Now there was nothing but need. Desire. Every breath he took seemed to stoke it higher, hit him harder.
He needed action—of any kind—before he went completely insane. That moment felt like it was creeping closer all the time.
“What we’re needin’ is more intel,” Mack said, frustration in every smack of the sponge against the dishes he washed.
“From where?” Deacon grabbed a plate from the drain and swiped it with a towel, then handed it off to King to put away. “Even with your access, we’ve hit dead end after dead end.”
“We’re needing a new road then.”
Deacon hmphed. “Sure, but where?”
It was the question they were all struggling with; Deacon had simply asked it first.
“What about an informant? Someone, maybe off the radar, who might have information?” Fionn asked. He’d worked plenty of cases where the local drug dealer or prostitute knew more than law enforcement ever would.
“I can’t ask around like that. The criminals around here”—Mack threw a grin over his shoulder, hands still plunged into the stack of dirty dishes and water—“know me very well.”
“I bet.” Deacon laughed.
“You can’t be asking around,” Fionn agreed. “That doesn’t mean I can’t.”
And that was how he found himself walking into the Bog at ten o’clock that night. The place was dark, small, with thick wood wainscoting that had been marred by years of nicks and scrapes, and white walls that were dingy with smoke. Every inch of visible wall space was overlaid with graffiti, and the low ceilings were lined with bottle caps. Perfect for the locals who ran in questionable circles. Fionn took a corner stool at one end of the bar, a good vantage point to assess the crowd and find just the right target. After the bartender set a pint in front of him, he eased his shoulder against the wall and settled in to watch and wait.
And drink. Guinness only tasted right in Ireland.
He spotted the woman with a quarter of his glass still to go. She came in the front door to a chorus of greetings and whistles and waves to join a table. A shirt that fell off one shoulder, skintight jeans and heels, long wavy red hair, freckles scattered along her nose—she looked like the senior every boy had wanted to feck, and maybe some of them had since if they were lucky. They all treated her well because they’d grown up with her, knew her…the kind of homegrown beauty that made other women snub her. If her nose wasn’t too high in the air, she would be a perfect source of information.
Fionn allowed his eyelids to drop to half-mast, hiding his expression. The redhead chose a stool about four over from his and leaned onto the wood to make eye contact with the barkeep at the opposite end.
He was already heading her way. “Here ya are, Laura.” The man’s surly frown actually turned into a smile as he passed the woman a glass of something lighter in color than Fionn’s Guinness. A hard cider, maybe.
“You’re a dear, Bud.” She took a sip.
“Only you would say that, ’n’ you know it.”
She laughed. “They don’t know you like I do.”
The older man softened even more. “You need another,” he said, jerking a stubble-covered chin toward her drink, “come ’n’ see me.”
“I will.”
Fionn watched the exchange from the corner of his eye, not wanting to piss off the protective barkeep. Only when the man traveled back to the other end to help a trio of overly loud men in too much leather did Fionn turn his gaze back on the woman. Laura.
She was already eyeing him, a subtly sexy smile on her lips, the kind that could be taken for interest if welcomed, or ignored as simply friendly if not. Fionn let a return smile curve his own lips.
“Hello.” She slipped from her stool and chose the one beside him. “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I haven’t been here before.”
He made the words warm, flirty, but found himself disconnected from them, as if he was on autopilot, his mind taking snapshots of every move, every gesture, every word, and deciding on the appropriate response from past experience rather than current attraction. This was a beautiful woman, about Lyse’s age, but she didn’t spark more than a vague appreciation inside him. Nothing like he felt with Lyse.
One taste. That was all it took to ruin you.
Hell yeah. He grinned at himself, though Laura responded with a smile.
“New in town, yeah?” She leaned an elbow on the bar, propping her chin on her raised fist.
“Just visiting,” Fionn said. “My mam’s here.”
“Oh, I figured you were with that new crew that came in last night,” Laura said. “They’re new too. Seems to be a lot of that going around lately.”
“Is that a complaint?”
Her smile this time revealed dimples that made her look sixteen instead of midtwenties. Sweet, that’s what she was. “When they look like you, no.”
His laugh was genuine. “I’m way too old for you, love.” Probably for Lyse to, but he didn’t give a feck about that.
She sipped her drink and eyed him. “A girl likes a man who knows what he’s doing.”
He bet she did. “That crew you mentioned— A friend of mine said he was headin’ this way for work soon. Big, blonde Swede, yeah? Maybe he was here last night?” He didn’t have a Swedish friend, but one of the images Lyse had managed to pull of the head of the Irish Cartel showed him with at least one big, blonde bodyguard.
Something sparked in Laura’s eyes. “I—”
“Laura!”
The bark came from behind her. It startled Laura, but not Fionn—he’d watched the man leave the dark corner he’d been skulking in, determination on his face, and head for the woman as soon as she’d taken the seat next to Fionn. A jealous would-be lover or ex, maybe? No, he didn’t see
