There are Irish bars in New York, and there are Irish bars in New York. The former are full of kitschy “Irish” shit—fake vintage Guinness ads, shamrocks all over the place, the same four beers on tap. They make a fortune on St. Patrick’s Day.
The latter is the kind of place you damn well better not step foot in unless you look the part and are the part.
Thankfully, The Banshee, where Neve insists on going, is the former. No old-school IRA types side-eying you or conversation coming to a dead stop when you walk in. No, this place is the Disney World version of an Irish pub, full of hipsters, finance dude bros, and regular day-to-day New Yorkers who felt like having Guinness or a whiskey tonight. It’s got the kitschy four-leaf clover and Erin go Bragh shit on the walls, and modern indie rock music playing on the sound system.
I feel utterly out of place. Places with multiples TVs, guys in sports jerseys high-fiving each other whenever the right team scores, and a goddamn bell the hipster bartender keeps fucking ringing whenever someone orders a round of shots aren’t exactly my kind of places. I prefer a more sophisticated drinking experience. A dress code. Dim lighting. Subdued. Elegant. Demure.
The Banshee, in the West Village, is the polar opposite of all that. Amusingly, it’s also so fucking Neve that I can’t help but grin and shake my head when we step inside.
“Grab one of those booths. I’ll get us drinks.”
Neve fades into the crowd, in her element, heading towards the bar. I shove aside a couple of loud Knicks fans and snag the last unclaimed dark green vinyl booth along the wall.
It’s a bigger crowd than I’d like, given the day’s events. But I’ve got men parked outside, and another one watching the back entrance to the alley. And again, that psycho motherfucker is locked up tight in the most secure prison in the world.
We’re fine. Neve’s mood and general color has improved on the drive over here. She doesn’t look as cold and shut down as she did earlier. It’s as if she’s shaken off the shadow that’s been looming over her since the TV broadcast.
My thoughts drift again to the place my head went when all that shit went down today. How my immediate reaction was to look to her. To make sure she was okay.
To protect her.
I wouldn’t have expected that.
There’s a part of me that wants to say that’s just who I am. Or at least who I’ve become since ascending the throne. But that’s a copout. That’s the easy excuse.
It’s also just plain fucking wrong.
Because I’m not that guy. Not unless the person in trouble is family. If it were Callie, or Ya-ya, or any of my brothers who was being threatened like that? I’d storm into Hell to make sure they were safe from harm. Of course I would. Aside from family, though, I can’t think of a single other instance, especially a single other woman, where I’ve come close to even approaching this level of vicious protectiveness.
With Neve, it’s stronger than anything I’ve ever felt. This need to shield her. To snarl at the world until it backs off when it gets too close. To scare away the shadows and keep the devils at bay.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I frown, shoving those thoughts away. Way too complex. Or at least, I’m way too sober to be diving into those waters right now. Instead, I let my mind wander to even earlier—before that monster on the TV. To dragging Neve into the guest bathroom.
To losing myself in her.
I grin wolfishly at the memory, turning to scan across the crowd, my gaze searching for her. My pulse quickens when I spot her bright gingery-red ponytail at the bar.
And then quickly, that surge of…something…inside me when I see her turns to something else. Something black.
Or maybe green.
My blood pressure spikes as I watch her throw her head back, laughing raucously at something the smug, hipster bartender with the tousled hair and the pretty-boy looks says. Neve grins widely, and I see fucking red when she leans over the bar and hugs the guy before lifting the drinks he sets down and wandering back over to our booth.
“I know your penthouse only has thousand-dollar a glass vintage scotch,” she snickers sarcastically as she slips into the booth across from from me. “But here, we drink Jameson.” Neve grins as she slides the glass of Irish whiskey on ice across the table to me. “Sláinte.”
Silently, darkly, still brooding over the confusing and unwanted feelings of such possessive jealousy, I pluck up my glass and down half of it. Neve lifts a brow, eyeing me as she sips hers slowly.
“Whoa, what’s going on?”
My eyes snap to hers.
“Who was that?”
Her brows knit. “Who was who?”
I turn my head, pointedly sliding my gaze across the pub to the shithead behind the bar.
Neve snorts a laugh, which only makes me want even more to walk over there and disfigure the guy.
