Chasing River: A Novel

“This can’t wait?”

I ignore a hovering Rowen, my eyes glued to the computer monitor. And Amber, her slender back to the security camera as she sits perched on her stool, her long, shapely legs crossed at the ankles. Sipping the Guinness I handed her. I’ve already played back our entire exchange—the shock on my face when our eyes met was priceless. As was the tantrum Rowen just threw in our cramped office, watching the replay of me dumping the pint down the drain.

“I wish I hadn’t said anything until closing,” he finally mutters. “I need you out front.”

“I’m glad you told me. If I find out one of our customers lifted that girl’s wallet, and they’re still here, they’re going to wish they weren’t,” I mutter with cold determination, stewing in the anger that exploded earlier, when Rowen nudged me and told me that Amber had been robbed today. As if almost being blown up isn’t bad enough.

“How do you know her, anyway?”

“I just do.”

He sighs. He knows that he won’t get answers out of me unless I want to give them. “I’ll be at the bar, tending to the sheep.”

I watch patiently as Amber sits and drinks, her head shifting from Collin to me and back again. Wishing she’d turn around so I could see her face again. Selma bumps into her with her tray and she flinches. Customers close in at her sides and she curls into herself. I wonder if she’s always been like that or if it’s because of what happened in the Green.

I’m about thirty-five minutes into the recording and I know she doesn’t stay for much longer. I can see why. I did a bleeding good job of ignoring her. Too good a job. Part of me hopes this didn’t happen here, because she’s going to start tying all bad things about Ireland to me. But a bigger part hopes that it did happen here and I can catch the asshole who did it.

And have an excuse to see her again, because she’s lingered in my mind ever since she left Delaney’s a few hours ago.

My patience pays off when I see a patron bump into her from behind, and then apologize with a friendly arm stretched over her shoulder. The camera is angled in a way that shows his other hand slipping into her purse and retrieving a small black wallet.

“Fucking Benoit.” I recognize him by his ponytail of wiry black hair. He’s a regular here, a little Frenchman who comes in every weekday after his shift at the Guinness factory. Normally he’s gone by seven, which is why I was surprised to see him staggering past the bar on my way to the office not long ago. I’m guessing he’s getting drunk on her euro. Not a stealthy fella, if that’s the case.

I grit my teeth against the urge to march out there right now and pummel him. Instead, I keep watching the video. Two minutes later, after I hand him his pint with a grin, he heads to the back of the pub, leaving her completely unaware.

A surge of adrenaline fills my limbs as I charge past the crowd and into the men’s toilets. Yanking open the rubbish compartment, I dump its contents onto the dirty tile floor. It’s mostly balls of paper towels, along with a used condom—I don’t want to know—and a dirty needle.

But on top of all of that sits a small, black wallet.

I flip it open and find Amber’s gorgeous smile shining out at me. I have an address for her, too—Sisters, Oregon. Wherever that is. I’ve never been to America. I’ve heard of places like New York and Hollywood, and Florida, but it’s hard to keep track of that massive country. She’s twenty-five years old, which is what I would have pegged her at. The height and weight numbers mean nothing to me, but I don’t need them because I already know she’s the perfect size.

A few slips of paper sit tucked within but the cash is all gone, as I expected.

Back out front, I search the crowd of drunks, a few singing along with Collin, who’s now on his fifth hour of music and as many pints, livening the place up as he does with quick banter and terrible jokes. It doesn’t take long to find Benoit.

Ten steps before I wrap my hands around his scrawny neck, Rowen hops the bar and blocks my path. “River . . . you’ve got that look in your eye.”

I hold up her wallet. “In our pub.” I fucking hate thieves. So does Rowen.

“Just . . . don’t get yourself into trouble,” he warns, then shifts aside, knowing it’s not the time to interfere. I’ll admit it—the ripple of excitement that stirs inside me as I close in on an oblivious Benoit, that swells as I hold the wallet up and watch his eyes grow wide, that bursts when I grab him by the back of his collar and drag him out the front door, feels bloody grand.

“Ya going to call her?” Rowen sets the last of the washed beer-tap grates back. The pub is ready for a new day.

“Tomorrow.” I flex my right hand, my knuckles sore after leaving Benoit with a few marks to remind him what will happen if he ever steps foot inside here again. Rowen’s warning hung in the back of my mind, though, keeping me from going overboard. “It’s one o’clock in the morning. She’ll be sound asleep.” I’m not entirely sure that’s true, after what she’s been through these past few days. I could have called her as soon as I found it, put her mind to rest.

Only, my mind was busying deciding how I want to use this opportunity. If I want to use this opportunity.

“I bet she’ll be grateful. Even for an American princess.” Rowen doesn’t have to explain where he’s going with this; the smirk on his face tells me. He assumes I’ve got plans to bang her, if I haven’t already. Though he’d know if I had. For Christ’s sake, we’re practically attached at the hip. We live and work together, and when we’re not at home or at the pub, we’re usually texting or talking on the phone.

“It’s not like that,” I mutter, pulling out the various slips of paper tucked into the little pockets. Mostly receipts. A taxi from the airport, a large latte with extra sugar. A scone and tea from a place on Grafton Street earlier today. Not surprising, seeing as she’s a tourist. Though there are better, less expensive places than that to go.

I unfold a sheet of lined paper, filled with feminine writing.

My eyebrows spike with the first line.

1. Have torrid affair with a foreigner. Country: TBD.

“What is it?” Rowen watches me from behind a sip of his closing-time pint.

“Nothing.” It’s something, alright. I’m guessing it involves getting laid. I need to look torrid up in the dictionary. I scan the piece of paper. It’s some sort of “to-do” list. She must have a dozen different countries mentioned here.

14. Do NOT get eaten by a lion. The Serengeti, Tanzania.

“Liar,” Rowen mutters when I start to chuckle. He leans forward and I shift farther back. I’m guessing this isn’t something Amber wants anyone reading.

24. Spend a day on a nude beach. Athens, Greece.

Christ. Blood starts flowing to my cock with the mental image of those legs attached to a naked body, sprawled out in the sand. Maybe she isn’t such a princess after all.

I quickly scan over the rest. A few of them are already marked with little checks, including the last one, clearly a recent addition, about the bomb in the Green. Yeah, I’ll bet she never forgets that day as long as she lives.

I note that number one isn’t marked off. That makes me smile. And wonder.

And hope.

Rowen hits the lights and throws me into darkness. “Come on, it’s fucking late. I’m setting the alarm.”

Downing the last of my own pint, I fold the page and stick it in my pocket.

Maybe all her memories involving me don’t have to be bad.