Stay the Night (4 page)

It didn’t look much better now, but the habit of reading romances had stuck.

Rowdy sprawled on the couch across from him. “Your dad told me you went to the doctor last week.”

Donald MacNiven was a magpie. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know, but you’re going to anyway.”

He wanted to throw the book at his friend’s head. “Don’t tell me what to do. You don’t know anything. You have no idea what it’s like to have your career ended because of an accident.”

“Is that what the doctor said?” Rowdy’s gaze sharpened. “That your career was ended?”

Ian winced, moving his bum leg with his hands. “Not in so many words. He said it’d be a miracle if I ever played again.”

“Well then it’s your lucky day that I’m here, because I believe in miracles.”

“This isn’t a joke, Rowdy.” He pointed to the door. “Take your things and get out.”

Rowdy’s expression turned dark and serious, much like his game face on the pitch. “Let me remind you, because it seems you’ve forgotten. We’re brothers, and brothers don’t leave each other behind on the field.”

“I’m no longer on the field.”

“Shut up and listen, Mac. I’m not leaving until I see you playing again. You’re done wallowing in the dark. So if you want to get into shape, we’re going to get you into shape.”

“It’s pointless.”

Rowdy picked up the romance novel and waved it in his face. “If you believed life was meaningless and pointless, you wouldn’t be reading these books. You can’t bullshit me, my friend. I know you.”

He grabbed the book away and sat back, still glaring.

Rowdy wasn’t fazed. He got in his face. “Are you done with soccer?”

He wasn’t. Football was all he knew. He’d been playing since he started walking—literally. He couldn’t imagine a future without it. “I should have just died in the accident.”

Suddenly he was hauled to his feet, Rowdy gripping him by his collar looking like a furious warrior, his scars livid, his eyes bugging with anger. “You will never even
think
that in my presence, you got it, buddy? Because next time, I’m going to beat you until you regain your senses.”

Just as abruptly, Rowdy dropped him and began pacing, arms waving and talking loudly. “What a fricking idiot. Do you know how lucky you were walking away from that accident? Yeah, you’re a little maimed, but still. You have a chance, and you’re sitting here in the dark feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Because it wasn’t fair,” Ian yelled, lurching up. “The accident wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t been drinking. I hadn’t been driving fast. I’m
maimed
because a kid was out joyriding in his daddy’s expensive car and lost control.”

It all came back to him: waking up in the hospital, the torn cartilage and tendons, the pins in his reconstructed knee. The smell of antiseptic that they used to mask the stench of death.

Ian glared at his friend. “If you say I was lucky to have escaped with my life, I’ll punch you.” Because without football he wasn’t intact. The kid had done him a disservice by not killing him.

Rowdy stopped in front of him and pointed a finger. “What did I say about those thoughts?”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” Ian frowned. “Are you a witch or something?”

“I’m your savior, dude.” Rowdy folded his arms, his powerful legs braced as though he were about to tackle him. “I’m going to help you get back into shape.”

“Right.” All the exercises in the world wouldn’t heal him enough to get him back on the pitch. He opened the book and pretended to read.

“Isn’t the FA Cup in five weeks?” Rowdy asked.

The Football Association Challenge Cup
. Ian stilled. It was the only competition he’d never won. The World Cup, the Champions League, the European Football Championship, the Confederations Cup—all under his belt. But not the FA Cup.

Rowdy came to stand directly in front of him. When he said nothing, Ian looked up.

“You’ve never won the FA Cup,” Rowdy said. “And it’s the oldest soccer competition in the world.”

“Please rub it in my face,” he said bitterly.

“We’re going to train to get you ready for it,” his friend said as though Ian hadn’t spoken. “I mean, it’s contingent on your team making it past the playoffs, but they look strong and they’re favored to win, and if you tell them you’re coming back for the final match they’ll rise up and win for you.”

They would. He missed those fools. They stopped by all the time to visit him while he was in the hospital, but he always pretended to be asleep because he couldn’t talk to them. Still, he’d felt comforted with them in the room.

