Frankie's Irish Eyes: When This Badass Australian Witch Falls In Love

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Thank You!

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Frankie’s Irish Eyes

  S. L. Finlay

  Copyright © 2019 S. L. Finlay

  All rights reserved.

  Thank you for purchasing a copy of Frankie’s Irish Eyes, I am sure you will enjoy your new book! To hear more from the author including updates on new book releases for this series and other books by the same author, in addition to news and giveaways, and a variety of other things I don’t talk about anywhere else, please sign up for the newsletter by clicking here.

  Until next time - happy reading!

  S. L. Finlay

  (May, 2019).

  CHAPTER ONE

  I keep hearing about how I am running away. Everyone says that because right after university I moved to Ireland - for the working holiday experience - that I must be only doing it because I want to escape life in Australia.

  What’s there to escape though? The sun shines most of the time, the people are friendly most of the time, and there are more jobs there, too. Especially since I have full citizenship, not a visa that employers look at and say is ‘too hard’ to work with because of its conditions.

  Life over there is definitely easier for me, but, I am over here for the challenge as much as I am over here for the adventure.

  These thoughts are what is cycling through my head as I walk to work from the hostel where I am living and working - cleaning the hostel in exchange for a bed to sleep in every night - to the bar where I am working for a bit of extra cash.

  I arrived in Dublin a few months ago, just before St. Patrick’s Day. The weather was colder then with longer March nights and a city with less going on after the St. Patrick’s Day tourists left. Now it was June, and things were warming up, of they were warming up for Ireland, which is to say they were just slightly less cold than before.

  The walk from the hostel to the bar where I worked was warmer in the evenings now than it had been previously, which was very welcome as I had never been good with cold weather.

  When you got past the cooler temperatures, the city was a great one for walking. Cars had not always been a thing here, the city was older than them. So in a city without cars, people build to a scale people can walk around in. The city center was all walkable. Convenient.

  Temple Bar is the cities tourist district. It’s what people think about when they think about Dublin or Ireland. All these cute little pubs filled with music and laughter that sit on cobble-stoned streets. Beautiful, picture perfect.

  Unless you work there and have to hear ‘Whiskey in the Jar’ every single night and deal with drunken tourists constantly. Then things don’t feel quite as picture perfect anymore. They can burn you out pretty fast.

  At the start of my stay, this seemed like the most exciting job ever. After three months of showing up and working in a tourist mecca, I was feeling pretty burned out and making plans to move into a different industry. Perhaps I could find an office job or retail or something? Maybe I should move from Dublin to Galway or Cork as many had suggested. My mind was alive with possibilities.

  Walking into the bar though, that familiar scent of stale Guinness accompanied the sound of fiddles and my mind was made up instantly, as it always was at the star of a shift: this wasn’t too bad. I could be here. I could make this work.

  Behind the bar was my Irish-born and far too shy young manager. He was a recent university graduate too, and one who like me, didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life.

  Jon smiled at me from behind the bar as he saw me enter, the smile didn’t reach his deep blue eyes though. I had always admired his dark curls, thinking he had to be the sexiest guy I had ever seen. But, he was my boss. So I shrugged the thought away.

  “Good sleep?” He asked.

  “Sorry?” I asked right back, my eyebrow raised.

  Jon wasn’t looking at me as I approached him from the customer side of the bar. Then when I arrived in front of him, he looked me directly in the eye. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

  I hated when he was a hard ass. But I knew it wouldn’t last long. He could never stay mad at me. So long as I played along like I was deeply sorry whenever I made a mistake he would always let me off.

  But today was a little different.

  “I was supposed to be here an hour ago?” I asked.

  “Yeah. You were. Where were you?” He shot back.

  “Well, I was at home. My shift starts now, not an hour ago.” I told him.

  Jon was shaking his head, “no, you were supposed to be here after an hour ago.”

  I nodded, but then shook my head. I pulled out my phone where I had taken a picture of the shift roster, as I did every week when it was put up.

  “I am supposed to be here at -” I began, but then I saw it. “-oh, you changed my shift. I guess I didn’t check the roster after all. Must be-”

  “-Because you are always here at the same time on a Friday night?” He asked, cutting me off.

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  “This is why you need to check the roster, Frankie. I change it sometimes for you. Today you were supposed to be here an hour earlier so you could help me set up for this function upstairs.” He told me.

  Now I felt guilty. Setting up for functions was a big job. It was really a three person job, but they never allowed Jon to take three people off bar service to do it. The owners had obviously let him book me in for it, but I hadn’t turned up. Now I understood why his usually warm demeanor was less so right now.

