Emmet stalls with his hand on the door. The trepidation in his eyes catches in the glow of the neon pub sign blinking 'Guinness' beside his face. "It's not too late, Fi. We can still make our escape."
I move in and block his retreat. He might have six inches and fifty pounds on me, but i can take him, and we both know it. "Four hours ago, you swore to be brave in the face of danger. You can handle this."
"I signed on for bank robbers and automatic weapons. What's awaiting me in there, not so much."
A stiff summer breeze whips a loose swath of auburn curls into my face. I trap it and tuck it back in my ponytail. "Sack up, mate." I lay the accent on thick. "Yer a feckin' Cumhaill. There's no need to fear the wind if yer haystacks are tied down."
He snorts. "You're getting scary good at the oul man impressions."
And that's why i am the chosen one to get Emmet here.
Resistance is futile when i dig in my heels, and my five brothers know it. "Onward, Cumhaill. There's a hape of people proud of you. For once, suffer through the attention and accept the compliments."
He doesn't budge, and he doesn't laugh.
I'm about to get physical when he holds up a finger to stop the assault. "At least swear you won't let them embarrass me. I haven't lived down going viral on my twenty-first birthday, and that was almost three years ago."
I catch my laughter as it pushes up my throat. He never figured out it was me who posted that drunken delight. "No promises. Da and the others headed over straight after your graduation. They'll be banjaxed by now." The expression on Emmet's face is priceless. Still, he's stalling. I reach around him, yank open the stained-glass door, and shove him into Shenanigans. The blissful aromas of pub fare and beer hit us at the same time the uproar of applause and hollering signals our arrival. With a hand on the hostess stand, I climb onto the bench of the first booth. After steadying my boots, I accept the tumbler of whiskey shoved toward me and straighten.
Finger and thumb together, I press them under my tongue and let out a whistle that could shatter glass. The music cuts off, and the room of loveable rowdies quiets. I raise my whiskey. "To my brother, Emmet Cumhaill. The last man in the house to hit the city streets." I smile and call on Da's family motto to finish my toast. "May yer heart remain pure, yer limbs remain strong, and yer actions always be true to yer word."
"To Emmet!" Da says, perched slightly cockeyed at the end of the bar talking with Auntie Shannon. He raises his pint glass and offers the room a glassy-eyed smile. "Slainte mhath!" "Slainte mhath!" I shout amongst the chorus. Emmet gets a drink thrust into his hand and is swallowed by a crowd of friends and family and men on the force. As the fifth of Niall Cumhaill's sons to don a badge and gun to follow him into the city streets, great expectations abound. And rightly so. My brothers and da are solid men who live by a code and put their lives on the line every time they leave the house. As much as I worry—and I do—I admire them. The music blares back on, and I hop down from the booth to join the celebration. With the Celtic rhythm pulling me into its enthrallment, I sway my hips through the mass of familiar bodies and raise my glass. "Slainte mhath," I shout. The toast for good health comes back to me twentyfold. I empty my tumbler in a greedy gulp, the velvety fruit flavor of Redbreast Whiskey sliding down my throat. It mixes with my cocktails from dinner and warms my belly. The elastic slides from my ponytail with little more than a tug and I run my fingers through the lengths of my hair, setting it free for the evening.
Twirling on the dance floor, the upbeat rhythm of fiddle and flute feeds my soul as always.
Friends spin me and kiss my cheek as I cut through the dancers and head to the bar. It takes me an age to get there, but no sooner do I set my empty tumbler on the pitted wooden surface than Shannon reaches over and pours me another dram.
