Chapter 4

Lucy

It's Friday night, and I'm covering for Beatrice for the third time this week. Supposedly, it's only for a few hours while she does something for her work visa. But we'll see.

The door chimes jingle, and heads swivel almost in unison toward the entrance as he strides in, leather jacket creaking with every confident step. It's the motorcycle-club guy, the one with the eyes that miss nothing. I hate that his disheveled blond hair draws my curiosity. His eyes catch mine, and the corners of his mouth turn up. My heart races, like the traitor it is, and my grip tightens on my rag as I watch him saunter to his usual spot in a booth at the back of the bar, where he can look over everything. Why does this man turn my insides into liquid? And why is he back?

I keep wiping down the counter, trying not to think about what he does to me or how the hospital staff at the other end of the bar are eyeing him warily. They're good customers, always polite, and they tip like clockwork. But their shoulders are tense now, laughter dying to uneasy murmurs.

His last visit made it clear. He's not some biker looking for a greasy meal; the forty-percent tip he left screamed mob enforcer . And after the meal I served him last time, there's no way he's here for our pub food.

What did Dad get himself into?

I steal glances at him and Dad, who seems to ignore him. Is it money or maybe something harder to come by—a rare whiskey, perhaps—that's got us caught in this mess? I can feel my mind beginning to spin. Soon, our little pub will be labeled a hot spot for bikers and organized crime alike. We'll lose the regulars, the decent folks who just want a pint after a long shift.

A little while later, as the crowd thins, I spot my chance. Dad's at the other end of the bar, laughing with one of our neighborhood regulars about something or other. I toss the rag aside and make my way over, my heart drumming a nervous beat against my ribs.

"Dad?" I ask. He turns, his smile lingering until he sees my face. "Can we talk?"

"Sure, love. What's on your mind?" He wipes his hands on his apron and excuses himself from his friend.

"Is it… Did you take out a loan from them?" There, I've said it. The words hang between us.

"What?"

"Did you borrow money from Frankie Ryan?"

His brow furrows. "No, no loans. Frankie Ryan and I, we go way back. Why are you worrying about something like that?"

His reassurance feels hollow, like he's brushing away cobwebs while ignoring the spider lurking in the corner. Frankie Ryan . A name from stories I heard growing up, tales of wild youth and narrow escapes. It's supposed to comfort me, but the knot in my stomach only tightens. I force a smile, hoping it looks more convincing than it feels. Frankie "The Weasel" Ryan is head of the Irish mob, and I'm sure he has this enforcer here for something.

"I've just been wondering about that guy," I say, pointing with my eyes. But Dad just waves his hand. I don't even think he looked. "Okay, Dad. If you say so," I murmur, turning back to the emptying bar.

I want to believe him; I really do. But as I watch the guy order another round, fingers drumming an idle rhythm on the countertop, I can't shake the dread that's settled in my bones. Frankie Ryan or not, trouble has a way of finding my dad.

I look over at the framed photo of Mam behind the bar, next to the good whiskey, her smile a bittersweet reminder of better days. Dad's words about Frankie Ryan and their shared history in Dublin do little to ease my mind. Every time that motorcycle-club guy saunters through the door, my heart squeezes a little tighter. And not because of how he looks.

The bar is Dad's lifeline, his anchor since we lost Mam. If anything were to happen to it… My fingers tighten into a fist. There's Officer Singh, one of my students' parents. Maybe I should talk to him? No, that could make things worse.

"Lucy, you're off." Beatrice's voice cuts through my worry as she bustles through the door. "Go have fun."

"Thanks." I can hardly believe she's here, but I keep my snotty comments to myself. I manage a smile, tossing my apron under the counter and shrugging into my jacket.

Outside, the crisp evening air clears my head as I stroll to meet Janelle and Tiffany. Tonight, I need the escape, the laughter, the promise of something that isn't steeped in anxiety.

"Lucy!" Tiffany's familiar cheer greets me as I spot them waiting outside the bar.

