Pride (Bareknuckle Boxing Brotherhood Book 3) Read Online Free

my turn.”
    As Rabbie sipped appreciatively, Camila rubbed her shirttail against another glass, eyed it critically, held it at an angle, and pulled the handle.
    “Stop! You’re tilting it too much!” Rabbie protested as Guinness began to spill onto her pants.
    She handed him the partly-filled glass, grimaced at the beery smell, and tried again. This time she did fine until time to top off. She topped off very enthusiastically, and didn’t stop pulling back until the foam had overrun the glass and dripped down her arm. She licked her wet hand experimentally. The stuff was bitter and peaty, and she made a face. She handed Rabbie his third and had to use the grimy bar mop to wipe her arm.
    “That’s mother’s milk to me. Don’t be frowning at it,” he said expansively as she pulled another without spilling a drop. “You didn’t top it off enough.”
    “You just want another.”
    “Nah. I’d like to live to see you do this right, though. I learnt as a lad of ten, and it only took me twice to get it proper.”
    “You were a prodigy. I’m a waitress. I pour coffee and sodas and bring people sandwiches.”
    “Was a time that this joint served a fine fish and chips,” he reminisced. “Old Sammy was too tightfisted to serve food.”
    “Food?” Camila perked up at the suggestion.
    All of a sudden, the dim, brown interior captured her imagination. Camila had told her adoptive aunt Mattie from the time she was a kid that she wanted to have her own restaurant, with pasta, hearty soups, and all the good Italian recipes Mattie had taught her. Now, obviously this was supposed to happen in Jersey, not Ireland, but there was nothing like a dress rehearsal. She’d been logging night classes for the last six years, one a semester, and had her training in accounting, marketing, and some hospitality management. This could be her chance to try it out for a few weeks, maybe serve a nightly special.
    “Do you think…anyone might eat here if we had a small menu?” she asked as nonchalantly as possible, trying not to sound excited.
    “Nah. Without the fight club, no one’d come here at all. Best thing about the bloody Cheek is the fight nights. Everyone knows it. Even your bullheaded dad knew it.”
    “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Meanwhile, I poured a proper pint while you were bitching about the fight club!” She Bronnydished the glass proudly and squared it in front of him with a flourish.
    “Well, indeed you did. Must have been an accident on your part,” he said grudgingly.
    “Thanks.”
    “It doesn’t matter how tidy your pint is, they can go down to the Rooster, get their Guinness, and see dancing girls. We don’t have any dancing girls. Had a man play the flute once. Some bloke threw a bottle at him to get him to stop his music, and he never came back,” Rabbie sighed. “The one time I tried to put a bit of brass on the joint. These folk, they want fights or dancing girls.”
    “Don’t look at me. I’ll cook, but I ain’t dancing.”
    “See, that’s surprising, since Sammy would do anything for a quid. If he hadn’t been so fat, he’d have probably danced naked to bring in business.” He laughed until he snorted.
    Camila wrinkled her nose at that distasteful image. “I’m nothing like Sammy Saunders. I never met the guy. This, where I’m in the same building as his ashes? That’s the closest we’ve ever been.”
    “Eh, well, my da was a rip-snorting drunkard who couldn’t hold a job.”
    “And see, you’re nothing like him.”
    “I’ve done some rip-snorting in my day. And I was at great risk of getting ossified before you learnt to pour right and proper,” Rabbie said.
    “I’ve got to go call the estate agent and fill her in on the plan. You try to get to a chair before you start to wobble,” she said.
     
    *****
     
    Upstairs, she called Callie Dolan, the real estate agent she’d been dealing with for months…the woman who was too discreet to tell her why the pub wasn’t