  “Oh, I am so sorry!” I declared. “I didn’t mean to do that to you-”

  “-It’s fine. I worked it out. Just don’t let it happen again.” Jon said,seeming embarrassed that I was saying anything at all.

  I nodded, then he told me, “go put your bag down and come give me a hand.” He was nodding towards all the tourists standing at the bar now, looking impatient having to wait for a drink.

  How had I not noticed them all there, standing around looking grumpy and as if a pint delivered to them a few moments later would mean the difference between life and death? I worked here, I reminded myself as I realized the reason I had not noticed. I was supposed to be working, not being distracted by Jon with his sexy dark curls who even managed to be hot when he was mad at me.

  Ducking in the back, I threw my bag down harder than I needed to as I thought about letting Jon down. I would make it up to him I thought as I tied an apron around myself and put a cloth in the back pocket of my jeans to prepare for what was sure to be a long night if there was a function upstairs and loads of tourists down here. Then I went straight out and hit the ground running, helping Jon catch up on the orders at the bar.

  That whole night we were super busy, run off our feet serving tourists and the odd local who had wandered into the bar. Many locals came later as other pubs around Dublin closed and they wanting to keep drinking, they all came here to where they knew we served alcohol later than anywhere else
in Dublin, minus the dodgy strip joints and casinos.

  The long night ended with last call and then us turning the lights on to shepherd everyone out of the bar downstairs. We had already gotten the dregs from the function upstairs out and were just trying to get rid of the last people - the stubborn stay-laters who never wanted to leave any bar on time - when one of the patrons, a man of about sixty who I had never seen before, lay his hand on my shoulder and in slurred tones laced with the local accent asked me, “are you going home with me then, darlin’?”

  I felt my lip curl like it always did when I was disgusted but before I had a chance to say anything, or to pull away from his touch, he grabbed at his hand.

  “Oh fuck!” He said, the word sounding like ‘fook’ in his accent.

  Looking down, his hand appeared to be burnt. I stared at it before staring at his face. What was he doing?

  Before I had a chance to respond, Jon was at my side.

  “That’s it, time to go now.” The normally chilled out Irish barman said to the old man.

  “She burnt me!” The old man said in the younger man’s face as Jon drew closer to him, as if pushing the man out of the bar with his body and shielding me at the same time.

  “How could she do that?” Jon asked rhetorically, “you’re drunk. It’s time to go home.”

  The old man objected, and told Jon that he would be back. That he would sue. That he would do anything, but Jon had him out the door in no time.

  The doors were locked and our security guards were out there looking imposing. Every night the same thing happened, we had to get people out the doors. Once they were out, they couldn’t come back in because of the locked doors and the imposing men standing on the other side. They couldn’t push their way back and we wouldn’t let them even if they tried.

  The bar was half full with people who were deliberately drinking slowly to stay longer. This frustrated me about our patrons. There were still places open in Dublin for them to go for a drink, yet they all stayed here where we didn’t want them. Bastards.

  Jon looked concerned when he asked, “are you okay?”

  I nodded, “yeah. He just, grabbed me, and asked me to go home with him.”

  Jon looked mad. “He what?” He asked.

  I nodded my head again, but felt a little embarrassed in the face of Jon’s anger. I said nothing.

  “Who do these fuckers think they are?” Jon asked, doing the same ‘fooker’ thing the old man did - I love how Dubliners say fuck - and I tried not to smile, because he was being serious and right now wasn’t the time for me to be a giggling girl with a crush, but I failed. My grin was enormous, completely in spite of myself.

  “What?” He asked, more indignant in the face of my smile than he had been when I had only been standing there in front of him.

  “Nothing, it’s just, no, nothing.” I said, moving away from Jon towards a nearby table some patrons had recently deserted to go outside. I stacked their glasses and ran my cloth over its surface. Whoever opened the bar tomorrow would give the place a good clean. We just had to get out of here tonight and switch the lights off so all those people who left after last call didn’t come back when they saw the lights on and bother us for another pint when all we wanted to do was go home and sleep.

  Often Irish people were far more aggressive about their need to drink than I would have expected. Although, I hadn’t worked at any pubs back in Australia so I didn’t have much to compare it to. The tourists however, were never the problem when it came down to this. They would leave stubbornly and forget about you. The Irish always seemed to remember every pub they had ever visited on a night out and would try anything to get you to give them ‘just one more pint’ after you had closed, refused them entry, or refused them service. It was one of the things I found most annoying about them. Otherwise, they were quite good. They were fantastic conversationalists and full of charm. Easy to get along with, most Irish, unless you were telling them you wouldn’t give them alcohol. Then they got annoying and wingy.

  Jon didn’t move from behind me though, not towards anything that needed a bit of a clean or to tell anyone it was time to leave. He just stared at me when I wiped the table.

