"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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Baltray, Ireland
June 2024
~~~~
The man with the gun raises his gaze and I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Bastian, what the actual fuck?"
He bends over, vomit spilling from his mouth all over Mam's Fáilte mat.
Welcome, indeed.
The gun swings uncoordinated from left to right as he pukes up more of his stomach contents. The rest of him smells as if he swallowed a whole whiskey distillery. I grab his wrist and point the barrel of the gun upward, releasing the lock of the magazine at the same time. As the magazine drops, I catch it with my other hand. Twisting his arm until he loosens his grip, I secure the weapon and ensure with a quick safety check that he wasn't stupid enough to load a bullet into the chamber.
Phew, danger averted.
I pocket the magazine and shove the gun, barrel down first, into one of Mam's flowerpots by the entrance.
Incomprehensible babble floats from Bastian's lips. The only words I can make out are police and chase. At least that explains the Garda presence.
"Bastian, what are you doing here?" I narrow my eyes. An angry bruise under his right eye has colored his entire cheek in a deep red and blood has crusted on his cupid's bow. His nose is so crooked that it's likely broken. "What happened to your face?"
A hiccup shakes his frame and he sucks in a deep breath. "Anton."
"Anton did this?"
"Yep." He wipes drool off his mouth. "But I—I—I"—a smile curls his lips—"I hit him first." Pride seeps out of him. "I gave him a shiner."
"Wow, impressive."
He misses the sarcasm as he eagerly nods. "Yep, I—I showed him. He can't push—push me around. I'm not"—he runs his tongue over the tip of his teeth as if checking that they were still firmly in place—"I'm not his little bitch."
Okay, so he took on a man who is at least six foot three and whose punch is backed up by around two hundred and fifty pounds of body weight.
Good for him.
'What did Anton do that made you punch him?"
"He—he bought us a sex"—he swallows—"a sex swing even though he knew it would trigger me."
I quirk a brow. Now that's some interesting intel and puts Anton's hostility toward women into perspective, even though it doesn't explain why Bastian would take issue in a popular sex device.
Bastian takes in a raspy breath and clutches his hand over his mouth. "I'm gonna hurl. Too much talk—" The rest of the sentence is cut off by a fresh surge of vomit. Half of it lands on his Jordan's. "Fuck."
