Page 1 of Fighting for Irish
Prologue
Turning his ’62 Harley Panhead into the gravel lot of Lou’s Riverview, Aiden O’Brien got his first look at the backwoods swamp bar squatting on the outskirts of Alabaster, Louisiana.
From the outside, it looked like a large single-story home that had seen better days. As in before the second World War, if the dilapidated wood siding and cracked foundation were anything to go by. The sign above the door was missing letters, the wood darker in the places where the sun hadn’t bleached it, announcing the establishment as “Lo ’s River ew.”
He pulled his bike into a spot by the door and used the rubber sole of his boot to kick the stand down. Barely suppressing a groan, he swung his right leg over the seat. Riding from Boston, Mass., was a great way to enjoy the open road and scenic countryside. Unfortunately, it also turned out to be a great way to put his body through hell.
A fire had lit in his tailbone somewhere between West Virginia and Kentucky. By the time he’d reached Mississippi, the flames had blazed a path up his spine and settled between his shoulders. As much as he loved his old Panhead, it definitely wasn’t designed as a touring bike.
Stretching his legs, he had to wonder if “bayou” were French for “broiler.” Now that he no longer had the cooling benefit of the wind, Aiden felt like yesterday’s baked chicken withering under a heating lamp. The whirring of an air conditioner at the corner of the building gave him hope he’d find refuge inside from the scorching rays of the sun.
Hanging his sunglasses on the collar of his T-shirt, he pulled open the heavy, weathered door and stepped inside. He supposed it didn’t look all that different from most old bars and taverns. Wooden booths lined the outside of the large room with as many tables as could fit crowded into the middle. Each booth sat beneath what passed for lamps but were nothing more than lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling, covered with plastic domes yellowed by time and tobacco smoke. Another room in the back looked to have pool tables and ratty couches for those who liked to drink while wielding gaming sticks that made easy weapons for their short tempers.
A solid oak bar ran in a shallow U shape jutting out from the right wall. Since it was only early afternoon on a Tuesday, the place was all but empty except for the lone bartender and four old codgers playing poker at one of the front tables. With dirty clothes, a few days’ growth on their jaws, and about a dozen teeth among the four of them, Aiden wondered if they were homeless or an example of Alabaster’s typical residents.
Swiping the back of his arm across his forehead, Aiden made his way to the bar. His throat felt like the Sahara and he meant to fix that. Then he’d make small talk and see if the info he’d been given was still accurate. Hopefully it was. Then he could give his friend the good news and be on his way.
Not back to Boston, though. It’d taken him making good on a favor to finally get him out of his old neighborhood. Now that he had, he didn’t know why he hadn’t left five years ago when he destroyed his life. And that of his best friend.
Maybe he’d travel the country on the back of his Harley for the rest of the summer. Pick the place he liked best and try to open a bike shop of his own. Or work at someone else’s. It didn’t matter as long as he got to work on bikes. It was the only thing that distracted him well enough to give him a handful of hours a day where he didn’t relive the worst night of his life.
“What’ll it be?”
The bartender placed the Mason jar he’d been drying on the shelf behind him, braced his palms on the counter, and waited expectantly.
Aiden pulled out his wallet and thumbed out a five spot. Holding it to the man, he said, “Large water and some conversation.”
One eyebrow arched as the bartender glanced between the bill and Aiden’s face. Probably trying to figure out what exactly Aiden wanted. A five wasn’t exactly the kind of money someone offered when they were poking around for information. On the other hand, it was a big tip for ordering a free drink.
Aiden tried to recall how to manipulate his features into something resembling a nonthreatening expression. It no longer came easy to him as it once had. But covering your body in brightly colored tattoos and sporting several piercings tended to make people think twice about talking to you without the counteracting friendly smile.
So Aiden would have to fake it if he wanted to find who he was looking for. She wasn’t going to just fall into his lap without a little effort on his part.
Thankfully the bartender rescued him and made the first move. The guy held out his hand and introduced himself as Johnny Anders. Aiden grasped his hand firmly and pumped it a few times. “Irish.” When Johnny raised his brows in question, he added, “Just Irish.”
No one down here, or anywhere, needed to know his real name. What was the point of leaving the past behind if every time you introduced yourself you invited it right back?
“Okay, then. Just Irish it is.” Flashing the smile that probably earned him plenty of tips, Johnny grabbed the Mason jar he’d just cleaned and filled it with ice and water from the soda gun. “So where you from?”
Behind him, the poker gang exploded in obnoxious complaints. He peered over his shoulder. One man gestured so wildly while shouting suspicions his buddy had cheated that half his beer sloshed onto the floor a few feet from Aiden. Johnny hollered at them to settle down and mumbled to himself about another mess he’d have to clean up.
Aiden lifted the glass to his parched lips and tipped his head back until he’d drained every last drop of water. He exhaled with heavy relief and pushed it back, nodding a request for a refill.
“Boston,” he said finally. He should probably try to speak more than a couple syllables at a time if the goal was to strike up a conversation for info. But before he could give it a shot, he heard footsteps coming from the back hallway marked with a sign that read offices.
Pulling her long red hair into a ponytail, a waitress entered the main room and used a mirrored Miller sign hanging on the wall to finish the style.
She was…stunning.
The tightening in his gut, like he’d just been sucker punched in the solar plexus, caught him off guard. Aiden couldn’t think of the last time a female had made his body sit up and beg at first glance. Apparently his dick had no such problem remembering and wanted to prove it.
Hoping he appeared casual, he placed his left boot on the metal footrest running the length of the bar so she couldn’t see how tight the crotch of his jeans had gotten.
She wasn’t classically beautiful. She didn’t bring to mind formal dresses, stiff up-dos, and dry champagne. More like sundresses, hair blowing in the summer breeze, and the sugary bite of a refreshing lemon—
Fuck.Aiden rubbed his fingers over his forehead. He must have heat stroke from the last few hours of his ride. Yeah, heat stroke sounded good. He’d go with that. The alternative—comparing a woman to something like lemonade—would mean the demise of his virility, and he could kiss his Man Card good-bye.
The living, breathing threat to his recent apathy regarding sex met his gaze in the mirror. She assessed him with a flick of her cool eyes. Something he thought might be mutual interest flared for a moment like a struck match before she doused the flame and looked away. She couldn’t have sent a more clear message than if she’d tattooed Not Interested on her forehead.
