for me out there, that I actually like my comfortable little town and my comfortable little life, and that I won’t be happy being a tadpole in an ocean.
I stormed off then, with tears burning in my eyes. Not because he was so wrong, but because I was afraid he might be right.
“Yeah. It’s been great.” Maybe one day I’ll tell Jesse the truth about my morning in St. Stephen’s Green. Of anyone in my family, he’d be the only one who didn’t care that I lied.
“Good.” There’s a long pause and, while I know I won’t get an apology out of him over some of the things he said, I can feel it lingering there. “When’d you have your wallet last?”
I think back to my day. After the tea shop and the discovery of that T-shirt, I wandered around Dublin city center, deciding what I’d say if I saw the guy again. When I finally accepted that I had to try and find him, I hopped in a cab. So I know I had my wallet when I arrived at Delaney’s because I paid for the ride, but I don’t know if I left with it, seeing as I didn’t pay for my beer.
“I was at a pub,” I say, half-heartedly.
“Crowded?”
“Yeah.” I lost count how many times I was bumped into.
“That’s probably where someone lifted it. I’m sure you stuck out like a tourist who may have money.”
I definitely stuck out . . .
“Call them. Forget about your cash. It’s long gone. But the person probably ditched everything else. It’s worth a shot.”
“Good idea. Thanks, Jesse.” I hang up. A bubble of nerves erupts in my stomach as I search for the number. It’s ten at night and probably still busy. I don’t expect anyone to answer.
That’s why I’m surprised—and caught tongue-tied for a moment—when a man’s voice fills the receiver with, “Delaney’s.”
Is it River? It sounds like him. “Hi . . . I was there a few hours ago and I lost my wallet.”
“Lost it?” the guy repeats with his Irish brogue. Raucous music and clanking glassware compete in the background.
“Stolen, probably. I know it’s
not likely, but is there any chance someone turned it in to the bar?”
“They haven’t. But I can keep an ear out. Where can we ring ya if it turns up?”
I give him my cell phone number. Thank God for my international plan and Simon’s WiFi; otherwise this trip would be two months instead of four. “My name’s Amber.” I hesitate. “River knows me.” Sort of.
“The pretty American bird who made my brother spill a pint, is that you?”
My face heats up, and I’m so glad that I’m alone in my kitchen and not in front of this guy. He must be the other bartender. I thought they looked related.
He chuckles, not waiting for my answer. “I’ll let him know you rang.”
I hang up the phone and exhale heavily.
Maybe they’ll find it.
Maybe I’ll have an excuse to see River again.
Nervous excitement grows inside me.
SEVEN
RIVER
“This can’t wait?”
I ignore a hovering Rowen, my eyes glued to the computer monitor. And Amber, her slender back to the security camera as she sits perched on her stool, her long, shapely legs crossed at the ankles. Sipping the Guinness I handed her. I’ve already played back our entire exchange—the shock on my face when our eyes met was priceless. As was the tantrum Rowen just threw in our cramped office, watching the replay of me dumping the pint down the drain.
“I wish I hadn’t said anything until closing,” he finally mutters. “I need you out front.”
“I’m glad you told me. If I find out one of our customers lifted that girl’s wallet, and they’re still here, they’re going to wish they weren’t,” I mutter with cold determination, stewing in the anger that exploded earlier, when Rowen nudged me and told me that Amber had been robbed today. As if almost being blown up isn’t bad enough.
“How do you know her, anyway?”
“I just do.”
He sighs. He knows that he won’t get answers out of me unless I want to give them. “I’ll be at the bar, tending to the sheep.”
I watch patiently as Amber sits and drinks, her head shifting from Collin to me and back again. Wishing she’d turn around so I could see her face again. Selma bumps into her with her tray and she flinches. Customers close in at her sides and she curls into herself. I wonder if she’s always been like that or if it’s because of what happened in the Green.
I’m about thirty-five minutes into the recording and I know she doesn’t stay for much longer. I can see why. I did a bleeding good job of ignoring her. Too good a job. Part of me hopes this didn’t happen here, because she’s going to start tying all bad things about Ireland to me. But a bigger part hopes that it did happen here and I can catch the asshole who did it.
And have an excuse to see her again, because she’s lingered in my mind ever since she left Delaney’s a few hours ago.
My patience pays off when I see a patron bump into her from behind, and then apologize with a friendly arm stretched over her shoulder. The camera is angled in a way that shows his other hand slipping into her purse and retrieving a small black wallet.
“Fucking Benoit.” I recognize him by his ponytail of wiry black hair. He’s a regular here, a little Frenchman who comes in every weekday after his shift at the Guinness factory. Normally he’s gone by seven, which is why I was surprised to see him staggering past the bar on my way to the office not long ago. I’m guessing he’s getting drunk on her euro. Not a stealthy fella, if that’s the case.
I grit my teeth against the urge to march out there right now and pummel him. Instead, I keep watching the video. Two minutes later, after I hand him his pint with a grin, he heads to the back of the pub, leaving her completely unaware.
A surge of adrenaline fills my limbs as I charge past the crowd and into the men’s toilets. Yanking open the rubbish compartment, I dump its contents onto the dirty tile floor. It’s mostly balls of paper towels, along with a used condom—I don’t want to know—and a dirty needle.
