“Anyway, the gardai had caught wind of this place—a bunker, they called it—and had been watching it for a while. They busted it that same weekend.” I had an AR-15 in my hands when the shouts erupted and men emerged from the long grass surrounding us, the fluorescent garda name across their chests, barrels pointed at me. “We all pled guilty. The other fellas were sixteen and seventeen. They went to Oberstown, basically a juvenile detention center for boys. But because of my age, I got tried as an adult. And because of my family name, everyone assumed I was lying about not being involved with the IRA. I was really lucky, though. The gardai didn’t have enough to make the paramilitary group charges stick—some technicality, I don’t know—so I only got three years for firearms possession. Aengus got six for his part.”
“You were in prison for three years?”
I roll onto my side to face her, to see the shock and horror in her face. I know what she’s thinking right now. She’s trying to imagine being locked up in a cell for that long. Three years of your life is a long time at any age. But at eighteen . . . it feels like an eternity. “I only had to do half of it, and then they let me out on license, for good behavior. I had a curfew, and had to report in twice a week to a license officer, but at least I was out, sleeping in my own bed.” I used to be a heavy sleeper, but now I wake up at the slightest creaks in the house.
I study her as she processes that, her silhouette begging me to touch it, her chest heaving up and down with her breaths, the thin cotton tank top doing nothing to cover her tits, the two little sharp points that poke out thanks to the chill in the air. Or her fear. I had those nipples in my mouth just this morning. I’d do anything to have them again.
I stay on my side of the bed, though. I’m no idiot.
“What was it like?” she finally asks, tipping her head to face me. “Being behind bars for so long.”
“Tough. Because of the circumstances, we were put in Portlaoise, a maximum security with murderers and rapists. A lot of really bad bastards.” Men who had been in there as long as I’d been alive and wouldn’t be getting out anytime soon. Men who’d become so acclimatized to prison life, they wouldn’t survive outside of it. “It was a long eighteen months. I cried into my pillow the first night in my cell,” I admit with a soft chuckle, adding, “I’ve never told anyone that.” I wasn’t the only one. The nights were quiet around there for the most part. Impossible not to hear the occasional sob, the regular piss. The too frequent grunts of a fella getting off, either on his own or with help.
“I spent most of it in my cell, reading books and working out. The guards treated me alright for the most part.”
“Did you ever get hurt?”
I heave a sigh. “Once in a while I’d have some sick fuck sniffing around me. I guess I was considered a catch for the long-timers. I’ll tell ya, I learned to shower really fast.” Not quick enough to avoid witnessing what some inmates were willing to do to get their fixes. The first day home, I stood under that showerhead until the water ran cold. And then I called up an old girlfriend and fucked her for half the night.
A gasp escapes Amber’s lips, drawing my eyes to them.
“Don’t worry. Nothing like that ever happened to me. I promise.” My smile slips off. “Aengus made sure that it didn’t. He gave a few good beatings to make sure people knew not to mess with me. He has a scar that runs from here to here,” I draw a fifteen-centimeter line just below my collarbone, “where this lifer—a serial rapist, a really mean one—tried to shank him after Aengus threatened him. My brother was too strong, though, too fast. Broke the guy’s arm in three places.” And was seconds away from killing him, but luckily the guards intervened. Amber doesn’t need to know that part, though. “Aengus was my bodyguard in there. That’s one of the main reasons he never made parole.”
She sighs, understanding filling her somber face. “Is that why you’re protecting him now?”
“He’s my brother. My flesh and blood. He always had my back, growing up. He covered for me when I did stupid things, more than once.” I’m not about to explain the Katie Byrne incident to her. “I was a scrawny kid until I hit puberty. Fellas would try to bully me, but Aengus would have none of that. He taught me how to play rugby, practiced with me like our da would have if he could. Went to every one of my games, cheered me on. I was pretty good, too. I earned a scholarship from Trinity College and had just started classes when everything happened.”
“Wait . . .” She frowns, and I know she’s thinking about our conversation the past morning. “So you were going to college?”
I nod. It’s so long ago now. “Thought about trying to get back in, but with Aengus away, and Delaney’s to run, there’s just no time for school. Anyway, I’d die before I’d betray my brother. You have a brother. You understand that, right?”
“No . . . I don’t.” She sighs. “My brother has caused himself and others plenty of trouble. But I’ve never hesitated to tell my dad whenever I found out. I figured it’d help Jesse in the long run. Maybe keep him from making a bigger mess of his life.”
Telling Da what Aengus is up to wouldn’t really help Aengus. Da would never actually call the gardai on him; he trusts the likes of them less than we do. It would only raise Da’s blood pressure and give him more reason to curse Aengus. “I guess the way your father handles issues is different from mine.”
“I guess so.” Her eyes start to close, the stress of the day no doubt finally catching up to her. I don’t say anything more and, in less than a minute, she’s drifting off.
I have no idea what’s going to happen when those eyes flutter open. She’ll likely tell me that she never wants to see me again. That I need to leave immediately. That’s why I lean over, feel her shallow breaths cascade over my lips for a moment, and then steal a kiss. I settle back into my pillow and simply watch her sleep.
Clinging to the fact that she lied to Duffy for a reason.
TWENTY-FOUR
Amber
In those first few seconds of consciousness, nothing concerns me beyond the stream of sunlight shining directly only my face. I forgot to draw the curtains last night, I realize.
Then I remember why, and the annoying light is forgotten.
I find River sleeping soundly on his back, fully dressed, one arm over his eyes, the other one stretched out, as if reaching for me. His lips, the ones I couldn’t get enough of just yesterday morning, parted just slightly.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what to think.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.
So I simply lie there, afraid to move, to stir him, and I let everything he admitted last night swirl in my head. Hoping it’ll settle on its own and the answer will suddenly become clear.
He was arrested for attending a training camp intended to teach people how to kill and maim, to inspire terror. But it doesn’t sound like that was his intention. I remember my dad arresting a group of teenage boys outside Bend, after they set up a target range in the mountains. A hiker called to complain about excessive gunfire. They had no explanation for him, besides it being something “fun” to do. Dad said that it was a fairly common thing among teenage boys. It didn’t even faze them that they had no permits.