WALKING THE LINE

Chapter 1

FINN

The fabled Irish luck my homeland is famous for? A leprechaun's crock of shit.

Since I'd landed in Sydney yesterday I'd had my pockets picked, lost my passport, had my secret stash of cash stolen and was about to get my head kicked in by a bunch of lowlifes hanging around the fountain at Kings Cross.

Four ferals wearing hoodies that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine for a month stalked toward me, hands in pockets, trouble in their frigid glares.

I hesitated, glanced at the park behind me, knowing that making a run for it wouldn't stop this rabble. They looked meaner than my Aunt Siobhan when her whiskey soured.

I had no choice. I had to cut through the group to get to the backpackers' hostel at the other end of Darlinghurst Road. And that meant I was definitely cruising for a bruising.

As I squared my shoulders and tried to make the most of my six feet two inches—yeah, like height trumped weapons—I wished for a fleeting second I was back in Cork, sitting down to one of Mum's famous stews alongside my six siblings, a raggedy mob who bickered over anything from Gaelic football results to the state of the economy.

My family drove me nuts, but the last thing they needed was to get a long distance phone call reporting I'd been beaten up. Or worse.

Cursing my idiocy at wanting to experience more beyond the charmed life I'd led in Cork, I strode toward the gang.

"Hey mate, you're late." A young guy stepped out of a doorway on my left and clapped me on the back. "The rest of the guys are inside waiting for us."

I had no idea who this guy was but as the ferals frowned and their narrow-eyed gazes flicked between us in confusion, I knew I'd rather take my chances heading into the bar with my new bestie.

I made a grand show of glancing at my watch. "Sorry. Didn't think rugby training would finish so late."

The young guy grinned, appearing suitably impressed by my quick improvisation. "Come on. Next round's on you."

I gladly followed the guy into the bar, hoping he didn't have ten biker mates in the back room who'd do worse than the gang outside.

After scouring countless websites citing Kings Cross as raw and edgy and real, I'd known this is where I would kick off my Aussie trip. Way past time for this good Catholic boy to get down and dirty and what better place than the Cross, as locals called it. I'd expected the strip club spruikers, druggies, drunks, pimps, prostitutes, transvestites and dealers. I hadn't expected to feel so goddamn vulnerable.

"First day in Oz?" the guy asked, as we stepped into a surprisingly empty bar, considering dusk brought the crowds out along this strip.

"Second," I said, managing a wry smile. "What gave it away?"

"The fact you were dumb enough to take on four guys unarmed instead of taking refuge in a bar 'til they left." The guy stuck his hand out. "Kye Sheldon."

"Finn Ahearn, clueless Irish mick who thanks you for saving my arse."

Kye grinned. "You're welcome." He slid behind the bar. "Beer?"

I nodded. "You work here?"

"Nah, but I've known Ellie for years, she won't mind." He pulled two beers like a barman, leaving the right amount of head. "She loves it when I visit."

"Ellie's the owner?"

"Yeah, she's the best." Kye slid a beer toward me. "We used to be neighbors."