Fighting for Irish

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by Gina L. Maxwell

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  In Bed with Mr. Wrong

  Under the Covers

  Protecting What’s His

  Lover Undercover

  Down and Dirty

  Wilde Nights in Paradise

  Seducing Cinderella

  Rules of Entanglement

  Other Books by Gina L. Maxwell

  Seducing Cinderella

  Rules of Entanglement

  Fighting

  for Irish

  a Fighting for Love novel

  Gina L. Maxwell

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Gina L. Maxwell. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. For more information on our titles, visit www.brazenbooks.com.

  Edited by Liz Pelletier

  Cover design by Heather Howland

  Photography by Ross Zentner

  Featuring Adam Von Rothfelder and Brenna Schwartz

  ISBN 978-1-62266-427-6

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition January 2014

  To all those who have been sexually abused. May you always embrace the fighter inside, love yourself unconditionally, and never accept defeat.

  Prologue

  Turning his ’62 Harley Panhead into the gravel lot of Lou’s Riverview, Aiden O’Brien got his first look at the backwoods swamp bar squatting on the outskirts of Alabaster, Louisiana.

  From the outside, it looked like a large single-story home that had seen better days. As in before the second World War, if the dilapidated wood siding and cracked foundation were anything to go by. The sign above the door was missing letters, the wood darker in the places where the sun hadn’t bleached it, announcing the establishment as “Lo ’s River ew.”

  He pulled his bike into a spot by the door and used the rubber sole of his boot to kick the stand down. Barely suppressing a groan, he swung his right leg over the seat. Riding from Boston, Mass., was a great way to enjoy the open road and scenic countryside. Unfortunately, it also turned out to be a great way to put his body through hell.

  A fire had lit in his tailbone somewhere between West Virginia and Kentucky. By the time he’d reached Mississippi, the flames had blazed a path up his spine and settled between his shoulders. As much as he loved his old Panhead, it definitely wasn’t designed as a touring bike.

  Stretching his legs, he had to wonder if “bayou” were French for “broiler.” Now that he no longer had the cooling benefit of the wind, Aiden felt like yesterday’s baked chicken withering under a heating lamp. The whirring of an air conditioner at the corner of the building gave him hope he’d find refuge inside from the scorching rays of the sun.

  Hanging his sunglasses on the collar of his T-shirt, he pulled open the heavy, weathered door and stepped inside. He supposed it didn’t look all that different from most old bars and taverns. Wooden booths lined the outside of the large room with as many tables as could fit crowded into the middle. Each booth sat beneath what passed for lamps but were nothing more than lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling, covered with plastic domes yellowed by time and tobacco smoke. Another room in the back looked to have pool tables and ratty couches for those who liked to drink while wielding gaming sticks that made easy weapons for their short tempers.

  A solid oak bar ran in a shallow U shape jutting out from the right wall. Since it was only early afternoon on a Tuesday, the place was all but empty except for the lone bartender and four old codgers playing poker at one of the front tables. With dirty clothes, a few days’ growth on their jaws, and about a dozen teeth among the four of them, Aiden wondered if they were homeless or an example of Alabaster’s typical residents.

  Swiping the back of his arm across his forehead, Aiden made his way to the bar. His throat felt like the Sahara and he meant to fix that. Then he’d make small talk and see if the info he’d been given was still accurate. Hopefully it was. Then he could give his friend the good news and be on his way.

  Not back to Boston, though. It’d taken him making good on a favor to finally get him out of his old neighborhood. Now that he had, he didn’t know why he hadn’t left five years ago when he destroyed his life. And that of his best friend.

  Maybe he’d travel the country on the back of his Harley for the rest of the summer. Pick the place he liked best and try to open a bike shop of his own. Or work at someone else’s. It didn’t matter as long as he got to work on bikes. It was the only thing that distracted him well enough to give him a handful of hours a day where he didn’t relive the worst night of his life.

  “What’ll it be?”

  The bartender placed the Mason jar he’d been drying on the shelf behind him, braced his palms on the counter, and waited expectantly.

  Aiden pulled out his wallet and thumbed out a five spot. Holding it to the man, he said, “Large water and some conversation.”

  One eyebrow arched as the bartender glanced between the bill and Aiden’s face. Probably trying to figure out what exactly Aiden wanted. A five wasn’t exactly the kind of money someone offered when they were poking around for information. On the other hand, it was a big tip for ordering a free drink.

  Aiden tried to recall how to manipulate his features into something resembling a nonthreatening expression. It no longer came easy to him as it once had. But covering your body in brightly colored tattoos and sporting several piercings tended to make people think twice about talking to you without the counteracting friendly smile.

  So Aiden would have to fake it if he wanted to find who he was looking for. She wasn’t going to just fall into his lap without a little effort on his part.

