Page 10 of Fighting for Irish
Suddenly, she remembered about the eyes and ears and thugs and money. All she wanted to do was get to her shitty apartment, down a few glasses of Jack Daniel’s from Lenny’s abundant supply, and sink into an inebriated oblivion where reality ceased to exist.
Her eyes darted around the back lot, searching the corners cloaked in pitch for any signs of lurking figures with watchful eyes.
“Uh, n-no, I gotta get home,” she stammered as she finally opened the car door and sat behind the wheel.
He gripped the doorframe, preventing her from pulling it closed behind her. “You sure you’re okay?”
Using a lifetime of feigning things she didn’t feel, she pulled up the corners of her lips and showed her teeth. “Absolutely.”
“Wait, I think you dropped something.” She looked over just in time to see him squat down and retrieve the crumpled placemat from the ground. “This yours?”
Her stomach sank as he opened it up. “Nope, not mine. Thanks again, Irish.”
She didn’t wait for his response, just slammed the door, started her car, and got the hell out of there.
