"Thirty seconds. That's all you have to stop the bullshit, or your son is dead."
~~~~
Six years ago, Chelsea Doherty lost everything when her husband disappeared without a trace and left her to clean up his past. Now living in Ireland, she has piec...
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Drogheda, Ireland
June 2024
~~~~
Closing up the tea shop right around the time when most offices in town allow their workers to escape, I decide on a walk along the Boyne. The last few days have been marked by temperatures in the low seventies, a sign that summer has arrived in Ireland. It has allowed me to break out my short-sleeved blouses and skimpy skirts. A soft breeze nips at the ends of my short hair and I inhale deeply; the tension in my neck and shoulders still doesn't ease. I check my phone for a text—an almost hourly habit, unless I'm asleep.
Crickets.
For close to four months, I've been waiting for a message from Bastian, but zilch. If he found another way to contact Jackson Pierce, I'm fucked. My mood drops to its daily low. Ending my stroll at Starbucks, I order a caramel latte as a special treat in an attempt to stay positive. The shop has a little terrace overlooking the river and I sit down at a round table. Slurping my coffee, I watch shoppers cross the little pedestrian bridge; it's the same one I walked across the night I left Bastian at this hotel. Since then, my life has come to almost a standstill. It's stifling.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
I turn my head to the sudden voice; it's a dude in his late thirties who has seized the backrest of the second chair. Shooting him a get-lost glare, I raise my hand with the wedding band as a line of defense. He frowns. I look around him to find a woman next to a baby buggy at the closest table. Warmth floods my cheeks.
Geez, he wasn't hitting on me.
I shouldn't jump to conclusions.
Smiling, I try to gloss over the awkward moment. "No, go ahead."
He pulls the chair to the other table and sits down. Fretting over the woman and the baby, he ensures they have everything they need from the little stirring aid and a stash of napkins to a cracker the infant sticks into a drooling mouth. A picture-perfect family, out and about for an evening stroll. Something Marcel, Sean, and I used to do. A pang of jealousy turns my focus back to the river.
In a screwed-up way, I miss those days. Marcel had been a charmer, overly caring and protective, until that fateful day in Hong Kong when he just upped and left, forgetting that he had a wife and a son.
We met in a bagel shop in New York that had similar vibes to a Starbucks. I had come fresh off the plane, clueless, and he made fun of me for not knowing what a schmear was.
"It's the spread they put on the bagel."
"Oh, really." Watching him from under my lashes, I admired his broad, muscular frame so much in contrast to his fine facial features. His mouth was what stuck out the most. Full lips under a pronounced cupid's bow that were crying out for me to taste them. He was light complected enough to sport freckles on his nose, which were mega cute. "What type of schmear would you recommend?"
"Chives, if you like it savory, or peanut butter and Nutella, if you like it sweet."
"No offense, but the combination of peanut butter and Nutella sounds a bit off."
His chuckle injected my knees with jelly. "Trust me, you haven't lived until you had peanut butter and Nutella. It's the best schmear there is on a warm bagel."
Before I could object, he had ordered for me; as he passed me the paper bag, the bump against my shoulder was ever so subtle. It made my wallet drop right out of my hand.
"Oops, I'm so sorry." Dipping down, he retrieved the leather pouch but held it in such a way for the contents to spill out. "Oh, no!"
He was fast at returning everything to its proper place. My driver's license was last. One look was enough to burn every detail into memory. A skill every Crimson Disciple has perfected.
"Why don't you let me take you for dinner?" The velvety hum of his voice melted the Nutella before it even hit my mouth. "I know the best sushi restaurant in town."
Back in those days, Drogheda featured a few Chinese take-outs, but sushi was something out of a Hello Kitty anime. I glanced at Siobhan, my BFF accompanying me on my US adventure.
He picked up on it immediately. "Of course, your friend is welcome to join."
We both knew she would never impose, that it would just be him and me because no one wants to be the extra wheel. His offer set off an avalanche of jittery emotions. The thought of going on a date with him was just as exhilarating as it was terrifying. Temptation and curiosity won in the end over caution and the guilt of ditching my friend.
"I'd love to go to dinner with you."
We agreed to meet at the restaurant; by the time I sat down at the small table, he likely knew everything about me. About my family's IRA ties that peaked on Bloody Sunday when my granddad proudly took a bullet for the cause, about my father's recent surrender to cirrhosis as the many shots of whiskey over countless years got the best of his liver, about the eight million Euros in my bank account that were my cut from the sale of his hotels.
After dinner, Marcel took me home to his place. I was untouched, unkissed, and naïve, unable to resist his charm and his skillful touch. A lover who made me crave for his cock and who taught me about naughty sex kinks that would make my mam faint. For two weeks, he was my tour guide; we explored anything famous New York City had on offer during the day and every inch of my body throughout the night. When it was time for me to go home, I was hooked enough to accept his invitation to stay. He was like a fatal addiction.
A gust of wind blows a napkin from the neighboring table into my face.
Fuck, how long was I tripping down memory lane?
I shudder in the breeze; the sun has fully disappeared above a wall of thick clouds dark enough to promise rain.
Four seasons in a day, a concept that only exists in Ireland.
Finishing the last mouthfuls of coffee, now cold and stale, I chuck the cup in the bin on my way to the car. I stop by a fast-food place for a take-out pizza and demolish it during the drive home; Mam isn't a fan of non-Irish food and complains whenever I bring it into the house. Fifteen minutes later, I walk up the driveway to our old farm that's right on the water, soaking up the scent of brine that drifts from the Irish sea. The wind has picked up, causing waves to crash to shore. The first raindrops fall. Dorothy, my Irish terrier, barks from inside the house; I'm eager to curl up on the sofa with her and watch some TV.
About to unlock the door, sirens distract me. A bunch of Garda cars fly by on the main road. They are an unusual sight for a rural area; crime here is almost non-existent and disputes among neighbors are handled without getting law enforcement involved. When their taillights disappear around the next bend, I turn back to the door. Cracking twigs and movement in my peripheral vision cause my muscles to freeze.
A man stumbles out of the bushes, staggering in a zigzag line. He is hunched over with a hoodie hiding his face, which only emphasizes the threat of the object he clutches in his hand. Even in the dim light of the approaching storm, its purpose is unmistakable.
A gun—lethal by design—and it's pointed right at the center of my chest.
WP Total word count: 15,336
Sorry, but after two rather tame chapter endings, I needed to end on a cliffhanger to raise the tension again. I hope you enjoyed Chelsea's trip down memory lane and the offered glimpse into her past (I tried to keep it short and sweet with some dialogue to avoid a plain info dump, so let me know if I succeeded). If you liked the chapter, please consider a vote and/or drop me a comment. Thanks for reading and keep an eye on the notifications -- the next chapter is done and will be posted over the weekend.