  Thankfully the bartender rescued him and made the first move. The guy held out his hand and introduced himself as Johnny Anders. Aiden grasped his hand firmly and pumped it a few times. “Irish.” When Johnny raised his brows in question, he added, “Just Irish.”

  No one down here, or anywhere, needed to know his real name. What was the point of leaving the past behind if every time you introduced yourself you invited it right back?

  “Okay, then. Just Irish it is.” Flashing the smile that probably earned him plenty of tips, Johnny grabbed the Mason jar he’d just cleaned and filled it with ice and water from the soda gun. “So where you from?”

  Behind him, the poker gang exploded in obnoxious complaints. He peered over his shoulder. O
ne man gestured so wildly while shouting suspicions his buddy had cheated that half his beer sloshed onto the floor a few feet from Aiden. Johnny hollered at them to settle down and mumbled to himself about another mess he’d have to clean up.

  Aiden lifted the glass to his parched lips and tipped his head back until he’d drained every last drop of water. He exhaled with heavy relief and pushed it back, nodding a request for a refill.

  “Boston,” he said finally. He should probably try to speak more than a couple syllables at a time if the goal was to strike up a conversation for info. But before he could give it a shot, he heard footsteps coming from the back hallway marked with a sign that read offices.

  Pulling her long red hair into a ponytail, a waitress entered the main room and used a mirrored Miller sign hanging on the wall to finish the style.

  She was…stunning.

  The tightening in his gut, like he’d just been sucker punched in the solar plexus, caught him off guard. Aiden couldn’t think of the last time a female had made his body sit up and beg at first glance. Apparently his dick had no such problem remembering and wanted to prove it.

  Hoping he appeared casual, he placed his left boot on the metal footrest running the length of the bar so she couldn’t see how tight the crotch of his jeans had gotten.

  She wasn’t classically beautiful. She didn’t bring to mind formal dresses, stiff up-dos, and dry champagne. More like sundresses, hair blowing in the summer breeze, and the sugary bite of a refreshing lemon—

  Fuck. Aiden rubbed his fingers over his forehead. He must have heat stroke from the last few hours of his ride. Yeah, heat stroke sounded good. He’d go with that. The alternative—comparing a woman to something like lemonade—would mean the demise of his virility, and he could kiss his Man Card good-bye.

  The living, breathing threat to his recent apathy regarding sex met his gaze in the mirror. She assessed him with a flick of her cool eyes. Something he thought might be mutual interest flared for a moment like a struck match before she doused the flame and looked away. She couldn’t have sent a more clear message than if she’d tattooed Not Interested on her forehead.

  Feigning his own disinterest, he turned his attention back to his water, but he continued to study her from the corner of his eye. She turned and reached over the bar counter for the open beer Johnny must have set there in anticipation of her arrival. Lifting the neck of the bottle to her lips, she took several long pulls. Lucky fucking bottle.

  Her body willowy and defined, she couldn’t have been taller than five-seven at most. She wore a logoed shirt just like Johnny, but hers had a plunging neckline that revealed the inner swells of her breasts. A stiff black skirt didn’t just hug her ass, it promoted it. The uniform was tight and meant to draw attention.

  The wrong kind.

  Images of drunken assholes pawing at her as she served them drinks flooded the space behind his eyes. Something he’d thought dead for years stirred in Aiden’s gut. His misguided sense to protect and defend where he had no right. Where this woman worked and the attention she attracted was no concern of his.

  Actually, that’s exactly what she might be, dumbass. Your concern.

  He recalled the description his friend had given him. Red hair, small, and covered in freckles. Looks like he might not need to make conversation with Johnny after all. She wasn’t close enough for him to see any freckles, but red hair stuck out like a domestic beer in an Irish pub.

  “Hey, Johnny,” she said, “think we can claim a measles outbreak or something and shut down for the night?”

  The man snorted. “Are you kidding? Lou would probably tell us to wear gloves and paper masks and keep on serving.”

  Tying a small black serving apron with pockets around her waist, she sighed and said, “Then I guess we’ll just have to hope time goes fast and nothing gets broken tonight.”

  “Your constant optimism is what I love best about you, Sydney,” Johnny said.

  Damn. Wrong name.

  She gave Johnny a wry grin while sticking an order pad and pen in her apron. “Bite me, Anders.”

  As the old guys stopped playing to shout their hellos to the waitress, she made her way around the front of the bar and offered her own greetings in the way of smartass comments. Aiden started to ask Johnny if he could see a bar menu when he heard a squeal next to him.

  Her foot had slipped on the spilled beer and sent her on a one-way trip to the floor. Reflexes took over. He took one large step to the left and snaked an arm around her waist, bringing her up short before she hit the ground. Instinctively, her arms had latched onto his neck for dear life, bringing her body flush with his.