“Five weeks is plenty of time, especially if you listen to me.” Rowdy stroked his chin, thinking about it. Then he nodded. “It’s going to be a bitch, but we’re going to do it. You and me, no questions, no negativity. We’ll start in the morning.”

The expression on Rowdy’s face was so certain, without a hint of doubt. Hope rose in Ian’s throat, and he had to clear it to speak. “How do you know it’ll work?”

“I told you we’re doing it. There’s no compromise. It’s the only acceptable answer.”

What if it didn’t work? “What do I have to lose?” he murmured.

“Nothing,” Rowdy replied. “And isn’t it better than living like this? I think you can play again. Your knee is bad, but we all hurt when we play. With the right training and strength building, you’ll be strong again. Not in as top condition as before, but close enough. You’ll learn ways of masking that. You’re a master, and that’s what masters do. We see a goal and we get it. This is no different.”

It was what they did—when it was reasonable. But this wasn’t reasonable. He put a hand on his knee, flexing it, feeling the pinch of pain. This was madness.

“I’m staying with you to help you train,” Rowdy announced, beating his fist on his chest once. “I’m staying until you’re strong enough to play again. You want me gone, you better work crazy hard.”

“I’ve been rehabbing for a month already and look at me. What makes you think you’re better than my doctors?”

“I care more.” Rowdy shrugged. “I love you, dude. You keep forgetting we’re brothers. You bleed, I bleed.”

His chest felt tight, and he rubbed a hand over it, unable to speak for the feelings that rose.

“So what do you say?” his friend asked. “We going to do it?”

He opened his mouth to tell Rowdy he was delusional. “Okay.”

They stared at each other, both surprised.

Ian blinked. “I said okay.”

His friend jabbed a finger at him. “And you can’t take it back.”

“Yes, I can. I can barely walk.”

“Where’s your walker?”

Ian shook his head. “I don’t have a walker.”

“So you’ve been using your own two feet. And physical therapy?” his friend asked.

“I stopped going.”

Rowdy lurched to his feet. “What?”

“It was pointless.” He winced. “Also, it was a woman.”

“Since when are you a chauvinist?”

“I’m not,” he mumbled, “but she kept hitting on me.”

Rowdy gaped at him and then burst out laughing. “Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it? One thing’s for sure though.”

“What?”

“I sure as hell won’t be hitting on you.” Rowdy held a hand out. “Come on. Bedtime. We’re starting early tomorrow.”

Ian stared at the hand. If he took it, there was no backing out. He’d be in, committed to playing again.

He took a deep breath and clasped Rowdy’s hand.

Rowdy hauled him to his feet and hugged him. “Welcome back, dude. I’ve missed you.”

Ian nodded. He’d missed himself, too.

Chapter Four

The cello wept its music.

Niamh leaned against the building, eyes closed to hear the beautiful melody better. The man playing outside the tube station in Mayfair wasn’t a virtuoso, but he played with emotion, and that counted more than skill.

Enrapt by the mournful strains, the buzz of the text message on her mobile jarred her. Oh well. She was already late for work. She just had to stop and listen.

She took her mobile out of her purse and made a face. Her brother. Not the best timing. Of course, a text from her brother was never convenient. She juggled her purse and violin case to see what Cormac wanted.

The Dark Lord: A friend told me there’s an opening for a violinist with the Dublin Philharmonic.

Her heart leapt at the thought of playing music. She’d never imagined doing anything else.

Except there’d been that short, turbulent stint at the Academy of St. Martin. She’d been asked to leave the symphony after one too many warnings. She couldn’t cut it as a musician. That was when she’d started bartending full-time.

Ten years now. Life didn’t turn out the way you expected. She’d accepted that and moved on.

One thing was sure, she wasn’t going to play for any orchestra ever again. She didn’t like anyone telling her how to play, or that she had to dress in black, or that she had to sit instead of stand. How could you sit the whole time? Good music made it necessary to
move
. And she hated black.

Making a face, she replied quickly to nip this idea in the bud.

Niamh Kelly: Thanks.

Cormac texted her back just as quickly.

The Dark Lord: Does that mean you’ll apply?

Niamh Kelly: No.

The Dark Lord: Will you at least think about it?

Niamh Kelly: Maybe.