“The bartender? Oh, that’s just Jack.”
My teeth grind.
“Who the fuck is Jack?”
Neve stares at me, a half confused, half amused look teasing her lips. “He’s the bartender.”
“To you, I mean,” I growl.
“Ohh!” She smiles broadly. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just used to be his personal porn star. You know, real filthy, no-holds-barred stuff. Shared with his friends, bukkake. That sort of thing.”
She’s grinning at me as my jaw grinds tightly. When I don’t flinch or smile back, hers falters slightly.
“I’m…joking…if that wasn’t clear?”
“Who. Is. He.”
Neve rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, seriously? He’s an old friend, relax. I grew up coming to this neighborhood all the time. I’ve known Jack since I used to come here with a fake ID in high school. Chill.”
I do my best to pull off a casual shrug as I glance back to Neve.
Who obviously isn’t buying it.
“Jesus,” she murmurs, smirking at me. “Imagine if we were a real couple. I’d have to start warning any men who even glance at me to run for their lives.”
A real couple.
I need to get my head on straight.
I down the rest of my drink and stand. “I’m going to use the restroom.”
“Careful,” she grins. “There’s no towel boy or shoe-shine in there. Think you’ll survive?”
I give her a look, biting back my grin when she giggles.
My nose wrinkles in disgust when I step into the bathroom. Graffiti covers the walls. It smells like fucking piss. And a single fluorescent bar-light flickers over a cracked mirror and grimy sink.
Jesus. This is why I drink at classy fucking bars.
I’m at the urinal when the door opens, and I hear two guys tumble in behind me.
“Bro, holy shit,” one snickers to the other. “You must be knee-deep in pussy working behind the bar in a place like this.”
I stiffen, my eyes laser focused on the scuffed-up tile wall in front of me.
The second man, who I’m guessing now is the infamous Jack, laughs as I hear him pissing into the stall toilet behind me.
“I mean it’s a tough gig, but someone’s gotta do it, right?”
The first guy wheezes out a guffaw. “Man, I gotta come here more often at this time of night.”
“Yeah bro, the talent gets unreal this late sometimes.”
“Dude!” guy number one blurts. “You see Neve Kildare out there?”
Jack whistles. “Sure did. She’s lookin’ great, too.”
I grit my teeth. Then I remind myself that it’s not a crime for another man to find my fake, arranged marriage wife attractive.
If he keeps talking, though, I might just commit one.
“Who’s the tightass douchebag she’s with?”
Jack snorts. “I dunno, man. Could be some sort of mafia thing. You know her family.”
“Yeah, true.” The second guy snickers. “Well, whoever he is, hope he’s got a second cock.”
They both crack up, loudly.
“Two dicks bare KILDARE!”
Both of them crow it out practically at the same time as my vision starts to tint red. Slowly I zip up, moving to the sink to wash my hands. In the cracked mirror, I can see Jack stepping out of the stall and the second guy taking a piss in the urinal I just vacated.
“Man!” Jack laughs. “I can’t believe you and Leery did that shit with her that night.”
The second guy chuckles as he finishes taking a piss. “Dude, she was so fuckin’ wasted. We should’ve brought in the whole fuckin’ football team and run a train on—”
They both go silent when I reach over and deadbolt the bathroom door shut with a harsh clicking sound.
“Dude, what are you—”
I start to roll up my sleeves.
The unnamed second guy clears his throat. “Hey, buddy, can we help you? What—”
They both stiffen when I turn to face them, realization of me being “that tightass douchebag with Neve” dawning in their eyes.
“Look, bro—”
“Say it again.”
Jack swallows. He and the other guy glance at each other nervously.
“Wh—What?”
“Say what you just said again,” I growl quietly. “About Neve Kildare.”
Impossibly, they go even more pale.
“Look, man,” the second guy looks at me nervously. “It was a long time ag—”
I move towards him. He flinches, stumbling back until he hits a wall.
“It was just some pictures, man! No harm, no—”
My fist slams into his stomach, doubling him over as he cries out in pain. When he tries to stand up again, I hit him in the face so hard I feel his nose shatter under my fist. He screams in pain, blood pouring down his face.
I hit him again.