"Hey, girls." I approach with open arms, embracing each in turn. I pull my stiletto sandals out of my bag and slip them on. "Ready to forget about the week?"

"Absolutely." Janelle nods, her eyes bright with anticipation. "Let's find a place where the music drowns everything else out."

We weave our way through Vancouver's nightlife and land at a hipster bar, The Alibi. As a teacher, it's rare for me to let loose, but tonight is different. We've all felt the grind—Janelle with her nursing studies and Tiffany, who matches my teaching challenges step for step.

"First round's on me," I declare as we settle into a booth.

"Only if we race you to the dance floor later. It's girls night at Glimmer," Janelle counters, her competitive streak peeking through.

"Deal." I laugh. We always say we're going to go dancing, but mostly, we use our time together to hang out and catch up.

"Okay, what are we drinking?" I ask, ready for something stiff.

Tiffany waves down the server with a confidence that only a woman who has tamed classrooms of ten-year-olds can possess. "Lemon drop martini for me," she announces.

Janelle scans the menu before pointing triumphantly. "I'll try the Australian Johnnie & Ginger highball."

"The what now?" I lean forward.

"Johnnie Walker, highball style, with spicy and sweet ginger ale," Janelle reads.

"Sounds adventurous." I'm sold. "Make that two, please."

A few minutes later, glasses clink and we sip, the alcohol warm and the ginger zesty against my tongue. It's new and rather delicious.

"Tell us about this date of yours, Tiffany," I prod.

"Ugh, where do I start?" She rolls her eyes, but I spot a smirk playing on her lips. "He took me on this epic motorcycle ride out to Hope. Three hours one way!"

"Three hours?" Janelle's eyebrows shoot up. "On a motorcycle? That's insane."

"Tell me about it," Tiffany groans, sliding down in her seat. "By the time we got there, I couldn't feel my hooha. Completely numb!"

"That's the last thing you want to be numb!" I exclaim.

Our laughter erupts. The image of prim Tiffany, disheveled by the wind and robbed of sensation, is too much.

"Thought about hitchhiking back," she continues, shaking her head. "But I stuck it out. And he had the nerve to be disappointed when the date didn't end…favorably."

"What did he expect?" I ask, still chuckling. "But seriously, how was the pizza?"

"Average!" Tiffany throws her hands up in exasperation. "All that, and the pizza was average!"

We laugh again, caught up in the moment. For now, the shadows of worry are banished to the fringes of my mind.

As we drink, we talk about everything and nothing—work, dreams, the ridiculousness of reality TV. It's effortless, this camaraderie, and I can't remember the last time I felt so…normal.

"Who needs to dance when we've got the best company right here?" Tiffany raises her glass, and we all echo the sentiment with a toast.

"Besides," Janelle adds, "I'm pretty sure my dance moves would only attract the kind of guy who thinks grinding is an acceptable form of communication."

We erupt into laughter again. The thought of sweaty strangers invading our personal space has no appeal tonight. This, right here, with these two incredible women, is where I want to be.

Hours slip by without notice, and it's only when the bartender announces last call that we realize how late it's gotten. We gather our things, still chatting as we spill out onto the busy street. Hugs and promises to do this again soon are exchanged before we go our separate ways.

The chill of the night air hits me as I start the walk home, the streets eerily silent. As I near my apartment, the stillness is shattered by a sound that sends a shiver down my spine—the deep, rumbling growl of a motorcycle. Instinctively, I know it's him, the motorcycle guy from the bar.

My pulse quickens, and I fumble for my keys, casting nervous glances over my shoulder. Why is he here? What does he want with me—or worse, with my dad? I finally open the door, slipping inside and darting up the stairs to my place. But even the safety of my apartment isn't enough to ease the knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach.

From my window, I watch as the red glow of the motorcycle's taillight fades into the distance. I crawl into bed but toss and turn, unable to find comfort. Each time I close my eyes, the roar of the motorcycle fills my ears, reminding me of the threat lurking beyond the safety of these walls.

I need answers. What is my dad mixed up in? What could possibly be worth inviting the attention of the Irish mob?