  “He said you burned him?” He asked.

  I had forgotten about that. I just looked at Jon when he said it.

  “Yeah, I don’t know what that was about.” I told him.

  “You don’t?” He asked, “because the guy was burned.”

  I nodded, and rolled my eyes a bit.

  “Yes. I saw that he was burned. I saw his hand. But, I didn’t do it. How could I?” I asked, “he just touched me and then pulled away. It wasn’t like I was holding anything I could have pressed to his hand, was it?” I asked.

  Jon was just staring at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  Jon shook his head. “No. Nothing.” He said, “Nothing at all. Carry on.”

  Then he was gone, putting bottles of spirits away and tidying up behind the bar.

  A couple of people would leave. Then a few more. Some tourists asked me what was still open and ‘good’ - good is subjective, isn’t it? - I gave them the same answers I had given people ten thousand times. They left.

  By the time we had done a quick tidy up so tomorrow’s lunch shift would not come to a completely filthy bar, the last people had left and we had called the security guard into the bar. He helped Jon with a bit of heavy lifting and I waited patiently.

  Since I had started here, Jon would never let me leave on my own. He also wouldn’t let me do jobs like this one, that involved heavy lifting. I would just have to occupy myself until it was time to leave.

  I pulled out my phone, and of course it was off. It was always off nowadays. Running out of battery an hour or two after I had it charged. I sighed and put the phone back into my bag, wishing there was enough light in this place for me to bother with a book but then realizing I would never have the time to read it with these boys always finishing up so quickly.

  Banging on the door started. Then some slurred Irish accents were begging to be let in, just as often happened after we closed and they realized there wasn’t anywhere else nearby to get a drink. I rolled my eyes. Would the boys hurry up?

  It felt like forever that they were moving furniture around and I was freaking out about the knocking that didn’t seem to bother them in the slightest.

  Then Jon was leading me out through the back entrance - he knew how much I hated having to deal with drunks, especially drunks who wouldn’t take no for an answer - and he would escort me out here every time.

  Jon walked me home that night, and just like every other night, he would chat to me about different things, and I would completely forget the conversation when I woke up the next day, only remembering how charming he was, and how wonderful it felt talking to him.

  That Irish charm was what I loved. I loved how charming and friendly they were. I loved how even people in their capitol were willing to help you out when you needed it. I wondered if any other capital city in any other country had that.

  Then I would feel great, until I had to start serving them drinks again, and seeing how, like most people, the charm changed when they felt that need to drink.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The following day I was out of bed around eleven in the morning to do the cleaning I always did in exchange for a bed to sleep in for the night. Today I was on bed duty and me and another girl had to go around the hostel, making up new beds for new guests and changing the sheets on the beds of guests who had been there at least a week.

  The girl I was on with this morning was one I had seen around a bit and had spoken to quite a bit - always drunk when I had gotten home from work - she was friendly, but I hardly remembered what I had told her about myself until we were about half way through this mornings jobs.

  “So, Jon?” She asked, “how is he?”

  “Huh?” I asked, tucking in the hospital corners at the end of a bottom bunk.

  “Jon,
that guy you worked with. The other night you got home and you were gushing over him!” She told me.

  “Was I?” I asked.

  “Yes! You were telling me how hot he was, and charming. You told me he always looked after you and that you liked that.” She told me.

  “Did I?” I asked, feeling more confused with every passing moment. Jon did look after me, and I did like it, but I hadn’t been aware that I had told anyone about it.

  “Yes. You did.” She told me.

  “Right.” I agreed, nodding. I really had no idea what she was talking about. Why would I tell her that?

  “You told me he was awesome.” She said, “so, how is he?”

  “Okay, I guess.” I told her, regretting how much alcohol I often consumed on shift - people bought you shots instead of tipping you often - but then knowing I would do it again tonight. One of the benefits from working in an Irish pub in Ireland was that if you liked drinking as much as I did, there was always plenty of booze on offer.

  She sighed and I checked the sheet. “We have to do two beds in the next room and just one in room three. Then we’re done.” I said, happy that the work sheet only had three beds left on it. We could have this done early and I could go grab something to eat and have a little wander around the city before work tonight.

  “Cool.” The other girl said, “but, this guy?” She asked.

  I tried to keep my cool under her annoying questions - there was no point telling her that I found her annoying and asking her to stop after all - but it didn’t last.

  “I don’t know. He’s a nice guy, but we work together. Besides, I am only here for a short time.” I told her.

  Without missing a beat she asked me, “do you think he’d go back to Australia with you?”

  I shook my head and left the room. She followed me. I was flicking through the keys until I found the one for the door of the next room we would be going into. I knocked then put it into the lock, turning it. There was no-one in here.