Fighting for Irish (Fighting for Love, #3)
by Gina L. Maxwell
To all those who have been sexually abused. May you always embrace the fighter inside, love yourself unconditionally, and never accept defeat.
Prologue
Turning his ’62 Harley Panhead into the gravel lot of Lou’s Riverview, Aiden O’Brien got his first look at the backwoods swamp bar squatting on the outskirts of Alabaster, Louisiana.
From the outside, it looked like a large single-story home that had seen better days. As in before the second World War, if the dilapidated wood siding and cracked foundation were anything to go by. The sign above the door was missing letters, the wood darker in the places where the sun hadn’t bleached it, announcing the establishment as “Lo ’s River ew.”
He pulled his bike into a spot by the door and used the rubber sole of his boot to kick the stand down. Barely suppressing a groan, he swung his right leg over the seat. Riding from Boston, Mass., was a great way to enjoy the open road and scenic countryside. Unfortunately, it also turned out to be a great way to put his body through hell.
A fire had lit in his tailbone somewhere between West Virginia and Kentucky. By the time he’d reached Mississippi, the flames had blazed a path up his spine and settled between his shoulders. As much as he loved his old Panhead, it definitely wasn’t designed as a touring bike.
Stretching his legs, he had to wonder if “bayou” were French for “broiler.” Now that he no longer had the cooling benefit of the wind, Aiden felt like yesterday’s baked chicken withering under a heating lamp. The whirring of an air conditioner at the corner of the building gave him hope he’d find refuge inside from the scorching rays of the sun.
Hanging his sunglasses on the collar of his T-shirt, he pulled open the heavy, weathered door and stepped inside. He supposed it didn’t look all that different from most old bars and taverns. Wooden booths lined the outside of the large room with as many tables as could fit crowded into the middle. Each booth sat beneath what passed for lamps but were nothing more than lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling, covered with plastic domes yellowed by time and tobacco smoke. Another room in the back looked to have pool tables and ratty couches for those who liked to drink while wielding gaming sticks that made easy weapons for their short tempers.
A solid oak bar ran in a shallow U shape jutting out from the right wall. Since it was only early afternoon on a Tuesday, the place was all but empty except for the lone bartender and four old codgers playing poker at one of the front tables. With dirty clothes, a few days’ growth on their jaws, and about a dozen teeth among the four of them, Aiden wondered if they were homeless or an example of Alabaster’s typical residents.
Swiping the back of his arm across his forehead, Aiden made his way to the bar. His throat felt like the Sahara and he meant to fix that. Then he’d make small talk and see if the info he’d been given was still accurate. Hopefully it was. Then he could give his friend the good news and be on his way.
Not back to Boston, though. It’d taken him making good on a favor to finally get him out of his old neighborhood. Now that he had, he didn’t know why he hadn’t left five years ago when he destroyed his life. And that of his best friend.
Maybe he’d travel the country on the back of his Harley for the rest of the summer. Pick the place he liked best and try to open a bike shop of his own. Or work at someone else’s. It didn’t matter as long as he got to work on bikes. It was the only thing that distracted him well enough to give him a handful of hours a day where he didn’t relive the worst night of his life.
“What’ll it be?”
The bartender placed the Mason jar he’d been drying on the shelf behind him, braced his palms on the counter, and waited expectantly.
Aiden pulled out his wallet and thumbed out a five spot. Holding it to the man, he said, “Large water and some conversation.”
One eyebrow arched as the bartender glanced between the bill and Aiden’s face. Probably trying to figure out what exactly Aiden wanted. A five wasn’t exactly the kind of money someone offered when they were poking around for information. On the other hand, it was a big tip for ordering a free drink.
Aiden tried to recall how to manipulate his features into something resembling a nonthreatening expression. It no longer came easy to him as it once had. But covering your body in brightly colored tattoos and sporting several piercings tended to make people think twice about talking to you without the counteracting friendly smile.