Breakaway (5 page)

Outside the pub, people were crowding the sidewalk,
chatting and enjoying the cool night air, trying to catch a respite from the bodies packed inside like sardines. The pub door was open: obviously Old Jack had yet to spring for AC. Rory remembered how evil hot it could get inside, even in the dead of winter. It had to be sweltering in there right now.

He casually assessed the knot of people in front of him. Not locals, he could see that right away. Windcheaters, walking shoes, and not one of them with a cig dangling from between their lips. Tourists. Polite, he nodded to them and headed inside.

No one noticed him at first. Maybe it was because he wasn’t “swanning in,” as his gran said. But then Old Jack clapped eyes on him. One minute the old man was running in ten different directions, filling orders. The next he’d stopped dead, glaring at Rory as if the devil himself had just strolled in for a pint.

“Jesus H Christ,” Jack bellowed. “If it isn’t the biggest prick in the Western Hemisphere.”

Tourists turned to look at Rory. Not one appeared to be offended by Jack’s vocabulary; they probably thought it was colorful. Women were indiscreetly checking him out. When Rory ignored them, they went back to chatting with their friends. It was a pity that wasn’t the case with the locals: if hostility could be harnessed as electricity, no one in Ballycraig would have to pay a lighting bill for months.

He reached the bar. “Hello, Jack.”

Jack was unsmiling. “You can shove your ‘hello’ up your arse cheeks, Sunny Jim.”

Nervous laughter rippled around him, but Rory was unruffled.

“What do you want?” Jack continued, his lips drawn back in a snarl.

“Pint of Guinness, please.”

“Not sure I can do that, son. We don’t serve the likes of you here.”

Jack looked around the pub, hoping everyone saw him as the tough guy he thought he was.

“I said I’d like a pint of Guinness,” Rory repeated firmly.

“Yeah? Well I want Angelina Jolie to ride me, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen.”

Sniggers. Then someone he didn’t recognize addressed him from behind the bar in an American accent.

“Guinness?”

“Yeah.”

The guy nodded curtly and went to pull his beer. It took a second, but then the lightbulb went off above Rory’s head: it was Erin’s cousin, Liam O’Brien. Hanging out at the Wild Hart with the rest of the Blades, he knew all about the O’Brien family on both sides of the Atlantic. This was the son who’d married the McCafferty. Stone-faced, Liam put the pint glass down in front of Rory.

“Ta. You’re Liam, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. And you’re Rory, aren’t you? The jerk who blew a hole through my cousin’s life?”

Rory casually scratched his chin. “That would be me, yeah.”

“Don’t forget he’s also the one who treated his best buddy like shite,” Teague Daly chimed in.

Rory couldn’t believe it: Teague Daly, David Shiels, and Fergus Purcell, known as the Holy Trinity, were sitting in exactly the same seats they’d occupied the last time Rory had seen them. As a matter of fact, they were in the same seats where they’d been parking their carcasses since leaving school. It was as if they hadn’t moved in ten years.

“Oh, yeah, that, too,” said Old Jack disgustedly. “Put the boot in on Jake Fry, one of the best men in town.” His contempt for Rory was now so fervent it was almost comical. “You’re not fit to lick his boots. I can get them Fry brothers on you like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Then where will you be?”

“I’ll be standing right here, enjoying my pint.”

“Not if they all came at you at the same time.”

“Care to make a bet?”

Old Jack looked like he wanted to reach across the bar and throttle him. The only thing that held him back was the
appearance of his wife, Bettina, her perfume announcing her entrance. Rory had forgotten about that: the cloying scent of the Lily of the Valley perfume she doused herself in. She’d packed on quite a bit of weight, too.

Jack gestured at Rory. “Look who’s here.”

“Well, you’ve got balls, I’ll say that for you.” Bettina sniffed, her face sour with disapproval as she looked him up and down. “What’re you doing back here?”

Rory rested his elbows on the bar. “Jackson Bell rang me and said he wanted the football camp to be tip-top this year. Since I’m the one who founded the camp, he reckoned I’d be a big asset to him in terms of motivating the boys. I’m also helping my gran with some things she can’t take care of on her own.”

Bettina smirked. “And we’re supposed to buy that line of bullshit, are we? It’s quite obvious why you’re here.”

Rory took a sip of his pint. “I just told you why I’m here.”

