Four

 

Conner

 

There are three things I can’t say no to.

A pint of Guinness.

A willing woman.

My family.

All three have caused me more than their fair share of grief over the years. You’d think I’d learn my lesson. Slow down on the booze and the women. Learn to say no. Use my brain a little more and my fists and mouth a little less. Grow the fuck up.

At least that’s what big brother Declan says. Me? I say I like things just the way they are.

I drink. I fuck. I fight.

That’s about as good as my life’s ever gonna get.

“What can I get you, Sweetness?” I say, leaning into the pretty blonde on the other side of the bar, shooting her the patented Gilroy grin. She’s cute in that generic, college transplant kind of way. Definitely worth considering.

Too bad I already fucked her.

I’m not a return to the scene of the crime kinda guy. Once I’ve been there, I don’t go back.

Not ever.

She gives her hair a flip and narrows her eyes. “Malibu and cranberry,” she says like I should already know. Like I should remember.

Thing is, I do remember. Her name is Taylor. She’s a business major at Boston College, and she makes this high-pitched humming sound when she comes.

But if you start confessing that you remember things like drink orders and names and that one time you had them bent over the bathroom sink in the ladies’ room, women get the wrong idea.

They start thinking you actually give a shit.

And giving a shit is bad for business.

“You got it,” I say, reaching under the bar for a rocks glass. I mix her drink, pouring coconut rum over ice before hitting it with a quick shot of cranberry from the mixer gun. I slide it across the bar. “Seven bucks.”

She looks at me like I’m joking, her smile doing a quick fade when she realizes I’m not. “Seriously?”

If I gave free drinks to every girl I’ve Gilroyed, we’d be out of business by the end of the week. “Yeah. Seriously.”

“You’re an asshole,” she hisses at me.

I give her the annnd? look until she finally gives in. “Here,” she says, digging into the pocket of her cutoffs to pull out a ten. She drops the bill on the bar and walked off in a huff, drink in hand.

“You want your change?” I call after her, and she flips me the bird over her shoulder. “Thank you for your patronage,” I say because I’m an asshole and because last words are kinda my thing.

“Another satisfied customer?” Declan says beside me, and I cut him a quick look. He’s at the taps, filling pitchers for a bunch of bros playing pool. It’s Wednesday—the shotgirls Patrick hired are doing a brisk business, switching out their empties for the pre-prepped trays in the walk-in cooler at a quick clip. That means all Dec and I have to do is mix the occasional drink and pour a fuck-ton of beer.

“Fuck off,” I say without much heat, dropping the leftover money into the tip jar. My constant irritation with my brother makes any other response nearly impossible, even when I’m not actively angry at him.

“It’s Wednesday,” he gripes, slamming the register a little too hard. “What are you even doing here?”

At the end of the bar, there’s a tight cluster of what look like flight attendants giving me the eye. Thanks to Patrick and his minor celebrity brought on by that ridiculous magazine spread, it’s not just college girls I’m landing these days. All kinds of women are coming in here looking for him. And find me instead.

“Making the world a happier, brighter place, brother,” I say, shooting a wink at the flight attendants down the bar.

“When I agreed to regular shifts, I was promised I wouldn’t have to babysit more than once a week.”

“Cap’n’s at that thing,” I say with a shrug. That thing is the benefit art opening Cari’s boss is hosting at her gallery. “He asked me to cover—and I don’t need a babysitter.”

“It’s not you I’m babysitting,” Dec says, swiping a bottle of whiskey from the well. “It’s your dick.”

“Well, then you’re doing a piss-poor job, brother,” I say with a laugh, while one of the flight attendants giving me the eye breaks formation and heads in my direction. “What can I get you, beautiful?” I say, turning my attention toward the brave little soldier who was elected to approach me.

“Jesus Christ,” Declan mutters, moving down the bar with the whiskey so he can build a round of sours in relative peace.

The flight attendant gives me a smile—half nervous, half star-struck. “We have your magazine on the plane,” she gushes, her cheeks immediately flushing. “I mean—would you mind signing a copy and maybe taking a few pictures with us?”

It’s not my magazine they want me to sign, it’s my cousin’s. Patrick was voted Boston’s Best Catch by Bostonian magazine a few months ago. Ever since then, Gilroy’s has been crawling with women looking to bang him, but he’s made it clear he isn’t interested in reaping the benefits of that little windfall.

Knock yourself out. That’s what he said to me while swinging his sledgehammer into every standing surface of his apartment. Just don’t fuck my waitresses.

“I might look like you, but I’m not half as stupid,” I told him, ducking when he fast-pitched a chunk of drywall at my head as I head out the door.

That was a few months ago, and I’ve been up to my eyebrows in pussy ever since. Not that I was exactly hurting before the magazine came out but when it comes to women, there is no such thing as too much or too many in my book.

I give the woman in front of me a quick assessment. Mid-thirties. Dark hair. Too much make-up for my tastes. Her uniform crisp, despite the fact that she and her backup singers obviously just got into town. No way a woman like this is going to let me fuck her in a bathroom stall.

But I know she wants to.

Like I know just about everything else.

Her friends are here to pose for pictures and flirt with the hot guy from the magazine. Take a few strategically posed selfies. Maybe chat him up a little. Buy him a drink. Make a memory.

Not her. She came here to fuck him. Too bad he’s too hung up on his ex-roommate to take advantage of the situation. That’s where I come in. It’s a matter of family pride, really.

“What’s your name, beautiful?” I say snagging a shot glass from the rack under the bar.

“Donna,” she says, licking her lips, watching me measure out a shot of Jameson. “So, what do you say?”

“Well, I don’t know, Donna…” I draw, pretending to consider it—and her—while lifting my glass. “What are you gonna do for me?” Truth is, I made up my mind when she walked in the door.

Her breath catches in her throat, and her mouth opens slightly like she’s having a hard time catching her breath. “I’m sure I can think of something,” she says, that tongue of hers skimming along the rim of her bottom lip like she’s already got a few ideas.

“Well, then—” I toss back the Jameson, liking the hot spread of it when it hits my gut. Needing the numbness it leaves behind. “Where do I sign?”

I’m not what she expects. I’m not my cousin, with his earnest smile and save-the-world antics. I don’t spend two nights a week at the library, teaching old-timers how to read. I don’t drag my ass out of bed at the crack of dawn every Sunday to coach kids’ baseball. I’m not pining away for some chick who left and is never coming back.

No, I’m not Patrick.

But I look just like him, and I fuck like it’s my natural-born profession.

Which means tonight, I’m close enough.