The Dark Lord: I wish you’d stop running.

Niamh Kelly: I’m not running. I’m standing still.

The Dark Lord: You know what I mean. It’s time you got serious about your life. You’re wasting your talents.

This again. She huffed in aggravation. In a second, he was going to tell her she needed to move home, to be closer to their parents.

The Dark Lord: Playing with the DP would mean you’d be close to the parents, too. They’re getting old. Mother wants you home.

London was home. Niamh had been living here since she was eighteen—fifteen years. She dreaded even visiting Dublin. She loved her family, but the distance between them was perfect. It kept the peace.

The Dark Lord: Niamh?

Niamh Kelly: I have to get to work. We’ll chat later.

She silenced her phone and tucked it away before he could reply. She closed her eyes for a second, exhaling the frustration she always felt after a conversation with her brother. Cormac only wanted the best for her, she reminded herself.

The thing was, music wasn’t best for her. Cormac just couldn’t see that.

She felt better after the short walk to the Red Witch.

Geraldine, the owner, was behind the bar when Niamh arrived. The older woman sat on a stool, reading the paper in front of her, not even looking up to see if it was a customer.

Niamh shook her head as she walked to the storeroom. She hid the violin case behind a box of toilet paper, took her notebook and pen out of her purse, and walked out front. Locking up the room, she went back out and ducked behind the counter.

Geraldine had forgotten to turn the stereo on, so Niamh pushed play as she set her notebook under the bar for easy access when she needed to write a tune down. She smiled when Prince came on. Once she overlaid the Bach concerto they were practicing with “Little Red Corvette.” Her fellow orchestra-mates had looked horrified, but it’d been brilliant.

“I’ve decided to sell the Red Witch,” Geraldine said, turning a page.

Niamh stopped and stared at the woman. “Are you joking?”

The older woman shook her head. “I’m going to retire in Bath with my sister. I’m tired of working.”

She knew better than to point out that Geraldine never did anything. Niamh slowly reorganized the bottles, thinking about the new owner. It could be a great thing. Whoever bought the pub might be more open to her ideas on how to improve it, like adding a couple music nights.

What if she bought the Red Witch?

The question came out of nowhere, startling her. She blinked, staring unseeingly at the vodka bottle in her hand.

What if
she
bought the Red Witch?

Her heart beat with excitement. Then she wouldn’t have to ask for permission to add live music; she could do whatever she wanted.

Best of all, it’d get Cormac off her back. She’d have a purpose, and he wouldn’t have cause to complain. If there was anything he understood, owning a business was it. They were Irish—having a pub was in their blood. The Red Witch was in Mayfair, an affluent neighborhood. It had the potential to make a killing.

She faced Geraldine. “What if I bought the bar? We can work out some sort of payment plan.”

The older woman shook her head. “I don’t want payments. I want to be done with this place.”

Niamh tapped her fingers on the bar. She didn’t know how much the bar was going for, but that didn’t matter because she didn’t have money in the bank. But she could figure something out, even if she had to play her violin on a street corner. “I’ll get the funding.”

That made the woman look up, her thin, penciled eyebrows arched in disbelief. “And where will you get that kind of money?”

“I know people.” She leaned forward. “Will you give me first dibs on making an offer?”

“I guess.” Geraldine stood up. “Though I don’t know why you want to shackle yourself to this place.”

It wasn’t a shackle. Niamh loved this bar. It was home. She was comfortable here, more comfortable than she’d ever been at the symphony. It’d made giving up working as a musician easy, because she loved the interaction at the bar and it was more lucrative work—at least, when there were customers. Plus, when it was slow, she pulled out her violin and played whatever she wanted, without anyone telling her how to do it or what to play.

“When are you listing it on the market?” Niamh asked.

“Tomorrow.”

That didn’t give her time. Niamh tapped her fingers on the counter. “Can you wait before you list it? To give me lead time to find the money?”

“No.” Geraldine picked up her purse and slung the strap around her shoulder. “I want to sell this place as soon as possible.”

“Wait.” She put her hand on the older woman’s arm. “Then will you at least give me the opportunity to make a counteroffer if someone puts in an offer?”