And again.
And again.
I hit him until the throbbing, snarling, vicious god of wrath inside of me retreats enough that I don’t actually kill him. It’s only then that I stop. My shoulders heave, my teeth bared as I spit at the piece of shit blubbering in a pool of his own piss and blood on the bathroom floor.
I turn to Jack, who’s now pressed to the far corner of the bathroom, a look of abject terror on his face.
“What was he talking about.”
“Look, man,” Jack blurts. “I’ve worked here a long time. I don’t want any trouble—”
“Then start. Talking.”
“There was a party!” he mumbles, shaking. “Like, five years ago. I wasn’t even there, I just…”
“Talk.”
“A bunch of people Neve went to high school with still come in here. I mean they all used to party here with fake IDs back in school, so this is still their spot. And, you know, I hear stories…”
“Tell me,” I rasp coldly.
He flinches, shivering as he eyes me warily.
“You guys really married?”
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
“Someone took pictures!” he blurts as I step towards him.
Savage fury rips through me.
Pictures.
“What. Fucking. Pictures.”
I’m fucking seething—a bubbling, shaking bomb of napalm about to detonate and take out a whole city block.
“Just…him and another guy!” Jack snivels, cringing deeper into the corner. “That’s all I know! I’ve never seen them! I’ve just heard…”
“WHAT.”
Jack swallows, his face ashen.
“Apparently there were pictures…of like, her and them.”
His gaze drops away from mine. His hands are shaking.
“Like, pictures of her…with them.”
In one motion, I whirl, wind back, and kick the piece of shit on the floor as hard as I can in the ribs. Jack winces when I wind back again. I do so very much want to hurt him. I want to hurt the world right now.
But I restrain myself. I leave the two of them shaking and sniveling in the bathroom, and I storm out and back into the bar.
Neve looks up from her empty glass as I approach like a fucking demon from hell. Her smile drops, and her brow furrows.
“What’s—”
“We’re fucking leaving.”
“What? Ares, we just got here—”
“Yes. And now we’re fucking leaving,” I snarl viciously, grabbing her wrist and yanking her after me.
It’s not until we get outside that she manages to free her arm from my grasp, pulling away from me. When I turn back to her, she holds a hand up, shaking her head.
“Okay, what the fuck? You go to the bathroom for five minutes and come out looking like you’re ready to kill someone.” Her gaze drops to my bloodied knuckles. Her eyes widen. “What the hell happened to your—”
“I don’t own your past, Neve,” I hiss quietly. “But I don’t need to fucking hear about it in pub bathrooms. We’re going home. Now.”
Her brow furrows.
“What past?”
“Let’s go.”
“No!” She plants her feet, glaring at me. “Because I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about! My past?! Ares, while you were out probably fucking half of London, I’ve had one fucking boyfriend, okay?! One incredibly lackluster, G-rated, vanilla—”
“I don’t need to hear about my wife getting fucking tag-teamed by—”
Her face goes white. Then, it turns livid.
“Thank you so much,” she hisses quietly.
“Yeah?” I snap. “For fucking what?”
“For reminding me of one of the worst moments of my life, you asshole! I just love rehashing the time I got assaulted while I was blackout drunk. Thanks so much, Ares.”
Fuck.
She starts to storm away down the sidewalk. When I catch up to her and grab her arm, she turns on me as she yanks free of my grip.
“Neve—”
“Neve nothing! Okay?!”
“The fuck it is. Tell me.”
She shudders, tears in her eyes.
“Did they ra—”
“No.”
She shakes her head decisively, chewing viciously on her lip. Her eyes raise to mine, a look in them I can’t quite decipher.
“When I was nineteen, I was at a party with a bunch of people I’d gone to high school with. I didn’t even drink that much. Maybe I got slipped something, got roofied, I don’t know. All I know is, the next day, there were…pictures.”
A red mist swims into my vision. Neve hugs herself, looking away.
“These two assholes I knew from high school, Mike Jennings and Greg Leery, took pictures of me while I was blacked out.”
“What sort of pictures,” I growl.
Neve’s eyes close, and she swallows thickly.
“Up my skirt. With my shirt pulled up.”
