Overexposed

Not in Kansas Anymore

Chapter 8: Not in Kansas Anymore

Some of the anger instantaneously fades from O’Reilly’s eyes as he smiles and replies, “Ozzie, huh? Now how, pray tell, did’ja get Ozzie from Brooklyn?”

Before I can even try to reach for an answer, take a breath, or blink for that matter, Tommo replies, “We’re not from Brooklyn nor did we find her there.”

O’Reilly lets out the loudest, most rancid laugh I’ve ever had the displeasure of TASTING. The alcohol is so strong, it almost makes me tipsy from being in such close proximity. Through his cackle, he manages to get out, “Yer face! Did dis old man scare ya, lass?”

Unsure of whether the rules still apply or not, I don’t dare speak or move as he continues to chuckle, at moments so overcome by the spasms that he rests his forehead in the crook of my neck. I want to wince away, but I can’t. I don’t know how dead I’d be for retaliating.

“Right! Right, right,” the older Irishman smiles, slowly sobering up, pulling me up from the table, and dusting me off. It’s as if we’ve been friends for twenty years and NOT like he threw me against the table to begin with. “You lot’re from Doublet, not Brooklyn.”

It’s like a massive fist releases my throat and I can breathe again, though my heart is palpitating at the rate similar to the rotation of a propeller on a speed boat. I want to collapse in relief as I realize that he meant Brooklyn, New York. Not Brooklyn Oswald.

But I can’t show that I’ve panicked. Tommo will wonder why.

“I’m da one who brought ‘er,” POGs speaks up, lifting an index finger shyly.

Resting a hand on my shoulder, O’Reilly flashes a sleazy grin my way, “Well ain’t she jus’ a lash? Wha’d she do t’ get in-? Wait. Yer da Molly dat raked yer nails ‘cross Montreal’s face! Bloody savage dat was.”

He seems to answer his own question mid thought and gives me a hearty, yet probably gentle for a man with his frame, pat on the back in a place that thankfully lacks injury. I stumble a bit, but use the momentum to get to POGs, who catches me subtly.

Putting one arm casually around my shoulders, he gives me an inquisitive look, undoubtedly feeling me tremble. I give him a reassuring smile and he mirrors the expression, not thinking to question it. Thank the high heaven for this kid.

Haz would have pulled me aside for an interrogation. He would have seen through my guise.

With a trickle of regret and sorrow, I can’t help but think “so would Liam.”

But POGs, this stunning specimen of a genuinely good heart, takes it at face value and I spend what few precious moments of stillness these people give me appreciating him. However, like I said, the conversation continues at a train’s force and velocity.

“So let me guess, yer ‘ere t’ see da Big Man,” O’Reilly pulls a chair out from under one of the guys, who gets up without hesitation or complaint and puts his right foot on it, resting his elbow on his bent knee.

“Yes,” Tommo replies curtly.

The elder Irishman lets out an amused hum, “I’ll take ya to ‘im. If dis pretty girl here’ll give me a kiss. Right on da cheek, sweet’eart.”

He taps the part of his anatomy roughly, finger brushing against the course, graying stubble that lines his lower face next to a massive mole. Ew. I glance at Tommo maybe for help or maybe for instruction. I don’t want to do this and he knows it. I know he knows it, though his icy gaze may suggest otherwise. He knows I know he knows it because he gives the subtlest of nods and for a moment, I see desperation in his eyes- the same glimmer of anxiety I saw back in the warehouse district when his home was taken out from under him (or blown sky high rather).