  Somewhere in the background, whistles and catcalls filled the bar for saving the woman, but he didn’t acknowledge them. Or anything else for that matter. His chest felt branded where her breasts pressed against the steel bars in his nipples and sent shockwaves of pleasure to his balls. Desperate to derail his train of thought, he focused on her face, now only inches from his.

  Natural beauty. That’s what popped into his head. Everything about her looked like it had been pulled from one of the four elements. He’d been wrong to think of her hair as merely “red.” Now that he saw it up close, it reminded him of the orange and gold streaks of a sunrise.

  Blue eyes with a hue of green, like the water in a brochure for the perfect island vacation, gazed up at him with an innocent uncertainty.

  The rest of her face was variant shades of peach: the lightest being her flawless skin, the darkest being her plump lips, and the feature that used every shade in between…

  Freckles.

  Looked like he’d been wrong after all. Because despite the wrong name, the reason Aiden left Boston for this Podunk town in the middle of nowhere just literally fell into his arms.

  Chapter One

  Two months later…

  Aiden scanned the room of the rowdy backwoods bar and studied the various stages of inebriation of its patrons: drunk, really drunk, and totally shitfaced.

  The crowd had hit its peak, but Kat MacGregor, who went by the ill-fitting alias Sydney Carter, kept pace between the bar and her tables without any problems.

  Since finding her, Aiden had gotten himself hired as a cooler for the bar and allowed to put together a small team. It had only taken a couple days of observing the damage caused by nightly bar fights to sell Lou on the idea. Especially since they were getting paid just as shitty as the rest of the employees. The bar owner ended up making out in the deal, since he didn’t have to keep replacing beer glasses and tables.

  Aiden had called his good friend and old teammate, Xander James, and soon after, Xan had loaded up his worldly possessions and Aiden’s other bike and driven down to become part of the team and “find his next adventure.���

  Aiden had recruited Johnny Anders and a couple of Johnny’s buddies to round out the team. Now, on any given night, Lou’s had two coolers working the floor. Usually three or four on weekends, depending on when the full moon came around because the crazy seemed to flow like the beer on those days.

  The hardest part had been teaching Johnny and the others the difference between a bouncer and a cooler. They kept thinking that their job was to step in once an issue became a problem, which was the job of a bouncer.

  Coolers were proactive. They did their best to contain things before they became problems, ensuring the bar stayed busy, if a little on the rambunctious side.

  Xan and Aiden had to shadow them the first couple weeks to show them what they were supposed to look for as coolers. Once they got the hang of it, though, there was a lot less broken shit to clean up at the end of the night. Not that a night at Lou’s Riverview was anything close to calm and uneventful, but it was a lot less volatile than before.

  And if he could make Kat’s environment a little safer for now, then he was satisfied.

  “Same shite, different night, eh mate?” The British-accented voice of Xander crackled through the comm-link in his ear. Aiden had
ponied up the cash for those babies, which had been the deal clincher for Lou. So long as his backup could hear him if he needed them, he didn’t care.

  Every Friday night was the same. When the people of Alabaster blew off steam from their workweek, the bar became a hotbed for trouble. Emotions ran high, fueled by pitchers of beer and rounds of shots. The entire scene was underscored by the classic rock and country music blaring through the sound system.

  “Always is,” he said absently as Kat whooshed by holding a tray of bottlenecks.

  Barely turning his head, he followed her with his eyes. The swing of her hips and curve of her ass damn near hypnotized him. Kat made waitressing look like an art form, simultaneously weaving her way through the crowd, delivering trays of drinks, and beating back the locals with her sharp wit and even sharper tongue.

  As he moved through the land of the inebriated, he searched for signs of trouble and kept one eye on the spunky redhead. She knew how to handle herself and, unlike the other waitresses, never called on the coolers for help. But that never stopped him from intervening. There was always a bad apple in the bunch that didn’t use the sense God gave him.

  If he noticed a potential threat, he’d move in and take care of it before it escalated. If his presence alone wasn’t enough, a well-worded threat against the family jewels usually did the trick. Around these parts, the “family” kind was all they had and they tended to prefer them intact.

  The first time he’d run interference for Kat with a less-than-polite customer, she’d stared at him incredulously. He’d only managed to stare back, unable to find his words with those light blue eyes turned on him, before she spun on her heel and stormed off. That happened a few more times: him stepping in, an awkward staring contest, and a silent retreat.

  Then, one night after he’d “escorted” a guy out in a chokehold for grabbing her ass, she stalked up to him outside with narrowed eyes and fists planted on slender hips. “I can take care of myself.”

  Aiden crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t doubt that.”