The rest mist turns into a cloud of death. My hands curl to fists at my sides as my teeth grind.
Neve looks away.
“And few of them with their…” she shakes her head, her lip thinning to a line. “With their dicks out, like, waving them near my face and stuff.”
In one motion, I whip around, crashing my fist into the stop sign behind me so hard it dents in half. When I turn back to her, her face is still, her eyes locked on mine.
“What was the fallout?”
She shakes her head. “There was none.”
I’m going to kill them.
“I mean, yeah, sort of, a little. Greg’s father and mine were going into business together. So, you know…”
I stare at her in sickening disbelief.
“So nothing happened?!”
Her mouth goes small.
“Greg’s dad wrote a big check.”
“I mean to the two shitheads who assaulted you.”
Neve looks away again. “Look, Ares, it’s long in the past. And the pictures weren’t digital, thank God. They used one of those disposable things—”
“Stay here.”
“Ares, wait—”
But I’m already storming back into The Banshee. And instantly, I see the piece of shit I just stomped on in the bathroom, now sitting slumped on a barstool nursing a beer with a bloody icepack to his face.
I don’t even have to push the crowds aside. It’s like I’ve just walked in wielding an axe, or a baseball bat. The whole crowd parts for me as I surge towards him. The little fuck turns around on his stool, his eyes going wide in horror as he tries to scramble away.
Too late.
He squeals like a stuck pig as I grab him by the collar, yank him off the stool, and physically drag him back through the bar. Outside, he’s already pleading for his life when I shove him down at Neve’s feet.
Her face goes white.
“Mike?” Her gaze snaps to mine. “What the fuck is—”
“Neve!” Mike blubbers, sobbing on the ground. “Please! Tell him! Tell him it was just a prank, right? I mean we were fucking kids! Kids do dumb pranks, don’t they?!”
“Is this one of them?” I hiss quietly.
Her eyes drop to the man sobbing on the ground. I half expect her to tell me it’s fine. Or lie. Or do something very “Neve-ish” like swearing at him and then telling me we should go, and then leaving it at that.
But instead, her jaw clenches, and slowly, I see the same look spread over her face that I saw when I watched her turn into the dark queen she is, when she was dressing Ezio down at the party.
“Yeah,” she hisses. “This is Mike Jennings. He’s one of the assholes who took advantage of me when I was drunk, maybe even drugged me. And then took pictures of his fucking dick next to my face.”
Her eyes raise to mine, a look of pure malice in them.
“Don’t kill him.”
Three words, with the unspoken next ones being “but do what you will.”
“I’ll try my best.”
I’ve doled out some hurt in my day. I’ve sent men to the hospital, and plenty more to their graves. In other words, I’ve meted out my fair share of beatdowns.
This is one for the record books, though.
I hit the sack of shit sniveling on the sidewalk over and over and fucking over. I hit him with every ounce of my rage, every drop of my fury for what he did to her all those years ago. I hit him even when the random passersby on the street scream at me to stop. I shrug off the two guys who try and stop me, shoving them back with a bloodthirsty snarl on my lips before I turn and continue to turn Mike into a piece of bloody, tenderized meat.
And I’d probably have kept pulverizing him until he was a fucking corpse, if it wasn’t for the soft hand that suddenly touched my cheek. I flinch, turning with savageness in my eyes.
Only to realize it’s Neve.
“Ares,” she says quietly. “We have to go.”
“I’m not done with—”
“The police are coming.”
She nods at a frantic woman across the street, screaming the address we’re standing outside of into a phone.
“We have to go. Now.”
I drop my grip on an unconscious Mike’s collar. My eyes are still locked with Neve’s as I turn and cup her face.
Possessively. Jealously. Unflinchingly.
The moment is frozen like that for I don’t even know how long—both of us just staring into each other’s eyes on that sidewalk outside The Banshee.
Then we go.
But something’s different as we jog around the corner and get into the waiting car. Something’s changed as we drive wordlessly through the city back to my penthouse.
Or at least, I’m different.
Because I left the version of me who was still telling himself that there was anything pretend about any of this back there in the puddles of blood on that sidewalk.
My hand slides across the back seat. My fingers entwine with hers, squeezing tight.
And she squeezes them back as we drive into the night.
