About Face. Amy Lee Burgess

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СКАЧАТЬ ring a bell. Why don’t you fuck off? Right now I’m bored, but I’m edging toward irritated and there’s a thing you don’t want to see, I promise you.”

      “How about Liam Murphy? You know him?” I spat out his name and hated myself for sinking so goddamn low.

      One bushy red eyebrow elevated. Paddy could do that trick too. Was everyone in Mac Tire a direct descendent of Mister Spock or something?

      “Him I know.” That figured. Murphy was an ex-Alpha after all.

      “Then do you know he’s bonded with an American?” I prompted, my lip still curled.

      “I know he showed up here four months ago without her and never talks about it. Rumor has it you two are on the rocks only he won’t face up to it.” The giant gave a huge shrug and his green eyes gleamed with protective ire. “Tell you what. You give me the real story of it and I’ll think about asking if you can go in. Fair’s fair. Liam Murphy’s a favorite in this pack and you’re some flighty American twat nobody knows or gives a damn about.”

      Won’t face up to it? What the fuck? He walked out on me. I don’t know what showed on my face, but the red-haired giant’s expression altered and for the first time he looked unsure.

      “Look, let me call Paddy and…” he began, but I couldn’t stand the sudden pity in his eyes. I guess he’d figured out I wasn’t the one who walked out. Fuck.

      “Oh, screw this.” I wheeled around and stomped off. I ruined my exit though because I forgot my goddamn suitcase and had to scurry back to retrieve it and the backpack full of shoes.

      The giant attempted to help me, and I slapped his meaty hands away, my cheeks on fire with mortification.

      “Did you come to try to work it out with him then?” He didn’t seem to feel the stinging slaps on his hands, and pulled the strap of the backpack over my shoulder even as I fought against his help.

      Where was my goddamn anger now? Mortification rapidly turned into blinding tears. My eyes burned.

      “None of your fucking business.” I stomped away.

      “Hang on,” he called after me. “Just let me call Paddy and maybe I can…”

      “Fuck you,” I screamed over my shoulder and turned my head away before he could see the tears on my cheeks. But I think he saw them anyway. Goddamn streetlights.

      * * * *

      Two blocks later when I was about to shove my damn heavy suitcase into the middle of the street and watch it get demolished by the terrifying traffic that traveled on the wrong goddamn side of the road, my cell phone rang.

      “This blows,” I announced as the backpack of shoes fell off my shoulder and dragged me by the elbow half into the gutter. I gave my suitcase a kick and it tottered a moment before it fell over—straight into a puddle.

      Pedestrians gave me a wide berth, and once again I wished I had my steel-toed, spiked heels.

      Instead, I dug into my purse, fatalistically convinced I would miss the damn call, and pulled out my phone. I pressed Talk.

      “What?” I barked, and there was a strange silence on the other end, as if the person debated whether or not to gently hang up and say to hell with it.

      “Where the hell are you?” The person on the other end obviously had no fear of death, but I wondered how he felt about death by disembowelment. Slow disembowelment.

      I looked around at the unfamiliar street. A pharmacy. A men’s tailor. A shoe store. I knew I was not in a good mental space when not even the slightest desire to drift closer to the shoe store window passed through my head. In fact, I felt like throwing my backpack through the damn thing. Bad place. Stanzie was in a bad, bad place.

      “I have no fucking clue,” I replied because I didn’t. Some street in Dublin. I smelled food—something thick and meaty like stew—and nearly wept, I was so damn hungry.

      “Turn your ass around and come back to the pub.”

      “Is that a direct order, Alpha?” I snarled. Paddy, who was on the other end of the phone, damn him, made a strangled noise halfway between laughter and a roar of outrage.

      “You know what? Just shut up and frigging stand there. I’ll find you. You can’t be far, Colm said you didn’t have a car.”

      “You have got to be kidding. A car? Everyone drives on the wrong side of the road, Paddy. I almost had a fucking coronary in the cab from the airport and had to put my head between my knees and close my eyes for most of the ride. The cab driver thought I was freaking insane, and there’s a distinct possibility he may be onto something. A fucking car. Please.”

      “Are you gonna go ballistic if I start laughing now?” Paddy definitely struggled against hysterics, I could hear it in his damn voice. Fury, dull and hot, pounded through my veins and made my head hurt.

      I heard traffic noises from his end and suspected he was outside. “Where are you?”

      “Grouchy,” he commented. “I’m walking down the damn street, Stanzie, where the hell else would I be? I told you I was coming to find you. Do you suppose you could describe your surroundings? Give me a bit more than the cars are driving on the wrong side of the road?”

      “Pharmacy, men’s tailor, shoe store,” I recited obediently, although I really wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him.

      “Let me guess. You’re standing outside the shoe store and drooling over the Jimmy Flus or whatever the bloody hell they call them.”

      “Choos,” I snapped. “Jimmy Choos. You’re fucking with me on purpose, aren’t you?”

      “Maybe a little,” he agreed, and I growled.

      “Did you just growl at me?”

      I did it again and gave my suitcase another kick. It was still on its side in the puddle, and I bet all my damn clothes were now soaked in dirty Dublin rainwater. Fuck. Me.

      “Just for my own edification, what might be the name of the pharmacy? Or the men’s tailor? Or the bloody shoe store?” Paddy was the one who sounded grouchy, and a grim smile flickered across my face.

      “Boots, John O’Toole’s Menswear and Shamrock Shoes. That’s the dumbest name I ever heard for a shoe store, by the way. What’s next? Emerald Isle Organic Market? Blarney Stone Cosmetics? Jesus. H. Christ.”

      “Hey,” groaned my Alpha. “Don’t be making fun of my culture, woman. It’s not nice.” Then he snickered. “Blarney Stone Cosmetics. You horrible bitch.”

      I almost laughed myself. It was kind of a good one.

      I saw him then as he rounded the corner. Black curls ran riot over his head, black jeans, black t-shirt, black jean jacket, black boots.

      “Who are you? The Dark Lord of Dublin?” I eyed him up and down as he approached, and he rolled his eyes at me.

      “And you? Who are you? The Bedraggled Bitch of Boston?” His gaze was equally derisive as he СКАЧАТЬ