Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Because where am I going to go?
What the bloody hell else do I have to do but sit around and wait for whatever it is he wants to show me or tell me?
It’s not like I have a wife or fiancée to rush home to tend to.
God, I might not even have a bloody girlfriend anymore considering how irate she was.
Ringing sounds appear just briefly before we’re talking to someone’s ear. “Dia dhuit.”
“We don’t wanna talk to your ear, Raff,” Dad gripes as if he didn’t just do something similar two minutes ago.
The second he pulls the phone back to show his face, we’re offered a wide-mouth grin. “Well, look at you ugly bastards!”
It’s almost uncanny how all my uncles look so similar.
Biggest difference between him and Dad is size and gray hair.
Dad’s put on a bit more weight living in the states – mostly muscle – yet still maintains his naturally light locks while Uncle Raff is slimmer and almost completely gray.
Other than that, everything else is eerily similar.
Square jaws.
Green eyes.
Mischievous crooked grins.
The whole bloody O’Clery clan looks like one stunt double in different stages of his life.
“A shealbhú ar nóiméad,” Dad states again to which Uncle Raff rolls his eyes.
Asking for what or why isn’t needed courtesy of another ringing sound occurring.
Much like Uncle Raff picked up quick, so does Uncle Rían, except instead of talking to his ear first, we directly see his face. “There is a pint with my name on it. This better be bloody good.”
“Hi, Uncle Rían,” I quietly greet with a short wave.
“Tate!” He enthusiastically shouts on a toss of a hand. “Bloody hell you look like fucking shite.”
“He feels like it, too,” Dad informs on my behalf. “He needs our advice.”
Bewilderment blasts through my crinkled expression. “How did you-”
“The forehead rub,” Dad announces causing his brothers to collectively groan their comprehension.
“Wait,” my body inches to the edge of the lumpy couch, “what do you mean the forehead rub? We have our own bloody forehead rub?”
“Those of us who have fallen in love do,” Uncle Raff casually explains. “Your granddad told me about it. And I told them when their time came. And now we’re telling you.”
“Telling me…what precisely?”
“That yes, it was a cock up,” Dad jumps in as if he knows all the details.
“And things are bad,” Uncle Rían immediately continues.
“But they are not over,” Uncle Raff reassures on a comforting grin. “Now, would you like to share the specific details of yours or should I just start with a general O’Clery rundown of problems?”
Curiosity pokes me in the ribs too hard to ignore. “We have general O’Clery problems?”
“Some of us drink a wee bit too much,” Uncle Rían begrudgingly admits.
“Some of us have a wee bit of a temper,” Uncle Raff acknowledges, “or not enough of one.”
“Some of us can be a wee bit…too jealous at times,” Dad confesses through gritted teeth.
“That.” Pointing at him on the screen is followed by a twitched glare. “I have that.”
“Probably because I have that.” Dad rolls his eyes. “Genetics.”
Yeah, I don’t think jealousy is genetic trait like alcoholism; however, now does not seem like the time to discuss that.
“You get in a scrap?” Uncle Rían promptly interrogates. “She upset because it’s your fifth this year?”
Shock over the accusation has me stuttering out, “N-n-no. Nothing at…that level.”
“Then you’re tamer than your old man,” Uncle Rían impishly jokes. “We were worried they were going to deport him before he had a chance to bloody move on his own.”
I cut my father a glance who struggles to look innocent.
Or sorry.
Oh…bloody hell.
Jealousy is genetic, isn’t it?
“Details, nephew,” Uncle Raff commands on a gesturing of the hand.
I hesitate yet eventually begin. “Harper-”
“Rory says she’s a lovely woman,” Uncle Rían needlessly interjects.
“She is,” Dad politely reiterates.
“Harper has an ex-husband who,” resentment rages up my throat and I force myself to shove it down, “she’s still bloody mates with. Best. Bloody. Mates. And I…hate it.”
They all listen on in silence waiting for more information.
“He’s…bloody…perfect. He’s a fucking doctor. His family is filthy fucking rich-”
“We do more than alright,” Uncle Raff swiftly defends.
“That was not to imply that you don’t. Money is just one of those things he has more of than I do. Money to take her to the art museums or to the ballet – though she hates the ballet – or expensive dinners that when we go, she has to pay for because other than the tip, it’s out of my bloody price range.”
Uncle Raff cautiously asks, “This is about money then?”
“Not just money.”
“Status?” Uncle Rían adds on a craned neck.
“I hate that shite, too. That he’s a bloody surgeon. And everyone she works with just loves him. And that he’s won so many awards. And acknowledgements like he’s still in uni trying to make the bloody Dean’s list.” A frustrated hand is run through my unkempt hair. “I also hate he knows things I don’t. Like the actual names of the bones Harper broke when she was a young girl. And who Big Bill Broonzy was. Or why she randomly eats raisins when she hears him.”