“Yeah? How about you pay a visit to Jake while you’re here playing handyman? Apologize to him for fucking him over, if you’ll excuse my language.” Bettina cupped her mouth. “Best friends since they were five years old,” she yelled to the pub at large. “But then Mr. Bighead here started playing professional hockey in New York, and all of a sudden, the likes of us aren’t good enough for him. Isn’t that right, Rory?”

Rory felt a pang of remorse. It was true; he had treated Jake like shit, ending the friendship without any explanation. But at the time, he couldn’t stand the thought of appearing weak to his friend. He hadn’t the guts to say, “Look, I just can’t handle dealing with anyone from Ballycraig right now, okay?” He simply cut him dead right after he broke off with Erin.

It wasn’t only the fear of looking like some kind of jerk-off that made him ditch Jake; it was the knowledge that Jake would have gotten in his face about what he did. The last thing Rory wanted to deal with was the truth. It was much easier to sever ties and convince himself that being an eligible bachelor and pro hockey player in the greatest
city in the world was the life he was supposed to lead, not getting tied down before he’d even hit twenty-five.

“I will be apologizing to Jake,” Rory replied politely. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“I hope he spits on ya and tells ya to go to hell,” said Teague.

Rory took a step toward his lumpy former schoolmate, and all of a sudden Teague’s bravery fled. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Teague muttered into his beer.

“Just keep your gums glued, you fat, waxy moron,” said David under his breath.

He nodded curtly at Rory, who nodded back. He’d always liked David, and could never work out why he palled around with Teague and Fergus.

“I hate to tell you, Mr. Hockey Superstar, but Jake Fry would sooner kick you in the teeth than be mates with you again,” Bettina informed him. “He might accept your apology, but he’s changed a lot since you decided to come down off your high horse.”

“We’ll see.” Rory’s confidence had her shooting daggers at him with her eyes.

Rory took another sip of his beer. He hated to admit it, but something inside him was feeding off all the animosity being directed his way, making him feel cockier than ever. Which was why when Liam O’Brien planted himself in front of him with a menacing glare, Rory was unimpressed.

“Steer clear of my cousin. We clear?”

“As glass.” He took his time downing more beer. If the folks of Ballycraig thought he was going to guzzle his pint and head out as quickly as he could, they had another thing coming. Feeling a bit congenial, he turned to Teague. “How’s life treating you these days, Teague?”

“All right,” Teague replied, still staring down into his beer broodingly.

“Yeah? What’re you up to?”

“Same as usual,” Fergus answered for him, talking more to his friend than to Rory. “Spongin’ off his mam and dad and living on the dole.” He patted his friend’s hunched
shoulder. “Buck up, Teague. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. There’s loads of people doing the same.”

“Ah, shit off, the lot of yuz!” Teague snapped angrily, slamming his pint down on the bar and storming out of the pub.

“I see nothing’s changed with Teague,” Rory observed. “It just isn’t Saturday night if he doesn’t leg it out of here believing his dignity’s been insulted.”

“How about you leg it out of here?” said Bettina.

“It’s a public house,” Rory reminded her. He stood there fifteen more minutes nursing his pint, but finally he drained his glass and put his money down. “I’m looking forward to seeing you all again soon.”

“Just you try it,” Old Jack began to sputter. “Just you—”

Bettina stilled him with her hand. “Calm down, you old fool. Don’t have a nervo.”

Rory could feel them all watching him as he left. Ripping him to shreds the second the door closed behind him.
Rip all you want,
Rory thought.
But it’s not going to get you anywhere
.

*   *   *

“Sandra?”

Erin’s voice echoed nervously through what appeared to be an empty house. Ever since they were teenagers, each of them had had a key to the other’s home. Larry hated it, of course, claiming it was a “gross violation of his husbandly rights.” Sandra’s reply to that was always the same: “Shove off.” She wanted Erin to have access to the house “just in case,” which meant if Larry was being a drunken jerk and Sandra needed someone to fetch the kids. Sometimes the mere threat of Erin’s appearance made Larry back off; sometimes it made things worse. If the latter was the case, all Sandra had to do was pick up her cell and Larry was off like a shot.