But on top of all of that sits a small, black wallet.
I flip it open and find Amber’s gorgeous smile shining out at me. I have an address for her, too—Sisters, Oregon. Wherever that is. I’ve never been to America. I’ve heard of places like New York and Hollywood, and Florida, but it’s hard to keep track of that massive country. She’s twenty-five years old, which is what I would have pegged her at. The height and weight numbers mean nothing to me, but I don’t need them because I already know she’s the perfect size.
A few slips of paper sit tucked within but the cash is all gone, as I expected.
Back out front, I search the crowd of drunks, a few singing along with Collin, who’s now on his fifth hour of music and as many pints, livening the place up as he does with quick banter and terrible jokes. It doesn’t take long to find Benoit.
Ten steps before I wrap my hands around his scrawny neck, Rowen hops the bar and blocks my path. “River . . . you’ve got that look in your eye.”
I hold up her wallet. “In our pub.” I fucking hate thieves. So does Rowen.
“Just . . . don’t get yourself into trouble,” he warns, then shifts aside, knowing it’s not the time to interfere. I’ll admit it—the ripple of excitement that stirs inside me as I close in on an oblivious Benoit, that swells as I hold the wallet up and watch his eyes grow wide, that bursts when I grab him by the back of his collar and drag him out the front door, feels bloody grand.
“Ya going to call her?” Rowen sets the last of the washed beer-tap grates back. The pub is ready for a new day.
“Tomorrow.” I flex my right hand, my knuckles sore after leaving Benoit with a few marks to remind him what will happen if he ever steps foot inside here again. Rowen’s warning hung in the back of my mind, though, keeping me from going overboard. “It’s one o’clock in the morning. She’ll be sound asleep.” I’m not entirely sure that’s true, after what she’s been through these past few days. I could have called her as soon as I found it, put her mind to rest.
Only, my mind was busying deciding how I want to use this opportunity. If I want to use this opportunity.
“I bet she’ll be grateful. Even for an American princess.” Rowen doesn’t have to explain where he’s going with this; the smirk on his face tells me. He assumes I’ve got plans to bang her, if I haven’t already. Though he’d know if I had. For Christ’s sake, we’re practically attached at the hip. We live and work together, and when we’re not at home or at the pub, we’re usually texting or talking on the phone.
“It’s not like that,” I mutter, pulling out the various slips of paper tucked into the little pockets. Mostly receipts. A taxi from the airport, a large latte with extra sugar. A scone and tea from a place on Grafton Street earlier today. Not surprising, seeing as she’s a tourist. Though there are better, less expensive places than that to go.
I unfold a sheet of lined paper, filled with feminine writing.
My eyebrows spike with the first line.
1. Have torrid affair with a foreigner. Country: TBD.
“What is it?” Rowen watches me from behind a sip of his closing-time pint.
“Nothing.” It’s something, alright. I’m guessing it involves getting laid. I need to look torrid up in the dictionary. I scan the piece of paper. It’s some sort of “to-do” list. She must have a dozen different countries mentioned here.
14. Do NOT get eaten by a lion. The Serengeti, Tanzania.
“Liar,” Rowen mutters when I start to chuckle. He leans forward and I shift farther back. I’m guessing this isn’t something Amber wants anyone reading.
24. Spend a day on a nude beach. Athens, Greece.
Christ. Blood starts flowing to my cock with the mental image of those legs attached to a naked body, sprawled out in the sand. Maybe she isn’t such a princess after all.
I quickly scan over the rest. A few of them are already marked with little checks, including the last one, clearly a recent addition, about the bomb in the Green. Yeah, I’ll bet she
never forgets that day as long as she lives.
I note that number one isn’t marked off. That makes me smile. And wonder.
And hope.
Rowen hits the lights and throws me into darkness. “Come on, it’s fucking late. I’m setting the alarm.”
Downing the last of my own pint, I fold the page and stick it in my pocket.
Maybe all her memories involving me don’t have to be bad.
EIGHT
AMBER
The shrill ring of my phone wakes me from a dead sleep. I simply stare at it lying on the nightstand for a long moment, trying to figure out who it could be, seeing as my family is eight hours behind and asleep. Do I even have the brainpower required to speak, after a night of tossing and turning with that sick burn in my stomach over my wallet?
In the end, I reach for it. A groggy “hello” escapes.
“Still sleeping, are ya?”
My eyes spring open at that deep male voice, laced with a light Irish accent, that I somehow can’t mistake. “River? Is that you?”
“Yeah.”
My heart begins racing. “Hey! How are you?” I sound way too eager.
“Tired. I didn’t get to bed until close to three.”
“What time is . . .” I glance at the clock to see that it’s only ten a.m. “Why are you awake, then?”
“Too many things to do before work tonight.” I can hear a smile in his voice. “Like tell you that I have your wallet.”
My covers tumble away as I sit up, relief making me heave an obnoxious groan. “You’re joking!”
“I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”
“But . . . how? Did someone turn it in?”
There’s a short pause. “It was in with the rubbish.”
Tossed. Just like Jesse said it would be. Whatever. It’s found. Empty of cash, I’m sure. “Is my license there, at least?”