Craving 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

TARA

"Can you explain to me what we're actually doing here?"

It was three in the fucking morning.

Not exactly prime time for sleuthing. Especially not after I'd practically dislocated a hip wriggling out from under the fourteen stone of pure, rock-solid fucking muscle that was my boyfriend. The man slept like a sedated bear—warm, heavy, and completely oblivious to my escape artistry.

After that, I'd done my best impression of a sewer rat—slid down using the ivy as support and dropped into the gravel like some bootleg version of Romeo and Juliet. Except this one didn't feature any star-crossed lovers. Just me.

Back to the gravel.

That bastarding gravel. The same gravel that'd betrayed me last year when I'd stumbled locked after a session, knees skinned to ribbons like I'd lost a fight to a cheese grater wielded by an angry banshee. I've hated it with the fire of a thousand suns ever since.

What hurt more than my scraped dignity, though, was drugging Toffee. Me poor fluffy soldier. That dog could smell me from twenty kilometres away, and hear me sneaking from the next county—he was the most loyal guard in the world. But loyalty wasn't what I needed tonight. Stealth was. I gave him a melatonin treat with shaking hands, whispered I was sorry, and promised I'd buy him a massive steak tomorrow the size of Leitrim. Maybe two. Maybe the whole fucking cow.

"My ma's back."

I nearly choked on the mouthful of Red Bull I'd just taken. Half of it sprayed back into the can as I wheezed, eyes bugging out.

"Hold the actual fuck up," I coughed, yanking my feet off the dash so fast I slammed my knee on the glovebox. "What did you just say?"

He didn't even flinch. Just stared straight ahead, eyes dark as a bog at midnight. "My ma's back."

Jesus, Mary, and holy bleeding Saint Joseph.

"You're telling me we're sitting in a bridged fucking Corsa—outside a half-condemned kip of a motel—in the arse crack of night, because you think your ma is here?!"

Bran barely blinked. "A friend told me he saw her. She's probably looking for her next fix."

My jaw dropped open like a trapdoor. "A friend told you?! Are you hearing yourself? We're sitting in a stolen car, at fucking three a.m., outside the kind of place that has more cockroaches than clean sheets, because some lad gave you a tip-off?!"

"He's usually reliable."

"Reliable about what, exactly? Junkie spotter of the year? Spotting long-lost mammies through meth-fogged windows? Reliable about tracking down the woman who bolted when you were still in pull-ups?"

I flung my arm toward the motel. It looked like it had been abandoned since the crash of the fucking Celtic Tiger. The curtains were mouldy. The sign buzzed like it had a vendetta. The whole place stank of wet carpet and shattered dreams.

"And what's the grand plan, exactly?" I snapped. "Kick the door in, flash your big brown eyes and guilt-trip her into making you a fucking apple tart?!"

"Will you just listen to yourself? Apple tart? Is that what you think this is about?"

"Then enlighten me, brother dearest,"I said, low and dangerous, my hands clenched in my lap. "'Cause right now it looks a lot like we're playing budget Nancy Drew, chasing shadows through Ballylaggin at arse-o'clock, because someone's cousin's hairdresser's dog walker thought they saw your ma buying Rizlas and a Fanta in a fucking petrol station!"