Sandra’s brood was gone, which was not a good sign. It meant Sandra had sent them off to her mother’s. Erin surveyed the living room; nothing was broken and there were no
half-eaten plates of food on the coffee table, which was good. It meant Sandra hadn’t had to hustle them out in the middle of a boiling row. Erin proceeded into the kitchen. It was messy as usual, but nothing was broken. It was as she was walking back into the living room that she heard a groan from upstairs.

“Sandra?”

Another groan.

Erin tiptoed up the stairs.
Please, Christ, don’t let that moron be there. Please.

Fighting trepidation, she quietly opened the door to Sandra’s bedroom. No Larry. But her friend was there, curled up in a little ball, her pallor gray and her eyes shut tight. “I have a terrible migraine,” Sandra whispered as Erin perched on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah?” Erin asked, disinterested.

Sandra opened her eyes. “What’s the matter with you?”

“What’s the matter with me? You think I’m thick, after all these years? What did he do? You always seem to get migraines after he’s pulled one of his stunts.”

“You’re wrong. He didn’t do anything.”

“What did he do? And you better answer me, ’cause I’m getting sick of asking.”

Sandra looked chastised. “The usual: tearing me to shreds in front of the kids. I had Lucy bring the brood to my mam’s.”

“What was he even doing in the house, San?”

“He wanted to see the kids.”

“Well, he sure did that, didn’t he? I’m so sick of this.”

“What?” Wincing, Sandra pushed herself up into a sitting position.

“You heard me. Year in, year out, it’s the same old tune. Next I’m going to tell you he’s a bastard, and then you’re going to cry and say he doesn’t mean it. Then Larry will come back and cry all apologetic, and you’ll believe him because staying stuck is safer.”

Sandra looked incredulous. “How can you say that to me? I’m your best friend!”

“Which is why I’m telling you the truth!” Erin was surprised
to find herself trembling with anger. “You deserve better than this.”

“Do I?” Sandra looked bitter. “I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.”

Erin’s voice shot up an octave. “Will you listen to yourself? You sound like half the old biddies in town, who stayed in the beds they made because the Church had them by the throat, making them believe they had to suffer. You can get out. There are ways out.”

“You don’t understand. I love him.”

This was the line that always soured Erin’s guts. She couldn’t bear to hear it one more time. “WHY! He’s a fat unreliable loser who treats you like shit and scares the hell out of your children. What’s there to love? Is the sex really that good?”

“Go to hell, Erin.”

“Right, I will.” Pulse flying, Erin was almost to the bedroom door when Sandra called out.

“Don’t go, please don’t go.” Erin turned back to find her friend’s face crumpled with tears. “Don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, San.” Erin sat back down on the bed, stroking Sandra’s tangled hair. “I love you, which is why I’m tired of banging my head against the wall. D’you have any idea what it’s like to see you this way? He’s ground you down so badly over the years that you actually think you deserve the way he talks to you. I remember the way you used to be. Sometimes I see a flicker of it, like when you helped me through all the stuff with Rory. You were so strong. You and Jake.”

“Because we were dealing with your life, not mine.”

“Let’s deal with yours, then.”

Sandra looked at her warily. “You don’t understand. I’ve got four kids. I can’t just pick up and go.”

“No, but you can make a plan to pick up and go, and then do it when the time is right.”

“The kids’ll go mad.”

“Kids rebound. And it’s not like he’s even here most of the time.”

Sandra lowered her gaze. “I know.”

“Unless you let him move back in.”

“No, no, he’s not going to move back in,” Sandra was quick to assure her.

Erin brightened a little. Maybe she was finally getting through. “Let’s make a plan, then.”

Sandra peered up at her with bloodshot eyes. “I’m too tired right now, Erin. I swear.”

Fine, right, whatever.

Sandra looked at Erin sheepishly with a half smile. “I’ve heard that for the right price, Spats O’Toole can arrange for an ‘accident’ to happen.”

Erin was appalled. “This is no time to make jokes!”

“Isn’t it?” Sandra caught Erin’s eye, and within seconds they were howling with laughter. A tried-and-true method to relieve stress. Let it out. Or hide it, whichever the case may be. Erin sometimes thought it was a mad thing for them to do, callous and inappropriate. And indeed, it was. But if it made Sandra feel better for a moment, that was all that mattered.

They wound down, Sandra swiping at her eyes. “Jesus, I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard since Old Jack dressed up as Cher for that Halloween party.”